Disclaimer: IDOM
AN: First of all, the s5 finale? Perfection. That is all I will say about that.
Merry Christmas, all! This fic was written for a Secret Santa fic exchange over at the Heart of Camelot. It is rated high T for suggestive content in the final chapter (there are 5 total, and no, your ears do not deceive you. I have actually written and completed a whole fic BEFORE posting, and thus, this fic'll actually have a set update schedule! It's insane. If you've read my stuff, you know I don't do this. Ever. I'm rather excited about it!). I do believe, however, that chapters 1-4 could be rated K+ or low T, and chapter 4 feels like a natural end-point for a fic such as this, so please don't let that dissuade you from reading.
My choice of 'romance' as the genre is obvious, but I placed this fic under the genre 'friendship' as well because 1) I still get my angsty bromance in and 2) friendship is the basis of love, and that is really what I tried to express here with not only Mithian and Merlin but also with all of the other characters' relationships, family ties, and friendships—and that is, after all, what Christmas is all about.
Other warnings and stuffs to know: Post-reveal; AU; spoilers up to and including 5x04; AU of s5 from there on (dialogue spoiler - 5x07); puppet-Gwen never happened and thus Elyan is STILL ALIVE; Alator, too, lives. This was written before the season 5 finale, so this is my own s5 ending. Beware cheesiness.
Also, MASSIVE hugs and thanks to Ryne for beta'ing and for all of her help brainstorming, to LizzyGlue for sharing in "sexy times" with me while she wrote her own romance fic for this exchange, and to everyone at the Heart of Camelot who spent a lot of time in the writing channel with me over the past few weeks supporting and encouraging me with my first romance fic. :D
And with that, I give you Holly Leaves:
I Understand
"Mithian!" Ronan shouted, crashing and stumbling into her chambers without knocking.
The princess of Nemeth, well-accustomed to entrances such as this, hardly flinched or batted an eyelash when her brother's shout broke through her concentration—for her family had long since learned that there was very little else that they could do to get her attention when she was so absorbed in something—and after gently closing the leather-bound book she held on her lap, she looked up to see Ronan's dark eyes dancing as he beamed cheerfully down at her.
As always in his presence, Mithian found herself mirroring his smile. She had missed that grin and the eternal well of energy that Ronan carried about with him; he was not only her brother but also her dearest friend, and Nemeth really had been a dull place without him and Quinn, both of whom had recently returned home after a lengthy trip to Northumbria to renew an ancient peace treaty.
In fact, it was so ancient that most—if not all—of the original agreements had needed quite a bit of revision, and as their father had fallen ill at the time the meeting was to be held and was in no shape to travel (and as he was now of such an age that he shouldn't be riding far distances anyway), Quinn, the heir to the throne, and Ronan, who was her elder by only two years, had been sent in his stead to treat with Northumbria's leaders.
In retrospect, she was rather grateful that both princes had been away from Nemeth for so long. While the pair of them were distraught at the news of what had befallen their home and their family during their time in Northumbria and while they were angry with themselves for not being there in the kingdom's time of need, Mithian had hid budding tears and had fervently thanked the gods that they hadn't been in the city when Odin attacked a few months ago.
Knowing how protective her brothers were of her and their father and knowing of the damage the two could wreak when they put their heads together, Mithian could be absolutely certain that neither of them would have lived to see another day. Morgana would not have tolerated their defiance, and the princess could not see either the witch or Odin taking such dangerous prisoners.
But no, Mithian reminded herself, that didn't happen and won't happen. Everything turned out for the best…
Unconsciously, her fingertips brushed against the flesh of her wrist, and a shudder possessed her when they grazed across the unnatural ridges branded there…
"Mithian?" Ronan asked concernedly, his eyes locked on her exposed wrist and his jaw clenching tightly.
Simultaneously standing and pulling the fabric of her gown to cover the faint mark that Morgana had left on her, Mithian pushed aside her dark musings, released a little laugh, and with a smile that almost reached her eyes, she teased, "Barely home a week, and you've already fallen back into your old habits, Ronan."
Even though Ronan was no fool and even though he knew that her teasing was intended to distract him from the scar and from calling her out on her unconscious acknowledgement of the old wound, the hard edge in her brother's blazing dark eyes abated with a mixture of sympathy at her unwillingness to have him fuss over her, reluctance to comply to her wishes and let it go, and good-natured amusement at her words.
"I would have hoped that that habit of barging into others' rooms was broken in Northumbria," Mithian added, hoping that her brother would indeed let it go.
Releasing a chuckle, Ronan joked, "Mith, I'm offended. Truly. I doubt I could have possibly changed that much in a few months."
He grinned brightly when she laughed; however, unable to be deterred, her brother's smile faded almost as quickly as it appeared, and he gently took her hand.
His large fingers brushed over the scar, and a faint sweep of déjà vu washed over her. The ghost of feeling a callused, rough hand turning her wrist over…steady, strong…gentle…and a flash of stormy blue…
Merlin had been the only other one that had seen these scars, and despite Mithian's best attempts—
She could hide it from her father. She could hide it from Quinn. She could even hide it well enough from her maidservant.
But there was no way in hell she could hide it from Ronan. He knew her far too well.
"You never told me if—does it still bother you?" Ronan asked softly.
Fondly, she placed her other hand on top of their joined ones and answered with complete sincerity, "Only in that I cannot escape it. I look at it and remember."
Ronan pursed his lips and said, "I don't think it is wise to continue keeping these thoughts to yourself, Mithian."
"Ronan, not this again," Mithian entreated, pulling her hand away. "This is my choice. I couldn't live with myself if—"
Catching a shadow of now-familiar disapproval cross his face, she cut herself off and released a puff of air to blow away some rebellious hair from her eyes. Although Ronan had caught sight of the faint scar upon their reunion, had guessed its origins, and had been more enraged than Mithian had ever seen—which was all the more impressive because the prince was known throughout the land for his calm temperament, tolerance, and skillful handling of his nearly nonexistent temper—and although there had been a huge debate afterward as to whether or not she should keep the abuse she suffered a secret from the family, not even Ronan knew the full tale.
No one knew, and Mithian was stubbornly adamant about keeping it that way not only because she didn't want others to perceive her differently for it but also because it would break her father's heart and cause him pain beyond pain. In her opinion, the less they knew about what had happened to her during that time, the better.
However, Ronan, who was afraid that the mental and emotional stress of keeping the memory bottled inside would eventually wear away at his sister, obviously disagreed.
Thumbing through the worn pages of the book in her hand, Mithian said, "For now, Ronan, just leave it. Please? Didn't you need something?"
Instead of sighing in reluctant defeat, he started, and his brow furrowed in confusion. "What?"
The princess stared at him for a moment. "You barged in," she reminded slowly.
"Oh…oh!" Ronan exclaimed, a smile brightening his features once more. "That!"
Rolling her eyes, his sister said, "Yes, that."
"Ah, yes, about that. Father wishes to speak with us. Now."
"Now?"
"Now as in immediately," Ronan responded with a hint of a sheepish grin.
Mithian frowned in concern, and unease pricked in her stomach. Immediately was a word that held heavy weight in their family. "What is it? Has something happened?"
"I dunno, but the messenger—he was an odd fellow, now that I think of it—seemed in a right rush and completely flustered when I intercepted him on the way to see what Quinn was off doing, and I thought I might as well—"
Grabbing Mithian's hand enthusiastically and keeping up a steady stream of chatter all the while, her giant of a brother gently pulled her out of her room and down the corridors to the throne room, where Rodor awaited them.
Mithian was right to worry, and her heart plummeted to the floor upon entering the throne room and seeing their father.
Because the last time she saw her father like this—blankly staring off into a far-off region of space, his face pale with astonishment and his lips unintentionally parted—he had just received news that Camelot had fallen into Morgana and Helios' hands.
However, there was something different about her father's shocked expression this time. The fear was missing, and instead, to Mithian's confusion, a strange sort of awed curiosity had taken its place.
Quinn was seated to the right of their father, and unlike Rodor, he acknowledged their presence with a completely unreadable wide-eyed stare and with a single, exhaling bark of hysterical laughter.
Delicate dark brows furrowing, Mithian turned around to Ronan, who shrugged helplessly at her, before flashing Quinn an inquiring look. "Father? Quinn? What is going on?" she asked in a low, wavering tone.
Rodor's eyes flashed to his daughter's, and upon seeing a hint of a smile twitch at his lips, Mithian's heart slowed its race in her chest.
"We have been invited to Camelot to celebrate Yule next week," Rodor began slowly in a dazed tone.
Uncontained glee at the surprise burst through Mithian, warming her heart and filling her with fond memories of the city and the friends she had come to make, but suddenly, she frowned. "Next week? Yule is little over a month from now. Why are we receiving such an invitation so early? Surely the Pendragons don't mean to have guests for the holidays for a whole month beforehand?"
"Well…" Her father kindly motioned at a figure the princess hadn't noticed upon entering the throne room to come forward.
With a swish of a cloak, the figure stepped forward from the pillar he was leaning on and grinned easily at Ronan and Mithian.
"Sir Percival!" Mithian exclaimed.
"Hello, Princess," Percival said with a hint of informality, taking her hand and kissing her knuckles politely. After holding a hand out to Ronan, the giant of a knight added, "And Prince Ronan. It is good to meet you."
"And you, Sir Percival," Ronan responded.
"It is good to see you again, sir knight," the princess said to the Camelotian. "But… I mean, what—what brings youhere to Nemeth? How fares Camelot?"
Percival's grin widened, but suddenly, he faltered and looked to her father as if to seek permission to continue. Their father exchanged a look with Quinn and said, "Go ahead, and tell them what you told us, Sir Percival, if you will."
"This is quite a miraculous tale," Quinn commented in response to the confused expressions of his younger siblings.
"More miraculous than that of the last two times the Pendragon retook his kingdom with nothing more than a servant and a handful of men?" Ronan snorted. "I hardly doubt that anything can compare to those tales."
"Even more so, Sire," Percival said quietly. "Because now…that one servant has changed everything."
"The servant?" Ronan asked in astonishment.
"Merlin," Mithian corrected immediately, "is not just any servant, Ronan. I need hardly remind you."
Upon recognizing the name, recognition dawned upon him, and respect and gratitude soon flooded his sharp brown eyes.
For Mithian had told him about Merlin. She had told him about how he knew things, saw things that no one did…and about how no one seemed to know or see him as well as they might think. Rodor held the utmost regard for the strange, intelligent young servant who rode with Arthur armor-less, who bravely held a weapon and fought without encumbering any of the knights, and who had such a strong bond with the King. She and her father both had told him about how he and Sir Gwaine had singlehandedly overcame Odin's men and how the King listened to him... and how his wisdom had helped prevent a war.
But…there was one thing that Mithian did not tell her brother. After all, she thought it went without being said that there was no one she knew—other than Arthur Pendragon himself, perhaps—that could match Merlin's selflessness and compassion.
However, it wasn't until she sought an audience with him the last time she was in Camelot… that she saw something even more to the man who had baffled her and interested her from the very moment she had first met him.
~…~
Gritting her teeth against the burn, Mithian allowed tears to overflow for the first time since returning to Camelot, and unable to keep the haunting memories from assaulting her or the sobs from wracking her chest, she ducked into an alcove, leaned heavily against the wall, and brushed away at the tears with trembling fingers.
Once Arthur and Guinevere had left her alone with her father and Gaius, Mithian had made sure that the old physician had everything he needed and that her father was comfortable, and after she announced that she wished to make sure that everything was ready for their journey back to Nemeth, she had backed out of the room.
It was just an excuse to get out. To not pretend. To be alone.
Because it was impossible to control her tears when the sight of him—the only one observant enough to sense something wrong, her only hope—lying lifeless and injured on the rocks below her flashed repeatedly through her mind's eye… and when Morgana's hisses echoed in her ear…
It had been her fault that he had been so hurt, just as it had been her fault that the King had nearly been killed by Odin and Morgana.
The shadow of disappointment and pain crossing Arthur's face, the anger at the betrayal following… his shouts of rage…
Guilt crushed her.
Enough of this, Mithian, the princess bullied herself. You'll never accomplish anything if you're stuck in the corridor feeling sorry for yourself. It's over. Morgana no longer has any hold over you. You don't have to continuously look over your shoulder and feel her eyes on you. It is over. Nemeth is safe, Father and Merlin are alright, Arthur and Odin made peace, and… Arthur forgave you. For everything.
Her heaving gasps slowed and steadied as a small smile worked her way onto her lips.
It had amazed her—how easily he had smiled and how kindly he had look upon her. As a little girl, she could remember feeling nothing but dread whenever Rodor announced that they'd be making a trip to Camelot. Visiting Camelot meant that she'd have to put up with that arrogant Prince and smile and be polite and hold her tongue every time he did or said something she wanted to slap him upside the head for.
There was no longer any sign of that spoiled boy who had grated on her nerves and who had smirked and scowled at her. That Prince had transformed into an understanding, compassionate man, a great king who inspired loyalty, love, and peace and who had his heart set on ensuring nothing but the best for his kingdom…
And for his friends.
She was lucky to have him as a friend and to have him consider her one in turn.
A little puff of breathless laughter escaped her lips, and she ran a hand through her dark hair. It really was over. Morgana was buried under a pile of rock… and she was free.
Removing her hand from her hair, she caught sight of the reddened and pulsing skin of her wrist, and her smile fell.
If the wound scarred, she'd never be free, and even if it didn't, she would remember.
She would always remember.
A rush of bitter anger rushed through her, and feeling nothing but indifference for the smarting burn that she should be tending to with more caution and care—it was enflamed with a very unhealthy glow—she shoved down her sleeve and pushed herself on.
Mithian's feet carried her without any direction and guidance, and within minutes, she found herself jolting to a halt directly in front of the physician's chambers. After staring blankly at the door for a moment, she felt her lips twitch into another small, sheepish smile.
Because, even if she hadn't known it the moment she stepped out of her father's guest room, even if she might want to convince herself that the pain and aggravation caused by the burn led her here to seek help from Gaius' protegee—no, if she wanted to be frank with herself, she had been in search of Merlin – the only one who had seen and the only one she would ever allow to see the marks that the witch had left on her.
One apology had been given and accepted, and she'd be damned if she didn't give Merlin the apology he was owed. And the gratitude he deserved.
An inexplicable flutter brushed against her insides, and without hesitation, she pushed open the door.
He was sitting at one of the workbenches, hunched over a thick, dusty volume. For a moment, Mithian hesitated and watched with building laughter and with growing interest as his lips moved as he read and as his long fingers skimmed across the thick yellowed pages before threading through his tousled raven locks, which were already so wild that it looked as though the young man had just rolled out of bed. There was something so… endearing about seeing him in this way—with that tiny furrow in his brow as he concentrated and with that sharp yet distant look in his eyes that proved that he was in a whole different world…
Mithian was jolted from her musings by a yelp, which was quickly followed by a loud thud and clinking of glass.
It took her a moment to realize that she had been caught staring and that Merlin, in his surprise, jumped so high that his knees collided with the table, and she couldn't help but giggle as he struggled to untangle his gangly limbs from the bench—he tripped and stumbled over it, causing it to crash to the floor—and leap to his feet.
"Princess?" Merlin asked breathlessly, subtly flipping the book he was reading closed.
Grinning sheepishly and amusedly, Mithian looked at the book curiously before she closed the door behind her and said, "I'm sorry I startled you, Merlin. You were so focused, and I didn't want to disrupt you."
Merlin scanned her face with an intensity that sent shivers running down her spine, but suddenly, a goofy smile spread across his elfin face. "You don't look particularly sorry," he pointed out, his eyes dancing with mischievous playfulness.
His humor was contagious, and this sunny cheerfulness, which had been absent during the duration of most of her time in his presence, radiated from him and immediately made her return his smile.
"Well, you can't blame me. It was pretty funny to see you wrestle with the bench," Mithian teased.
"It was a worthy opponent," Merlin defended himself without any real bite in his words.
Laughing brightly—it felt so good to laugh—she joked, "Judging by the state of the bench, I'd hate to see what would happen if you decided to take on a different opponent. Say the table? Or the curtains?"
"I'll have you know that curtains are the most difficult to face," Merlin smirked. "Not even the great Arthur Pendragon can defeat them."
Hysterical giggles at the ridiculousness of this conversation bubbled to her lips, and she asked, "What?"
The servant blinked, and Mithian could have sworn a soft blush spread across his cheeks before he chuckled, "Exactly. What are we talking about?"
"You know, I'm not entirely sure," Mithian mused thoughtfully.
Merlin laughed, and a hand ran through his unruly hair again.
Upon noticing that the action revealed the purple bruise discoloring his forehead, Mithian's amusement fled, and it was replaced by a surge of disbelief and remorse.
How—how could he joke with her? How could he be so—after what she had done to him, after what her actions nearly caused…?
Her fingers brushed unconsciously at her injured wrist.
Merlin, who was unaware of Mithian's gaping and dumfounded state, looked away from her and began to right the vials of various ingredients and medicines that he had knocked over, and he asked cheerily, "Well, then, since you probably didn't come here to discuss my various battles with inanimate objects, what can I do for you, Princess?"
Mithian's throat constricted, and after attempting multiple times to swallow, her fingers brushed at the injury on her wrist.
It was just at that moment that Merlin turned back to her with an expectant and curious look, but immediately, he noticed something was wrong. With his smile fading, Merlin scrunched his brow in concern, and after Mithian dropped her hands impulsively, the blue eyes zeroed in on her wrist.
The change that came over him was immense, incredible, and frankly…startling. Those blue eyes, once shimmering with amusement and friendliness, suddenly hardened into stony crystal… cold as snow and blazing with icy fire. There was a strange depth to them that made him look older than his years and more dangerous than he had any right to be.
After clenching his jaw and crossing the room in two large strides, Merlin stood centimeters from her, and without once removing his eyes from hers, he gently and carefully took her unresisting hand.
"Does anyone know about this?" he asked in a low tone.
Mithian pursed her lips and did not say a word. That seemed to be answer enough for the servant, and only after she finally tore her gaze from his did he lift her hand and gingerly push back the sleeves of her tunic to expose the burn.
Merlin's sharp inhale caused Mithian's head snap back worriedly, and after turning her wrist with movements so gentle she could hardly feel his fingers on her wrist, he exhaled heavily and said with a strange edge of anger in his voice, "You should have gotten this looked at earlier, Mithian."
It didn't go unnoticed by her that that was the first time he had dropped her title and had instead called her by her first name.
But she was unable to appreciate the significance of that. He had adopted the 'physician's-bite,' which was what she, as a child, had secretly dubbed the stern, reprimanding tone that Nemeth's own physician used whenever she discovered that the princess had hidden an injury that she received while playing with the boys or riding recklessly, and even though her physician's 'physician's-bite' had long since had any affect on her, Merlin's, for some reason,was another thing entirely.
"I—I couldn't," Mithian whispered. "If I asked Gaius, he would have told my father, and…"
When she trailed off, Merlin's brilliant blue eyes flickered to her face again, and after a moment, he said two simple words that were imbued with more meaning than she could possibly comprehend.
"I understand."
Stunned, Mithian floundered for words, but Merlin continued, "Sometimes, secrets must be kept to protect the ones you love the most. But…" Self-loathing was evident in his voice, and all light disappeared from his eyes. "It shouldn't have been necessary."
"What do you mean?"
Merlin's jaw twitched before he said, "I knew something wasn't right."
Mithian's heart skipped a beat and throbbed with a painful twinge, and immediately, she growled severely, "Don't you dare blame yourself for what happened."
"But I am to blame," Merlin muttered. "If I had been more vigilant, if I hadn't been so blind, I would have noticed that that was an aging spell." He released a dark bark of humorless laughter. "I should have known, especially since I—have dealt with such a spell before."
Under more normal circumstances, she might have noticed that he caught himself and chose his words carefully when speaking of the spell Morgana had used. Under more normal circumstances, she would have been simultaneously curious and suspicious.
But, with his blue eyes shattering under the weight of his guilt before her, that was the furthest thing from her mind.
"I could have prevented this—her hurting you and keeping you in shackles like that."
The princess bit down hard on her lip as she watched this young man lower barriers, open his heart to her, and speak openly, honestly, and so…warmly, protectively…
Because of his loyalty to his friend Guinevere and the King, Merlin had once been standoffish and nothing more than mildly polite whenever speaking to her, and despite that initial frosty introduction and despite the fact that she had horribly wronged him…
She saw the depth of his compassion, and for the first time, she felt just how just powerfully he valued friendship and just how much he would do for a friend. The princess had seen this before, of course, between him and Arthur and the knights, but never had she expected to be on the receiving end… especially when they had had such a shaky start to their relationship.
It was then that the princess realized that even though she had seen the best of Merlin—his wisdom, intelligence, loyalty, and selflessness—she had still misjudged him.
He might have the position of a servant, but his heart was nobler than any she had ever encountered.
Pressing his hand, which was still held in hers, she said in a soft tone, "I don't blame you, Merlin, so you should not blame yourself. You did more for me than I can properly thank you for."
Smiling weakly, she continued, "But I'll try anyway. Thank you. For trying, for being there and seeing what the others couldn't. For protecting me and my father so selflessly. And for…"
The princess gently tugged her hand away from his and reached tentatively forward, hesitating just before her fingertips could brush away the hair covering his wound. Realizing what she was doing, Mithian dropped the hand and murmured, "Does it hurt?"
Merlin, who was staring at her with wide eyes and with an awkward blush staining his cheeks, shook his head wordlessly.
Gauging his strange reaction, Mithian suddenly chuckled. "I don't suppose you get enough 'thank you's from Arthur, do you?"
Merlin scowled and snorted. "Of course I don't."
Her smile faded, and after averting her eyes, she said, "I wasn't careful enough, Merlin, and you nearly were killed because of me. I'm—I'm so sorry."
A mischievous, knowing smile twitched at Merlin's mouth, and he repeated wittily, "I don't blame you, Princess, so you should not blame yourself."
The tension between them broke, and with both of their consciences unburdened, they shared broad smiles of shared relief and forgiveness.
"Besides," Merlin teased, gesturing to himself, "I'm well and alive, and Odin's been taken care of. Nemeth and its rulers are safe, and everything turned out alright in the end."
"I heard about your part in that—the truce with Odin," Mithian said with obvious respect in her voice. "That was an…amazing thing you did. Sometimes I wonder what Arthur would do without you."
He hid a mysterious smile at the last comment, and modestly, Merlin brushed off her compliment and said, "What I find amazing is that you didn't come to me or Gaius sooner about that wrist. It doesn't look particularly pleasant."
"I—is it that bad?" she asked, looking down at it with a wrinkled nose.
"It is infected, but I can make a balm that can reduce the pain and help the healing process along," he suggested. A thought occurred to him, and his eagerness faded from his face as he said sheepishly, "Unless you'd prefer Gaius to—?"
"No," Mithian said quickly. "I trust you."
"Mithian…" he lowered his gaze and pursed his lips. He struggled with the words for a moment before he gave up and said bluntly, "It will scar."
Closing her eyes, she nodded and said with surprising strength in her voice, "I know."
When she opened her eyes again, there was something unreadable in his expression, and he muttered under his breath, "Morgana will be brought to justice for what she has done."
"You say that with a large amount of confidence," Mithian said shrewdly.
"I'll make you enough to last you," Merlin said, avoiding the comment, turning to Gaius' worktables and beginning to shuffle through ingredients.
"Thank you, Merlin. Do you mind if I…?"
The subsequent smirk he threw over his shoulder at her was enough to make Mithian quite sure that he was seconds away from releasing a snarky joke, and she quickly took a seat before he could say a word.
And she watched him work, his hands far more graceful than she could have believed.
~…~
"Merlin is the reason that Arthur decided to call together his allies and friends," Percival was saying.
"What do you mean?" Ronan asked.
"The rumors, Ronan," Rodor said, "that have filtered into Nemeth the past few days—they were true… in part."
Mithian's hand flew to her mouth. Of course she had heard the rumors, but in the end, she had dismissed them, knowing that the most ridiculous rumors often flew through Nemeth and knowing Camelot couldn't be as unlucky—and, frankly, as stupid—to fall prey to the witch for a third time. She had thought—she had assumed…
"Camelot fell," she breathed.
Jerking a nod, Percival crossed his arms and said, "It began the same way. Morgana taking over, a traitor inside the castle—"
Percival's pale eyes lowered, and pursing his lips, he continued with a pained tone, "It was one of our own. Sir Mordred. He and Morgana combined their powers, and not only that, but they also had an army of rogue sorcerers and a whole manner of magical beasts—even a dragon—on their side. It seemed as though…the battle was lost before it had even begun. We had to flee with the people before she and her traitor killed us all."
"How—what happened?"
"What happened?" Percival repeated with a chuckle. "Merlin happened. He alone shifted the entire outcome of the battle, and…because of him, King Arthur and his Queen are calling together all in the Five Kingdoms to the announcement ceremony, signing, and celebration before Yule."
"Sir Percival, I'm still not sure I—"
Taking a deep breath and grinning, Percival finally said, "This army was of magic—and of a caliber that not even the greatest army could dare to face with sword and sinew alone. What else was there but magic itself to help us achieve victory?"
Her heart stopped, and swaying on her feet in disbelief and shock, Mithian mouthed, "Merlin..."
Sometimes, his voice echoed in her mind, secrets must be kept to protect the ones you love the most.
His blue eyes, glistening seas of kindness, cheerfulness, loyalty, intelligence, and humor—often offset by an alien darkness, ancient depth, and sadness—flashed before her.
I understand.
He had magic…and had been keeping it a secret for a long time.
She didn't feel betrayed or angry. She didn't feel afraid of the magic he possessed or of him for possessing said magic. She didn't necessarily understand how or why, but she didn't feel that was too important just now.
All that she could feel in that one moment was awe, compassion, and sympathy because….
Despite the friends surrounding him, he must have been so lonely, so afraid.
Seconds after Mithian reached this conclusion, Percival said proudly, "Merlin Emrys is going to be officially appointed Court Sorcerer to Camelot, and Arthur intends to speak about his decision to lift the ban on magic with all of his allies."
For the next hour, Mithian listened to the full story of the battle. Storm clouds, earth-shattering roars of the two dragons, blood soaking the ground, an army of Morgana's evil magicians fighting the allies of Emrys—Percival recalled with amusement the look of surprise on Arthur's face when the new group of magical people began to fight for them—the sky alight with flashing swords and spells…
As Percival concluded his story with the horror of seeing Arthur mortally wounded and with the wonder of seeing Merlin shedding his disguise in his exhaustion after defeating Mordred and Morgana and after saving his King's life in front of the entire army, a tear slid down Mithian's cheek, and her fingers fluttered across her scar.
AN: I hope you guys've enjoyed that! The next chapter'll be posted tomorrow!
Hugs and Christmas wishes to you all. To those who don't celebrate Christmas, happy holidays to you!
HG readers - a new chapter (minichapter?) is underway. I apologize that I've been horrible about updating.
Oz out.