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The moment Arthur rode into the Forest of Balor, he could feel the change in the air. There was a thickness to it, as if it had recently rained and the water was still trapped under the canopy of the ancient woods, with a thin fog hanging between the trees.

Still, Arthur didn’t think it was humidity alone that brought on this atmosphere.

It was magic.

Llamrei seemed to be sensing it, too. The mare was swivelling her ears and neighing faintly, though she dutifully kept her pace as they rode on.

“I don’t like the feel of this place,” Elyan spoke up just then.

Arthur threw him a glance and saw the knight was eyeing the trees suspiciously, as if expecting bandits to attack at any moment. “The druids promised us safe passage to their camp,” he replied. “As far as I’ve gathered, these woods are under their god’s protection. We won’t be harmed.”

Elyan inclined his head, though his expression remained sceptical.

Arthur understood Elyan’s caution well enough. He would lie if he said he wasn’t on edge himself. They weren’t wearing any armour, not even chainmail, and hadn’t brought any weapons, either. Even Arthur’s trusty dagger, always hidden in his boot or tied to his calf, had been left behind at their camp just outside the forest, along with the rest of his entourage.

It was a sign of goodwill on Arthur’s part. After all, he was the King of Camelot, a kingdom that had spent twenty-five years viciously hunting and killing anyone with even the faintest connection to sorcery. If he wanted to prove to the druids that times were changing, now that Arthur was wearing the crown, he needed to show them he could be trusted, and that meant trusting them in return.

No weapons, no knights.

An exception had been made for Elyan, whom the druids considered an honourable man, though Arthur quickly pushed aside the reasons for why that was.

He couldn’t stop the heat prickling across his cheeks, though, painfully aware that his father’s crimes were also his own. If he thought too closely about the reason for Elyan’s invitation, he might just turn Llamrei around and flee, too ashamed to see this visit through.

He had met druids plenty of times in the past months, seeking out their leaders to establish friendly relations. Still, being allowed into their sanctuary in the Forest of Balor was something else entirely. Arthur knew that the druids used to roam Camelot freely, never settling down in one place, and that it was his father’s laws that had forced them to retreat into hidden enclaves, where they were safe from blood-thirsty knights in red cloaks.

A bevy of quails bursting from the bushes nearby had Arthur focus back on the road. Suspicious, he pulled at the reins, bringing Llamrei to a halt, with Elyan following suit.

Two druids stepped out onto the path. Arthur recognised the elder of the two when they drew back the hoods of their cloaks.

Relieved, he dismounted from Llamrei, then inclined his head in greeting. “Cerdan.”

The druid leader bowed in return, as did his younger companion. “King Arthur. It’s an honour to welcome you to these holy groves.”

“It’s an honour to have been invited,” Arthur returned, then gestured at his knight. “This is Sir Elyan.”

Cerdan looked Elyan over, then smiled warmly. “Sir Elyan. You’re very welcome here as well.”

“I thank you,” Elyan replied stiffly.

“This is Mordred,” Cerdan continued, gesturing at the druid standing next to him. He was young, not quite a full-grown man, with unruly dark hair framing a sweet face.

“Greetings,” Mordred murmured. He kept his eyes lowered, though if it was a sign of respect or fear, Arthur did not know.

“Mordred has been chosen by Emrys to be your guide for this visit,” Cerdan explained. “He will stay by your side until your departure. If you have need of anything, you must only ask, and Mordred will do his best to provide.”

“Thank you,” Arthur replied. “We’re exceedingly grateful for your hospitality. Of course, Sir Elyan and I vow to respect your laws and traditions during our stay.”

Cerdan accepted their promise with a nod, then bid them to follow.

They left the trodden path and made into the depths of the forest, with Arthur and Elyan leading their mounts by their reins. The woods were thick here and the horses had to tread carefully around roots and thorns.

The foliage was as dense as the underbrush and the fog lingered. Arthur had always had an excellent sense of direction, but without the sun or landmarks to guide him, he soon had no idea if they were going east or west.

At some point, Mordred had fallen back to walk next to him. Perhaps this was what his role as their guide demanded. He didn’t speak up, though, and didn’t look Arthur in the eye, either, even when Arthur asked him his age and trade.

“I’m not quite eighteen, my king,” Mordred said, his voice timid. “My magic has an affinity for healing, but I started my apprenticeship only last year.”

“A physician,” Arthur replied. “An important skill.”

“Yes, my king,” Mordred agreed, his eyes still averted. “It was Emrys who told me to pursue this trade.”

“Emrys,” Arthur repeated thoughtfully. “That’s the name of your god, is it not?”

Mordred didn’t immediately reply. “It’s difficult to describe who or what Emrys is, my king,” he said eventually and there was no mistaking the reverence in his voice. “He’s our leader, not unlike a lord. But he’s not a man, like you or I. Emrys is magic itself.”

“Not a man,” Arthur repeated slowly. “But not a god, either?”

“Some consider him to be the son of the Triple Goddess,” Mordred replied vaguely.

“Will he be there for the festivities?”

“Yes, my king.” Mordred smiled at the forest ground. “He’ll be there.” 

They walked on for a while before Arthur thought to ask, “You address me as my king. Why is that?”

Mordred’s eyes flickered upwards in surprise, though he caught himself quickly, snatching them away as if he had been blinded. “Would you prefer a different title?”

“Most people use sire. But it’s not that I mind. It’s—well…” Arthur cleared his throat, then added more quietly, “I would have thought—that is, I would have understood if the druids no longer considered the King of Camelot their liege.”

“Not the King of Camelot, no,” Mordred replied, but didn’t elaborate on this strange response. His face had gone tense and wary, as if the topic pained him.

Discomfited, Arthur let their conversation rest.

At last, the underbrush grew sparser and Arthur could make out a clearing in the now thinning fog. Soon after, they exited the forest and walked into a large camp of colourful tents. 

There were druids everywhere, clad in furs and simple, handwoven fabrics. A young woman approached them right away to relieve them of their horses, while others nearby sent them curious looks. Children roamed freely, laughing and singing, and Arthur’s eyes immediately caught on a girl who left a trail of golden sparkles in her wake as she ran past them.

Despite his best intentions, Arthur instinctively tensed at the casual display of magic. He knew, from countless conversations with Gaius and a few older lords, that sorcery was not inherently evil, and that his father had waged a war against the innocent, for the most part. Still, he could not shake off a lifetime of fear and hatred so easily.

He schooled his features quickly, though Mordred must have caught something in his face. “They’re only playing, my king,” he said softly.

“Oh, I know,” Arthur replied clumsily. “I wasn’t—it’s just an unusual sight, that’s all.”

“Mordred.” They both looked over to where Cerdan was standing with Elyan. “Show the King to his accommodations. Sir Elyan is expected.”

Arthur and Elyan exchanged a look, both of them uneasy about being separated, but Arthur had vowed to follow the druids’ lead. If Elyan was needed elsewhere, it was not his place to refuse.

And so, he let Mordred carry his saddlebag and followed him through the town of tents alone. Everywhere they went, they drew looks. Most were inquisitive, others wary, with a few outright hostile, though Arthur soon got the distinct impression the latter weren’t directed at him, but Mordred.

He didn’t know what shy, sweet-faced Mordred could have possibly done to warrant anyone’s hate, but his instincts were soon proven right when a small girl spotted Mordred and shrieked, pointing at him, only to be dragged off by her mother, who glowered at Mordred as if he had kicked the child.

Arthur refrained from commenting, staying silent until they had reached the tent that would be his. It was clearly one of the finest ones in the camp, large enough to stand in, and furnished with two chairs, a table and a bed made up of good, thick furs and intricately embroidered blankets. Garlands of flowers had been hung up along the walls, the air permeated by their sweet, earthy smell, and several oil lamps were waiting to be lit at night.

“Sir Elyan’s tent is to the left, my tent to the right, my king,” Mordred informed him, hovering at the entrance. “I will endeavour to stay by your side during the day, but if you need anything at night, please don’t hesitate to rouse me.”

“I’m sure that won’t be necessary,” Arthur replied firmly. He looked around, wondering if he should request some time to rest from the journey, only for his stomach to growl loudly, reminding Arthur that he hadn’t eaten anything since dawn.

Mordred heard and smiled bashfully. “I shall fetch you some food, my king,” he said and promptly vanished.

Arthur settled down on one of the chairs, happy to give his legs a break. The tent flap had been tied to the sides, allowing him to watch the hustle and bustle outside. Most tents were decorated with ribbons and flowers, and there was an undeniable buzz in the air. Several times, people passed the tent carrying bowls of spring berries and platters of heavenly-smelling sweetmeats, or rolling barrels of ale or mead.

Needless to say, by the time Mordred returned with a tray of food, he was even hungrier than before.

“Why don’t you join me?” Arthur offered when Mordred made to stand by the entrance.

Mordred immediately ducked his head. “I would never presume, my king,” he murmured.

Arthur frowned, remembering the contemptuous glares of the druids they had passed, and the way the girl had reacted when Mordred had approached. “Are you… not allowed?” he ventured.

Mordred curled a hand into his robes, his eyes flitting nervously about the tent, looking at anything but Arthur’s face. “I’m allowed,” he admitted. “But I shouldn’t—I am—it’s not—” He stopped and for a moment, his face seemed to be crumpling.

Seeing Mordred’s distress, Arthur was suddenly filled with anger, feeling the familiar urge to right a perceived wrong. He did not know what shy, sweet-faced Mordred had done to deserve to be glowered at, but he was determined to make right by him. “If you’re allowed, I should like you to sit with me,” he repeated his invitation. “In fact, I would be glad for your company, Mordred.”

Mordred bit his lip. It was obvious he was struggling, but he had not the strength or the gall to refuse a king’s invitation a second time. Reluctantly, he settled down across from Arthur, though he sat stiffly and his eyes flickered to the tent flap several times, as if he were expecting someone to come in and drag him away for a beating at any moment. When he blessed the meal in the druidic way, he sounded seconds from crying.

Arthur couldn’t quite suppress his grimace at Mordred’s demeanour, but didn’t say anything else, not wanting to upset the boy any further. Instead, he focused on the meal, enjoying the rich food, which was as delicious as anything served at Camelot. There were sweet buns, fresh bread and herb-spiced lentils, though no meat.

“We don’t partake of meat during this time of year, my king,” Mordred explained, when Arthur asked about it. “When the festivities are over, it will be eaten again.”

“The festivities – can you tell me a little about them?” Arthur enquired. All he knew was that they were significant, and that Arthur had been bestowed a great honour to be invited.

“We’re celebrating cyntefin, the beginning of summer,” Mordred explained. “The lands have turned green and fertile, the soil is soaked from the spring rains. Nature provides us with food and will continue to do so until the end of autumn. It’s traditional to thank the gods for their generosity and benevolence. There will be prayer, music and dance, food… Nothing is expected from you, my king, except to sit and watch.” His eyes flickered upwards. “That is, unless Emrys decides otherwise.”

Arthur froze with a sweet bun halfway to his mouth. “Is that likely?” he asked warily.

“Emrys moves in mysterious ways, my king,” Mordred replied cryptically. He had hardly touched the food, still nibbling at the same pastry he had picked up at the beginning. “I’m sure he’ll explain everything to you, or instruct me to do so, should he expect you to participate.”

Arthur’s stomach twisted itself into a knot. It wasn’t that the idea of taking part in druidic rituals scared him, but he knew little about the Old Religion. What if he misstepped, said or did something to offend, risking the tentative peace they had only just begun to make?

“When will the festivities begin?” he asked, trying not to let his anxiety show.

“They start tonight, at sundown, and last for three more days,” Mordred replied. “In fact, I should let you rest until dusk. I’ll be in my tent, if you have need of me.” He stood and bowed, deeper than he had before, then added, “I thank you for the honour of sharing your meal, my king.” With that, he left, closing the tent behind him as he did.

Arthur was left to stare at the flap with a frown.

He had hardly ever met a man so timid. Was it simply because Arthur was a king? But even his servants tended to show some aplomb, especially since he had put Guinevere in charge of them as Camelot’s seneschal.

He mulled over Mordred a while longer, then decided he might as well get some rest, slipping out of his boots and settling down on the furs in the corner. Sooner than he would have expected, given the ruckus outside, he drifted off.

Someone was following Arthur through the forest.

It was a sorcerer with a blank, wooden mask, his eyes aglow behind the slits of the visard. Druid robes hung about his lithe frame, and his hair was dark and wild.

His persistent chase made Arthur nervous. He had no weapon to protect himself, no mail or armour to fend off an attack. Whenever he took a turn, the masked man took a turn as well, following Arthur’s every movement effortlessly as they went ever deeper into the woods.

Growing more and more anxious, Arthur tried to get ahead of his pursuer, but when he quickened his steps, the man quickened his as well, seemingly unhindered by the underbrush.

Spooked, Arthur eventually broke into a run, only to have his foot catch on a root. With a strangled shout, he fell.

He rolled onto his back quickly, his heart thumping wildly, only to find the masked man above him. Arthur raised his hands, splaying his fingers in surrender, but the sorcerer pinned him to the ground with one unnaturally strong hand, gold eyes flashing behind his mask.

With the other hand, he pulled a dagger from his robes.

“No!” Arthur gasped. “Please!”

Wordlessly, the man lifted his dagger, his grip unrelenting.

“Why are you doing this?” Arthur cried, struggling against the man’s hold. “Why do you want to kill me?”

“Because I’m meant to,” the man hissed and stabbed Arthur, straight into the stomach.

Arthur screamed as unbearable pain engulfed him, the wound singeing like fire, though his screams were soon muffled by hot blood rising up his throat and spilling into his mouth. Writhing in pain, he sucked in gurgling breaths, until his strength started to sap away, his vision fading at the edges.

Helpless, he stared up into the golden eyes hovering above him, the face of his killer hidden behind the blank mask.

“Who are you?” Arthur rasped, blood dripping past his lips.

He got no response.

When Arthur woke, he was covered in sweat. He blinked at the flower garlands swinging gently above him, needing a moment to remember where he was. Outside, the druid camp had quieted. Judging from the dim light in the tent, dusk had to be close.

Arthur let out a shaky breath. He hardly ever had nightmares, certainly none so vivid or disturbing. He realised his hand had snuck under his tunic without any conscious effort, his fingers tracing the spot below his ribs where the dagger had torn him open in his dream. But there was only smooth skin and taut flesh there, nothing more.

When he sat up in bed, a rustling noise drew his attention to the tent flap and not a moment later, Mordred stuck his head inside.

“It’s almost time to leave, my king,” he said quietly.

Arthur nodded, shivering a little as he extracted himself from the furs. When he looked down at his rumpled attire, he frowned. He had brought a spare tunic and another pair of breeches, but perhaps, he should have packed some more courtly clothes for the festivities?

It turned out he had worried for nothing. When Mordred stepped inside the tent, Arthur noticed the cloth draped over the boy’s arm.

“Your robe, my king,” he said and offered the garment with his head bowed. “There’s water in the bucket in the corner. I fetched it fresh from the well this morning.”

Arthur accepted the cloth with a thanks, realising Mordred had changed too. He was wearing a simple blue robe and no shoes.

Arthur undressed and washed quickly. His own robe turned out to be soft and richly embroidered with shimmering golden thread, clearly more distinguished attire than Mordred’s – a garment fit for a king, if the king were a druid.

Deciding he might as well honour local traditions, Arthur left his boots behind and followed Mordred barefoot. Outside, Elyan was already waiting for them, equally barefoot and clad in a moss-green robe. It suited him surprisingly well.

Everyone at camp was heading in the same direction towards the forest, and Arthur let himself fall back a little as they walked. “Where did Cerdan take you earlier?” he asked Elyan.

“To see the family of the druid boy, sire,” Elyan replied. “The one whose spirit I freed at the shrine.”

Arthur didn’t grimace, but couldn’t quite keep the stiffness out of his words, “I see.”

Elyan studied him for a moment. “They bear you no ill will, I’m sure of it. The family was very grateful the boy’s soul is now at rest. I think they’re ready to forgive.”

“Forgive?” Arthur replied bitterly. “I can hardly forgive myself for what happened that day.”

“Arthur,” Elyan said, in the same tone Guinevere used with him when he was being particularly obtuse, “you were fifteen.”

“I was the Prince of Camelot,” Arthur retorted, more sharply than he intended. “And I was expected to keep my men in check.”

Elyan pursed his lips. “Your father should have never let you lead that raid and you know it. Uther must have known that the likes of Sir Lamorak or Sir Osric would never follow the orders of a child.”

“I wasn’t a child,” Arthur snapped. “I was a man.”

“No, you were not,” Elyan replied simply, but let the topic rest.

They had re-entered the forest, though it didn’t look to be the same part they had come from earlier in the day, as they were walking uphill. After a few minutes, Mordred fell back to walk beside them again. “The temple is just ahead, my king,” he said, pointing at some moss-covered stones peeking through the trees beyond. “The rituals will take place there, as well as some of the celebrations. You may follow my lead, sit down and watch. I would ask you not to speak, once everyone has quieted.”

The temple turned out to be a roofless circular structure made of large stones and boulders. It reminded Arthur of the Great Stones of Nemeton, which he knew to be not too far from the Forest of Balor. At least two-hundred druids had gathered already, sitting on the bare ground or rocks, little pillows or blankets.

Mordred led them to a fallen tree at the centre of the gathering, which had been left conspicuously empty. As they passed the other druids, a couple of them hissed and murmured at Mordred, with many more glaring or making strange signs with their fingers. The boy seemingly paid them no attention, keeping his eyes straight ahead as he walked, but Arthur could see he was curling his hands to fists at his sides.

Again, Arthur found himself wondering what the boy could have possibly done to merit such reactions. A few of these druids looked positively murderous, which shocked him. He knew them to be a peaceful people, who avoided conflict at any cost.

Soon after they had settled on the log, the crowd quieted, until the air was filled with nothing but the faint rustling of robes and the sounds of the forest. Even the smaller children had grown silent, sensing that it was not the time to speak.

Before Arthur’s eyes, dusk was quickly turning into night, until the forest had grown dark.

Only that it wasn’t dark.

Arthur blinked, realising that the strange, thin fog had returned to the woods, seemingly rising from the ground. At night, it shone, gold sparks shimmering mysteriously in the air. It seemed to be gathering at the centre of the temple, obscuring the stones from view, and Arthur squinted when he thought he could make out a shape, or a figure there.

Then, a man slowly stepped out of the mist, though his face remained obscured.

Arthur froze.

It was the man from his nightmare. It had to be! 

He had the same dark hair, the same golden eyes, and the sight of him made Arthur’s skin crawl. Suddenly, he vividly remembered the feel of the knife plunging deep into his stomach.

Instinctively, he reached for his own blade, only to realise that he had no weapon, not even a wooden stick to defend himself, just like in his dream.

Trembling, he stared as the man emerged further from the mist.

He was not wearing a mask, nor robes. There was no dagger on him, either, that much was easy to see, for he was nude, bedecked only with a mantle of dark feathers draped over his shoulders. He was wearing jewellery the likes of which Arthur had never seen before, blue gems glistening in the shining fog. On his head, he wore a set of antlers, placed on him not unlike a crown, and his pale skin had been painted with strange symbols, from his face all the way down to his feet.

This, Arthur realised, had to be Emrys.

art by GYRHS (rebloggable on tumblr)

It took Arthur a long moment to get his breathing back under control. By the time he no longer felt like jumping to his feet and running, the ritual had started.

Arthur had no idea what he was hearing or looking at it. Emrys chanted words in a language Arthur could not understand, his low voice echoing through the forest as he circled the temple in measured steps, burning incense and working spells with his hands.

Every once in a while, some of the druids would join in, chanting or singing. Mordred, too, was participating, though his timid voice was drowned out by the others. His eyes were transfixed on Emrys, seemingly drinking in the sight of him.

Then, all of a sudden, it was over. The crowd cheered and the fog vanished, plunging the forest into darkness and taking Emrys’s eerie form with it.

Just a moment later, fires flared all around the clearing. Seemingly from nowhere, food and drink was brought. Somewhere, a flute started playing a merry tune.

Arthur glanced at Mordred, who was smiling, looking around with bright eyes. “Time to celebrate,” he said, sounding happy for the first time since Arthur’s arrival.

It didn’t last long. Mordred’s smile dropped when a woman approached their log, bowing to Arthur and Elyan as she offered them a basket of sweetmeats, only to skip Mordred right over, throwing him a deadly glare.

As she left, Mordred seemed to shrink in on himself, his gaze dropping to the ground.

Frowning, Elyan leaned in from Arthur’s other side. “What’s her problem?” he murmured, following the woman’s path across the clearing with his eyes.

“I don’t know,” Arthur admitted. “But Mordred does not seem to be popular amongst his people.”

Elyan nodded thoughtfully, but before he could reply, someone else had approached their log. Next to them, Mordred jumped to his feet.

“Emrys!” he exclaimed breathlessly.

It took Arthur a moment to recognise their visitor as the man who had performed the rituals. The gold in his eyes had faded and he had lost the antlers, too. He was now clad in the same kind of robes as everyone else. 

He was still wearing the strange jewellery, though, as well as the mysterious marks on his skin, and Arthur could not shake off the strange feeling that it was really Emrys he had seen in his dream.

Belatedly, Arthur got to his feet, watching Emrys place both hands on Mordred’s shoulders. Whatever hatred some of the druids harboured for Mordred, Emrys clearly did not share it. “I’m so glad to see you again,” he said and smiled, cheeks dimpling. “I thought of you every day.”

Like this, Emrys looked and sounded much more like a man, not like the strange, god-like creature he had been during the ritual. He was a little taller than Mordred, but of the same colouring. They might even have passed as brothers, had it not been for the way Mordred was ducking his head, shying away from Emrys’s eyes like he did with Arthur.

“You honour me, Emrys,” Mordred murmured.

“None of that,” Emrys returned gently and squeezed the boy’s shoulders. Then, to Arthur’s surprise, he pulled Mordred into a brief hug, before stepping away and turning his eyes on Arthur.

His smile vanished in an instant, his expression going carefully blank as he took Arthur in. 

Arthur tensed under his gaze, feeling like he was being judged and trying not to fidget.

From the way Emrys’s lips twitched downwards, Arthur was found lacking, though he did bow his head and said, “King Arthur. Welcome to the Forest of Balor.”

“Lord Emrys,” Arthur returned formally, returning the gesture.

Emrys frowned. “We don’t use your courtly titles here. You may call me Emrys, or nothing at all.” There was just a hint of hostility in his tone, but Arthur tried not to let it unnerve him.

“I apologise for any offense I might have given,” he replied.

Emrys arched an eyebrow. “Do you?” he asked, cool and provocative, and Arthur flushed at the implications, suddenly painfully aware of all the things he needed to apologise for.

Emrys had every right to be hostile, had he not? If anyone should be angry with him, it would be Emrys, whom Mordred had called magic itself. The other druid leaders had been surprisingly courteous so far, but that might simply be because Arthur was a king, or because they were afraid he would resume their persecution if they upset him.

Clearly, Emrys had no such qualms.

Trying to smooth over the moment, Arthur gestured at his side. “May I present one of my knights, Sir Elyan?”

Emrys’s eyes moved to Elyan. His smile reappeared and he took a step closer, eyes crinkling. “Yes, I heard you were coming as well. It’s good to meet you, Sir Elyan.”

Elyan dipped his head. “Thank you for the invitation.”

“Have you met the family?” Emrys enquired.

“I have, Emrys. They were very kind.”

“They are exceedingly grateful to you, you must understand,” Emrys said. “You have done them a great service, laying that boy’s spirit to rest. Sometimes, it is difficult for a soul to pass over, especially after such a cruel, pointless death…” Emrys’s eyes flickered towards Arthur as he said those last words, and Arthur fought an urge to duck his head and avert his eyes, like Mordred.

Hot shame rose up his throat, constricting it. Suddenly, he felt like all his faults, all the mistakes of his past were written plainly on his skin, marking him like the strange symbols painted on Emrys’s body, for all the world to see: Arthur Pendragon, son of the tyrant king, hater of sorcerers.

“I did only what I felt was right,” Elyan replied. “In truth, I had no idea what I was doing would help the boy.”

“Sometimes, that’s all it takes, Sir Elyan,” Emrys replied gently, then added, “Feel free to join the celebrations. Anyone would be glad to have you at their fire.” He glanced at Arthur again, his face hardening. “You, too, King Arthur.”

Arthur swallowed as he inclined his head. “We thank you.”

Emrys studied him for a moment longer, face unreadable, then turned back towards Mordred. “Thank you for taking charge of our guests.”

Mordred shifted on the spot. “Of course. I do as you ask, Emrys.”

Emrys placed a hand on Mordred’s cheek in an affectionate gesture, only made more intimate by the way he lowered his head to bring them on one level, purposefully seeking out Mordred’s gaze. “Come and see me often while I’m here,” he said more quietly. “I should like to speak to you, and hear how you’ve been faring.”

Mordred smiled shily. “Yes, Emrys.”

Emrys nodded, then strode off into the darkness.

Arthur looked after him, only to realise that all every druid nearby had been watching them closely, some of their eyes lingering on Arthur, others on Mordred. Clearly, their exchange had been of some significance to them. There was no telling if it had met their approval.

Despite Emrys’s encouragement to mingle, they settled down on the log again, though they were soon approached with more food and drink. Again, Mordred was skipped over for the food, though an elder druid handed him some mead, albeit it with a frown.

When Arthur offered to share, Mordred shook his head and looked at his knees.

“Might they be jealous, perhaps?” Elyan proposed softly, watching Mordred nurse his drink with hunched shoulders. “It seemed Emrys was very fond of him, and he is their leader. Perhaps they dislike how Mordred is singled out.”

“Perhaps,” Arthur replied thoughtfully, finding the idea had some merit. He let his eyes linger on Mordred for a while longer, then looked back at Elyan. “What did you think of him? Emrys?”

Elyan took a sip of mead as he thought that over. “He was younger than I expected. He looked to be younger than you, even.”

Arthur hadn’t put much thought to Emrys’s age, but realised Elyan was right. Emrys had indeed looked young for a leader. He had held himself with confidence, however, and exuded an undeniable aura of power.

“I must win him over, I think,” he said to Elyan. “As far as I've understood, Cerdan and the others head their individual clans only. But they all follow Emrys. It’s him I must convince of my good intentions, if I want lasting trust.”

“He seemed civil enough,” Elyan replied.

“Barely,” Arthur said drily, then sighed. “Not that I blame him.”

Elyan bumped his shoulder into Arthur’s, an unusually casual display of comradery. Perhaps the mead was getting to him. “I have every trust you will succeed,” he said. “You’re making good changes at Camelot.”

Arthur raised an eyebrow at him. “You would say that. After all, you’ve gotten a knighthood out of it.”

Elyan chuckled. “You caught me out, sire,” he replied, lifting his cup in mock-salute. “Between my fancy title and Gwen’s new position at court, you’ve bought my loyalty well.” More soberly, he added, “You’re a good king, Arthur. The best we could have hoped for, really. Emrys will realise that, too. Just give him time.”

They fell quiet, watching the celebrations. Young couples danced cheerily around the fires to the music, the sound of the instruments outlandish, though the melodies rung familiar. 

Less familiar were the customs. The druids were far less inhibited than Arthur was used to and soon, there was bare skin everywhere. Emrys’s nudity during the ritual had seemed performative, but here at the fires, it was undeniably sensual. Arthur caught sight of more than one bared breast and was fairly sure some people were actually coupling in the nearby bushes.

The realisation left him itchy and red-faced, and after an hour, he stood to make his excuses, only to find Mordred all too eager to guide him back to the camp, while Elyan decided to stay a while longer.

“How are you liking the festivities, my king?” Mordred asked as they made their way through the dark forest. He had conjured a shimmering ball of magic, which was lighting their way.

“They’re different to Camelot’s,” Arthur replied diplomatically. After a pause, he added more cautiously, “How about you? You did not join in the dancing or singing.”

“No,” Mordred agreed quietly. “I did not.”

Arthur studied him. In the bright light of his magic, Mordred looked awfully young, his cheeks full, his features soft. Perhaps Elyan was right, and the other druids were jealous. Arthur had learnt early not to bestow favours unfairly at court, not to give the impression of having favourites, or to prefer one knight’s company over that of the others. It was a difficult balance to keep, a skill Arthur had honed his whole life.

Perhaps Emrys was less experienced with such issues, unaware what sort of effect a leader’s favouritism could have on a person, how it could isolate them from the rest, make them a target even.

Mordred was young, a boy who had yet to prove himself, and still, Emrys was publicly showering him in affection and trusting him with the care of honoured guests.

Of course, that would make others jealous and hostile, especially those who felt they might be owed a favour themselves.

When they arrived at Arthur’s tent, he had come to a decision. “Mordred.”

Mordred looked back at him, already on his way to his own tent. “Yes, my king?”

Arthur smiled kindly. “I appreciate your guidance today, but I don’t think we will require your services come tomorrow.”

Mordred’s face slipped. “Have I—have I done something to offend you?” he asked, eyes dropping all the way to the floor. “If so, I humbly apologise.”

Arthur’s stomach plummeted at his reaction, suddenly unsure if dismissing him was the right course of action. But he was not one to back down from a decision, and convinced that Mordred needed less attention rather than more.

“Not at all,” he assured him. “I merely think it’s not necessary to have you stay so close all the time. I’m sure Cerdan, or any of the druids, would be glad to answer our questions just as well.”

Mordred stayed quiet for a long moment, his eyes still glued to the ground. Then he bowed, much too hastily, croaking, “As you wish, my king,” before vanishing into his tent.

A moment later, Arthur thought he could hear a muffled sob.

Dismayed, Arthur was of half a mind to go after him, but thought better of it. In the darkness of his own tent, he slipped out of the robe, washed the soot of the fires off his face, then slipped under the furs and blankets.

He was sorry he had upset Mordred so, but it really was for the best. He hadn’t liked the looks of those glares, especially when alcohol had lowered everyone’s inhibition. Arthur had been in charge of people long enough to know how quickly a mere glower could turn into violence when ale was aplenty and rivalries came to the surface. It would not do to make the boy any more of a target than he already was.

With a sigh, Arthur closed his eyes and let the distant sound of the celebrations lull him to sleep.

The masked man was following him again, chasing him through the woods like a hunter his prey. Whenever Arthur dared to look over his shoulder, his golden eyes shone closer, two angry slits in a blank, wooden visard.

Scared beyond words, Arthur took care not to stumble this time, jumping over rocks and roots and quickening his steps whenever the forest ground allowed it. His heart was thumping rabbit-fast, his whole body covered in cold sweat as he fled deeper and deeper into the woods.

But the masked man was unrelenting in his pursuit and at last, Arthur came upon a wall of moss-covered boulders.

Trapped.

Panicking, he turned around, only to find the masked man already upon him, the knife glinting in his hand.

“Please,” Arthur begged, pressing his back close to the stone. “Please don’t.”

But the masked man knew no mercy, thrusting and twisting the knife deep into Arthur’s stomach.

Arthur screamed, a sound so loud and violent that it seemed to rip his throat apart, his whole body lighting up in unimaginable pain.

Without a word, the masked man let go of the knife. He took a step back, his gold eyes impassive as he watched Arthur crumple.

Slowly, Arthur slid down the stone, smearing a wet, red line as he went, gasping and gurgling. “Why?” he rasped, his hands curling uselessly around the hilt of the dagger. His guts were on fire.

“You know why,” the man replied, his voice harsh and cold.

“Are you Emrys?” Arthur whispered, but received no response.

For a long time, there was only pain, and two golden eyes watching from behind a blank mask.

Then, there was nothing at all.

When Arthur awoke, it was not yet dawn. He was sweaty again, shivering under the furs and blankets, but too shaken to stand up and change into fresh clothes. The dream had felt even more real than the last.

Was it really Emrys stalking him? The voice did not sound the same. But the wild, dark hair, the golden eyes, the coldness of him…

Eventually, when dawn painted the walls of the tent pink, Arthur rose, rummaging through his saddle bag for a clean tunic and breeches. He washed his face in the bucket, then decided to fetch himself fresh water, if only to shake off the fright still stuck in his bones. 

It was a servant’s job, really, but Arthur had dismissed Mordred, and was more than used to taking care of himself during patrol or campaign.

When he left his tent, the camp was quiet. Undoubtedly, most druids had celebrated late and were still asleep, though a few children were already up, playing with dolls and marbles.

“Where might I find the well?” Arthur asked them.

Luckily, the children weren’t shy, and a boy led him to the right place, peering curiously at him the whole way there. “Are you really the King?” he piped up as he watched Arthur hang the bucket on the hook.

“I am,” Arthur confirmed, carefully letting down the rope.

“Is it true what they say?” the boy asked.

“I don’t know,” Arthur replied. “What do they say?”

“That there’ll be a golden age, when magic will roam free.”

Arthur mulled that over as he watched the bucket fill with water. “I don’t know about a golden age,” he replied, pulling at the rope again. “But magic will be welcome in Camelot once more. I can promise you that much.”

“Good,” said the boy, satisfied, and vanished between the tents.

“A grand promise indeed.”

Arthur startled so badly he almost let the bucket drop back into the well. Emrys had appeared by his side, seemingly out of nowhere. 

He was dressed in simple druid garb, no more jewellery or markings in sight, though Arthur couldn’t help but feel spooked, the nightmare still crawling under his skin.

“A promise I intend to keep,” Arthur replied when had caught himself, meeting Emrys’s gaze evenly. It was the first time seeing him in the light of day, and Arthur found himself surprised by Emrys’s bright eyes. He had a kind sort of face, though his current expression couldn’t exactly be called friendly.

Emrys gave him a challenging look. “I didn’t think you would come,” he said, his tone just shy of provocative. “I had heard you were seeking out the enclaves, of course, but thought you would draw the line at leaving your weapons and knights behind.”

“I seek peace,” Arthur said simply.

Emrys’s face remained sceptical, but to Arthur’s surprise, he stepped forward and took the bucket from Arthur’s hands. “This is no work for a king,” he muttered and started walking into the direction of Arthur’s tent.

“Thank you,” Arthur replied, unsure what to make of the gesture.

“Magic will be welcome in Camelot once more,” Emrys went on, quoting Arthur’s earlier words back to him as they walked. “Is it not now?”

Arthur grimaced. “I’ve halted all executions,” he replied. “Changing the laws has been proving more difficult, however.”

“Are you not the King of these lands?” Emrys asked mockingly. “One would think all you needed to do was sign a parchment, or burn an old one.”

“I am King, yes,” Arthur said, trying not bristle. He was determined not to let Emrys get a rise out of him. “But I’m young and yet untried, and many of the lords are stubborn. What’s more, my people fear magic. I can sign any amount of parchments, but if I want the changes to last, it will be a long, painful process.”

“And what brought on the change in your heart?” Emrys prodded challengingly. “Your father must have taught you nothing but hatred for magic.”

“He did,” Arthur admitted. “But I know now that he was wrong. Not all sorcery is evil.”

Emrys seemed unconvinced. “Who’s to say you’re not just pretending? You could be spying after us, only to send in your knights to finish us all off.”

This time, Arthur couldn’t quite keep himself from frowning. Of course, he had expected to be met with distrust, but Emrys was being entirely undiplomatic. “You think me so dishonourable?” he asked sharply.

“Ah, yes, honour,” Emrys drawled. “How much is a knight’s honour worth, when he can slaughter the innocent and yet retain it?”

Arthur’s cheeks flushed, from shame as much as from anger. He barely kept his tone civil when he replied, “I’m a man of my word. I want to make peace, and amends for the past.”

Emrys hummed, then fell silent, water sloshing in the bucket as they walked on in strained silence. 

When they arrived at the tent, Emrys handed the bucket to Arthur. “Mordred would be happy to fetch you water in the future. You need only ask him,” he said. His voice had gone stiff.

Arthur felt this might not be the right time to tell Emrys he had dismissed the boy. Instead, he asked, “What is he to you, Mordred, if I may ask?”

Emrys looked surprised at the question. “How do you mean?”

“He looks up to you,” Arthur ventured.

“Ah, yes,” Emrys replied. “That he does.” He sighed, his eyes wandering to Mordred’s tent. “He’s not had an easy life, Mordred. His parents abandoned him when he was a baby, never to be seen again, and he hasn’t stuck with one group of druids for more than a few years.”

“So you have taken him under your wings?” Arthur surmised.

At that, Emrys smiled, his eyes still on Mordred’s tent. It was a nice smile, one that crinkled his face in all the right places. “So to speak,” he replied, then looked back at Arthur. For a moment, it looked like he was smiling at him and somehow, that sparked something in Arthur, though it was quickly snuffed when Emrys’s face closed off again. “You’re free to roam and mingle,” he said. “The festivities will continue for a couple of days, if less formally for the most part. If you see people eat and sing at a fire, feel free to join them, ask questions and learn.”

Arthur inclined his head. “Thank you.”

Emrys gave him a curt nod, then walked off.

Unsure what to make of his conversation with Emrys, Arthur remained in his tent until he could hear the druids rise, then sought out Elyan, who looked a little hungover. Arthur wondered if he had joined in on some of the more uninhibited parts of the celebrations, though he quickly cut off that line of thought when it made his skin prickle uncomfortably.

Together, they ventured deeper into the camp, where they were soon welcomed to a fire for a late breakfast. Everyone treated them courteously, bowing their heads at Arthur and smiling at Elyan as they readily shared their food.

“Where’s Mordred?” Elyan asked eventually.

The adults had gone off to tend to their business and so, they were watching the children, who were amusing themselves trying to make shapes from the smoke rising from the fire. Every time their eyes flashed gold, Arthur had to suppress a wince, but he thought he was getting better at staying calm in the face of carelessly displayed magic.

“I dismissed him,” he replied. “I think you were right, about the jealousy. He doesn’t need to be seen with us, and draw even more attention to himself.”

“It’s true they don’t like him much,” Elyan said. “I talked to some of the druids last night, at the fires. The resentment seems to run deep. They were quite evasive about the reason, but I’m not so sure anymore that they envy him.”

Arthur watched a girl shape a horse out of smoke, then asked, “You think I shouldn’t have dismissed him?”

“I don’t know,” Elyan replied. “He certainly doesn’t need to be made any more of a target, so it might be best all the same.”

They didn’t see Mordred for the rest of the day.

Eventually, Elyan was roped into helping with some task or the other. Arthur made a point of seeking out Cerdan, asking questions about the ritual they had witnessed, then went to see Llamrei, who had been excellently taken care of.

In the evening, people gathered around the fires again, playing music and singing. Arthur settled down with them for some more mead, keeping his eyes out for Emrys, though he didn’t spot him anywhere.

He felt uneasy about how they had left things in the morning. Emrys hadn’t seemed convinced of Arthur’s good intentions. How likely were the druids to trust Arthur and help him foster good relations with magic, if their leader – some form of lord or god – disapproved of him?

Eventually, the second cup of mead forced him towards the forest. When he stepped back out of the bushes, a commotion nearby drew his attention. It was in Arthur’s nature to break up a fight when he became aware of one and so, before he knew it, his feet had led him towards the noise.

Between the trees, he spotted some druids. One, he instantly recognised as Mordred. He was pressed closely against the trunk of a tree, his face unmistakably scared. A group of young druids surrounded him from all sides, their faces hostile. When Arthur moved closer, he could hear them speak.

“…leave already,” a girl was saying.

“Nobody wants you here,” another added.

“Even the King has cast you aside,” a boy spat. “He knows what you are.”

“You need to leave,” a second boy said. “Or we’ll make you.”

Mordred didn’t reply. In the light of the moon, his face looked terribly pale.

Angry on the boy’s behalf, and sensing violence might be imminent, Arthur took a step forward to intervene, but before he could do anything, another voice echoed through the forest.

“What’s happening here?” 

It was Emrys.

The druids reacted instantly, retreating from Mordred and bowing their heads, murmuring Emrys’s name reverently. Nobody spoke up to explain themselves, however.

Emrys walked over to Mordred. Arthur couldn’t quite make out what he was saying, but judging from the reluctant nod from the boy, Emrys was making sure he was unharmed. Louder, he demanded, “What have I told you about Mordred’s presence here?”

Nobody replied at first, until one of the boys dared to say, “I don’t understand why you protect him, Emrys. You know what he is.”

“He’s one of us,” Emrys retorted sharply. “He has done nothing to merit your hatred. He has done nothing to cast him out.”

“Not yet,” a girl said, but shrunk into herself under Emrys’s quelling glare.

The druids soon scattered, murmuring amongst themselves as they walked off.

When Arthur stepped out from behind the trees, Emrys had placed a hand on Mordred’s shoulder and was speaking to him quietly. Mordred, in turn, seemed to be close to tears, judging from the look on his face.

They both glanced up when Arthur approached. Mordred instantly ducked his head, whereas Emrys glowered at him. He immediately rounded on Arthur and when he took a step forward, his eyes flickered gold. “You!” he accused. “Why have you dismissed Mordred as your guide?”

Arthur retreated a step, raising his hands in a defensive gesture, dearly feeling his lack of a sword. “I—”

But Emrys didn’t let him explain. “Do you even understand what you’ve done?” he hissed, looking seconds away from strangling Arthur. “How could you do this to him?”

Arthur looked back at Mordred, who had shrunk back into the tree, his shoulders hunched. He couldn’t be quite sure in the darkness, but it seemed he had started crying after all. “I was trying to help him.”

“Help him?” Emrys repeated incredulously. “By casting him aside?”

“I wasn’t casting him aside,” Arthur retorted. “I noticed people were hostile to him and thought being seen with me would make it worse.”

Emrys stared at him. “What?”

“I thought they resented him for being singled out,” Arthur explained, though he had an inkling now that he had been wrong. “That perhaps they were jealous he was being tasked with a special job.”

“Jealous,” Emrys repeated, but the harsh lines in his face started to smooth over. He stared at Arthur for a moment longer, then shook his head and let out a harsh laugh. “Jealous,” he said again. “Yes, you would think that, would you? What an arrogant thought.”

Arthur grit his teeth, trying and failing not to feel insulted.

But already, Emrys was continuing, “I suppose you wouldn’t know better, though.” 

He paused to look at Mordred, who was most definitely crying now. He had sunk to the forest ground, his face hidden in his knees, his shoulders shaking. 

When Emrys glanced back at Arthur, his face was pained. “You wanted to protect him?” he asked quietly.

Arthur nodded. “I made it worse, didn’t I?” he replied, already knowing the answer.

Emrys sighed. “Your heart was in the right place, at least,” he murmured, then walked over to Mordred, where he crouched down to comfort him.

Feeling he was no longer needed, and not in the mood for more mead, Arthur returned to his tent. To his surprise, Emrys appeared at the flap only a few minutes later.

“May I come in?” he asked.

“Of course,” replied Arthur, who had just been about to undress for the night.

Emrys sat down on of the chairs. In the light of the oil lamps, he looked tired.

“How is Mordred?” Arthur asked carefully.

“Crying in his tent,” Emrys replied bluntly.

Arthur sank down on the other chair. “I’m sorry,” he repeated his earlier apology, though it felt inadequate. He shouldn’t have dismissed Mordred, not without knowing the whole story. It had been foolish of him to assume he understood the druids, or to try and solve the problem as if they were at his court in Camelot.

To his surprise, Emrys offered him a smile. It was small but genuine, enough to make Arthur’s heart flutter strangely in his chest. “Like I said, your heart was in the right place.” Emrys pinched the bridge of his nose, then went on, “There is something you need to know about Mordred. I already told you he was an orphan, but the reason his parents abandoned him was because of a prophecy.”

Arthur leaned closer. “A prophecy?”

“You must understand that prophecies are important to my people. There are several of them, all linked. Some of them speak of hope, others of doom.”

Arthur didn’t know the first thing about soothsaying, but could put two and two together well enough. “I take it Mordred is connected to the doom.”

Emrys sent him a tired look. “You’re a quick one, aren’t you, my lord?”

It was the first time he had used any sort of honorific for Arthur. Of course, he would use it mockingly.

But Arthur was starting to see through Emrys’s bite. “I’m not entirely oblivious, no.”

Emrys chuckled. “Not entirely,” he conceded, then grew serious again. “I won’t bore you with the details,” he continued. “All you need to know is that my people believe Mordred will one day commit a terrible deed. That’s why nobody wants to be associated with him. They don’t even want him to live amongst them. He’s been pushed from one clan to another, again and again, and everywhere he goes, he is rejected.”

Arthur let that sink in. “That’s horrible,” he replied eventually, and couldn’t quite keep the anger out of his voice. “Blaming a child for something he might or might not do in the future? Punishing him for a crime he hasn’t yet committed? It’s not right.”

“I concur,” Emrys said, another tired smile on his lips. “I’ve been trying to curb the resentment, use their reverence to my advantage. They tend to listen to me, but not about this. If I don’t keep him close, he gets attacked, or chased off.” He sighed. “Frankly, I’m running out of druid clans willing to give him a chance.”

Arthur’s stomach twisted into a knot, wondering if his actions had ruined what might have been Mordred’s last chance at acceptance. “I apologise. If I had known—” He cut himself off, “No. I should have asked, at least. It was my fault.”

Emrys studied him for a long moment. “So noble,” he said eventually.

Arthur didn’t know whether or not to be flattered, but the words sent a shiver down his spine. “Is that a bad thing?” he ventured.

Emrys smiled, but didn’t reply. 

Instead, he got up from the chair. “Spend some time with Mordred tomorrow, will you? He has an excellent grasp on all kinds of magic. If you want to learn more about it, he can teach you.”

“And you?” Arthur asked, not quite willing to end their talk. “Mordred told me you are magic itself.”

“Did he?” Emrys replied mildly.

“The son of the Triple Goddess,” Arthur added.

Emrys chuckled. “No. My mother was a farmer.” He raised his eyebrows as he gave Arthur another onceover. “I suppose we should talk, if you truly want peace,” he conceded. “Come to my tent tomorrow night. I will be waiting.” He inclined his head. “Have a restful night.” With that, he left the tent. 

Arthur watched the flap flutter in the night breeze, feeling like he had made important progress with Emrys – and trying not to think too hard about the strange, warm feeling that had settled in his chest.

Just this morning, he had been spooked by Emrys, convinced he was stalking him in his dreams. Now, Arthur wished he had stayed for a while longer. There was just something about Emrys, something that seemed to tug at Arthur the longer they talked.

Perhaps it was simply his steadfast defense of Mordred, the way he tried to stand against his people’s superstition. Arthur respected a man who wanted to protect the innocent.

Determined to do right by Mordred tomorrow, he slipped into bed and fell asleep.

Once more, the masked man was stalking him.

Arthur tried to outwit him this time, making quick turns and running in circles, but to no avail. The sorcerer never wavered in his pursuit, chasing him through the underbrush with glowing eyes.

“I don’t mean you any harm,” Arthur called over his shoulder.

It was futile. Eventually, Arthur’s legs grew tired and the sorcerer took over, already raising his dagger, pushing Arthur against a tree and plunging the knife into Arthur’s middle.

But something was different this time. There was pain, but it seemed duller and more distant, and Arthur’s eyes remained focused on the blank wooden mask.

He needed to know, desperately, who it was that wanted him dead so very desperately, who it was that kept haunting his sleep.

Was it Emrys?

“Who are you?” he demanded, pressing both hands against his gushing wound. He would not pass out again, not until he had his answer.

The masked man stayed quiet.

“Who are you?” Arthur repeated. “Show your face!”

The sorcerer only looked at him, two golden slits in a blank visard.

With considerable effort, Arthur raised his hand and reached for the mask, smearing blood all over it as he pulled at it. It gave easily, clattering to the forest ground to reveal the face beneath.

It was Mordred.

When Arthur rose in the morning, he made sure to seek out Mordred right away. The boy was awake in his tent, which was a small, lumpy thing, filled with nothing but some clothes, an oil lamp and a bed made of thin blankets. He had taken care to decorate it, though, with flowers and ribbons hanging off every wall.

“I thought you might have breakfast with Sir Elyan and I,” Arthur said, seeing no point in rehashing last night’s events.

“Yes, my king,” Mordred murmured. Somehow, he appeared even more timid.

Arthur made sure to keep Mordred close that day, informing Elyan in a quiet moment about what had happened. True to Emrys’s word, Mordred knew a lot about magic and brightened up considerably when Arthur asked him about it, happily demonstrating how to heal a cut or make a flower grow from nothing.

“I’m nowhere near as skilled as Emrys,” he would stress every once in a while, and Arthur’s heart ached a little at the clear worship in his face whenever he spoke of Emrys.

It was no wonder he revered him. God or no, Emrys had quite possibly been the only person who had ever shown him continued kindness.

The other druids watched them, some more warily or angrily than others, though nobody dared to send Mordred away when Arthur invited him to sit with him during meals.

After dinner, he asked Mordred to show him to Emrys’s tent. It was at the very edge of the camp and surprisingly simple, a tent made for travelling. But then, Arthur had garnered that Emrys didn’t live in this enclave, but seemed to be moving frequently.

“King Arthur,” Emrys greeted him when he stepped inside. “Make yourself comfortable.”

There were no chairs and the ceiling was low, but several blankets and pillows lay strewn about, one of which Emrys currently occupied. On one of the tent posts hung his antler crown, and the scent of incense wafted through the air.

Arthur slipped out of his boots, then settled down on the floor. Across from him, Emrys was fiddling with a book, but soon put it aside. “I’ve heard you spent your day with Mordred,” he said.

“You’ve heard correctly,” Arthur replied. “He’s been a very enthusiastic teacher. Very patient with my ignorance, too.” He went on to summarise what Mordred had shown him, only stopping when he realised that he had been talking for the better part of several minutes.

But Emrys was smiling. “He’s quite likeable, isn’t he?”

“Very much,” Arthur admitted, trying not to get flustered over Emrys’s smile again. It took him a moment to gather his wits, though, until at last, he managed to ask the question he had been mulling over since waking up from his latest nightmare: “The prophecy you spoke of last night. Does it have something to do with me?”

Emrys’s eyes sharpened instantly. “What have you heard?” he demanded.

“Nothing,” Arthur replied, knowing he had guessed right. “But I’ve been having strange dreams.”

Emrys looked at him warily. “Dreams?”

“Nightmares, to be exact,” Arthur said. “They’re about Mordred, killing me.”

Emrys grimaced, then looked at his lap, exhaling sharply. “Bloody fog,” he muttered, rubbing a hand over his face.

“Excuse me?”

Emrys shook his head, though readily explained, “These parts of the forest, they’re brimming with magic. It’s quite maddening, I don’t know how anyone can live here.” He gestured at Arthur. “I wouldn’t be surprised if your dreams were caused by that.”

“So it’s true?” Arthur prodded. “The terrible deed he’s destined to commit, it’s killing me?”

Emrys looked him over, then said simply, “Yes.”

Although Arthur had suspected it, the confirmation had him stop short for a moment. “Why would there be such a prophecy about me and Mordred?” he asked eventually. “And why would the druids be upset that he is destined to kill Uther Pendragon’s son? One would think most sorcerers would rejoice to hear that.”

“Ah,” said Emrys, his gaze unwavering. “But you see, the prophecy isn’t about Uther Pendragon’s son. It’s about the Once and Future King.”

Arthur blinked. “I thought you said it was about me?”

“Yes,” Emrys said and smiled strangely. “Exactly.”

“I’m this Once and Future King?” Arthur ventured.

Emrys huffed out a breath, though his smile didn’t waver. “That remains to be seen,” he said, sounding amused. “You’ve got promise, I’ll admit. But as long as you don’t get your lords in line, I have little hope for a united Albion.”

“I’m afraid you lost me,” Arthur said.

“Make yourself comfortable, then,” Emrys replied. “This is going to be a long story.”

And so, Arthur settled in and listened, his eyes widening as he heard what was supposedly his own destiny, full of grand promises about a golden age of magic, and all of Albion’s banners united under one flag. 

When Emrys had finished, Arthur vehemently shook his head. “No,” he said. “That’s not me.”

Emrys raised an eyebrow at him. “No? Did you or did you not tell me only yesterday that you were going to bring magic back to Camelot?”

“I’m trying, yes,” Arthur retorted. “But I’m only just keeping sorcerers off the pyre as it is. I’m not some great saviour.”

“How do you know you won’t be?” Emrys asked, and sounded genuine in his question.

Arthur, however, scowled. “You must know why,” he retorted and looked away.

“I’m afraid I’ve yet to learn how to read minds,” Emrys replied, though he seemed to sense Arthur wasn’t in the mood for his teasing. More gently, he added, “What is it, Arthur?”

Arthur was of half a mind to tell him that he had never offered him his first name, but decided he wasn’t coward enough to be hiding behind petty arguments. “That shrine Sir Elyan stumbled upon?” he forced out instead. “The boy he freed? You must know the history of that camp.”

Emrys’s face darkened. “I know there was a terrible slaughter there, yes.”

Arthur pressed his lips into a tight line, realising Emrys didn’t know. With difficulty, he explained, “I was there. I led that raid. I let them do what they did.”

Emrys frowned. “But that was—” He stopped. “You were a child when that happened, weren’t you?”

“I was fifteen, and in charge of the raid,” Arthur insisted, thought it was impossible to meet Emrys’s eyes as he said it. “They were to spare—it wasn’t supposed to be—” He broke off, unable to put into words how terribly he had failed that day. “It was my fault they were all slaughtered so brutally,” he finished eventually, his voice growing thick. “So you see, there is no reason to believe I’m some golden king. Not with the things I’ve done. Not with how long I stood by and let my father murder the innocent.”

Emrys stayed quiet for a while. “Is that when you changed your mind about magic?” he asked at last. “After the attack on that camp?”

“It wasn’t one moment,” Arthur replied, rubbing a hand over his face, still avoiding Emrys’s eyes. Somehow, he couldn’t bear the idea of seeing the coldness return to his face. “The more I learnt, the more I saw… It simply didn’t make any sense. I’ll admit, though, that it took learning about the circumstances of my birth to truly open my eyes to the extent of my father’s hypocrisy.” 

“You know about that?” Emrys asked.

At last, Arthur dared to look up, stunned to see compassion on Emrys’s face. “Yes,” he said. “I know I was born of magic, and that my father blamed it for my mother’s death.”

Emrys studied him, his eyes warm, and Arthur shivered under his gaze. “I can sense it on you, you know,” he said softly. “The magic. You are doused in it. It’s… quite remarkable. From the moment you stepped foot into the forest, I was aware of your presence. I’ve never felt anything like it.” He shook his head minutely. “Perhaps it is no wonder it reached out for you here, and sent you those dreams…”

Arthur couldn’t help but feel discomfited by those words, though he tried not to show it.

Emrys seemed to see it, though, for he smiled again. “It is late,” he said. “Tomorrow is the last day of the celebrations.” He hesitated, then said, “I would have you join me, if you’d like. To show my people that we’re united in our goal for peace.”

Arthur stared at him. “I—yes, of course,” he stammered.

“Don’t worry,” Emrys added, mischief creeping into his eyes. “You can keep your clothes on.”

Arthur left Emrys’s tent with a burning face, and was still flushed when he once more buried himself in the blankets and furs to fall asleep.

Mordred was above him, pinning him to the ground. The mask was gone, leaving his face wide open.

He was crying, tears streaming from his flickering eyes.

“You don’t have to do this,” Arthur told him, struggling against his grip.

“I’m sorry, but I must,” Mordred sobbed and lifted the knife. “I’m sorry, my king.” His hand was shaking.

Arthur saw the desperation on his face, the genuine fear, and stopped his struggles. “It’s all right,” he said instead, softening his voice. “It’s fine. I forgive you.”

Sniffling, Mordred plunged the knife into Arthur’s stomach.

Arthur made a point to spend the entirety of the following day with Mordred.

He learnt that Mordred’s apprenticeship had been going slow. The druids assigned to his education were unwilling to teach him more than was absolutely necessary to appease Emrys, and nobody would let Mordred heal them, scared or repulsed.

“I practise on animals, and myself,” Mordred told him quietly over lunch, eyes on his bowl, and Arthur felt an urge to draw him into an embrace, like Emrys had.

When dusk approached and Mordred led them back to the temple in the forest, Arthur had come to a decision.

They settled down on the same log, though it wasn’t long until Emrys emerged from the shimmering fog, nude except for the feather cape, his antler crown and jewellery in place. He looked about with golden eyes, then beckoned Arthur to stand and come closer.

Arthur felt everyone’s eyes on him as he approached, incredibly conscious of the fact that he had no idea what would be expected of him. When Emrys held out his hand, he took it, only to inhale sharply when the touch sent a prickling warmth all throughout his body.

Emrys seemed to sense it, too, his golden eyes turning on Arthur. They were so bright up close that Arthur could hardly make out his face. “You’re really him,” he said cryptically.

Together, they walked around the temple. Arthur still had little clue about chants or magic spells, but all that seemed to be required of him was to follow Emrys’s lead. Their hands remained joint, and Arthur couldn’t help but glance at their fingers again and again, doused in golden light, and wonder why his heart was beating quite so fast, or why he felt like he never wanted to let go again.

Eventually, the ritual came to an end and the crowd cheered loudly, fires once more flaring all across the clearing as the mist retreated.

“It’s done,” Emrys told him and let go of his hand.

Arthur tried not to reel too obviously from the loss. His head was spinning with the smell of incense and there was that thick feel of magic in the air. “I was wondering,” he said, “about Mordred.”

“Yes?” Emrys looked at him expectantly.

“The druids dislike him,” Arthur pushed on, before he lost his nerve. “Even if you find another clan to take him in, he will likely not be accepted. Perhaps, if he came to Camelot—well, we don’t know much about prophecies there, and our physician Gaius has long been in need of an apprentice. He has a little magic of his own, and holds no grudge against sorcerers.”

Emrys stared at him. “You want to take Mordred to Camelot?” he said slowly. “Knowing he’s destined to kill you?”

Arthur frowned. “I don’t know that he is,” he replied, a little too gruffly perhaps. “I don’t know that any of those prophecies are true.”

Emrys’s eyes flickered gold. “I know that one of them is,” he replied softly and leaned in, carefully pressing his lips against Arthur’s.

Arthur had not shared very many kisses in his life, but knew that they did not usually turn your stomach into liquid, or fill your chest to the brim with hot sparks. He leaned into it, softening his lips against Emrys’s, who deepened the kiss.

When they parted, they were both out of breath. With a quiet smile, Emrys took Arthur’s hand again and pulled him deeper into the temple, where he removed his feather cape and laid it on the ground. He guided Arthur to lay down on it, then climbed on top of him. Mist rose from the forest ground, circling him. His antlers were dark against the light of the moon and his eyes were once more glazed with gold, making him look every bit the druid god.

“Emrys,” Arthur whispered, reverently.

“My king,” Emrys returned and leaned down for another kiss.

They melted into each other, their hands roaming, exploring, learning each nook, each curve. Soon, Arthur had forgotten about the people celebrating nearby, his whole world centred on Emrys’s hot breath against his skin and the way his hardness pressed against him.

Eventually, when he was as naked as Emrys and arching desperately into his touch, his whole body alight with pleasure, Emrys slowly flipped him over, his fingers exploring Arthur’s most intimate place.

“May I?” he murmured, placing little kisses on Arthur’s back.

“Yes,” Arthur panted. “Yes.”

Emrys opened his body slowly and gently, whispering soothing words whenever Arthur moaned brokenly. Through the haze of his pleasure, Arthur realised some magic had to be at play, for when Emrys finally pressed his hot flesh against Arthur’s entrance, it went in smoothly, and Arthur’s body welcomed him readily.

Emrys took him slowly, with Arthur’s hands curling into the grass, his moans muffled by the feather cape.

It felt like being made whole.

Later, they lay in each other’s arms, cradled by shimmering fog, listening to the music and laughter of the celebrating druids.

“Will we meet again soon?” Arthur murmured.

Emrys chuckled. “Did you not listen to a word I said last night, my king?” he replied. “I’m supposed to be by your side and guide you.”

Arthur smiled. “You’ll come with us, then?”

“No, not yet,” Emrys said gently. “But I’ll visit, to see how Mordred is faring.” He looked at Arthur, lifting a hand to trace the line of his jaw. “And perhaps, in a while, I will join you in your silly little castle.”

“I’ll have you know, Camelot is renowned for her beauty,” Arthur replied, narrowing his eyes.

“If her King is any indication.” With that, Emrys pulled him close and claimed him a second time.

In the morning, Mordred climbed onto Llamrei’s back with tears in his eyes. He had packed what little belongings he owned into a small bag and led Arthur and Elyan back to where they had come from.

Now, he looked dazedly down the road, as if he could hardly believe he was leaving the Forest of Balor behind.

“How long until Camelot, my king?” he asked as Arthur climbed into the saddle behind him. They would be riding pillion.

“A day and a half,” he replied.

“You’ll like it there,” Elyan assured him, settling in on his own horse. “Gaius will be a good teacher to you, and Camelot a good home.”

Mordred smiled. “I’m looking forward to it.”

As they rode off, the fog followed them, guiding them safely out of the woods.