Author's Note: Hello, Merlin fandom! I know I'm about twelve years late, but late is better than never, yes? ;D I hope those of you who are still active enjoy this. Please remember to stay safe and healthy. ;)

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

Summary: Morgana manifests her powers as a child and Arthur learns to be a supportive brother. Now, the duo works behind Uther's back building the family they wanted and protecting those with magic. Because magic isn't the problem. Uther is.

Parings: None

Warnings: Some violence, some gore, implied/referenced child abuse. Uther's A+ (sarcastic) parenting. No smut, no slash, no incest, no non-con. Language is all K.

Small note*: I'm still uncertain who is older between Morgana and Arthur. I'm pretty sure it's Morgana, but for the sake of this story, she's the younger one. ;)

For your information, this story is cross-posted on Archive Of Our Own under the pen name of "Galaxy Threads".

Just a personal note, if you could refrain from using cussing/strong language if you comment (no offense to how you speak! Promise! =) It just makes me uncomfortable) I would greatly appreciate that. ;)

We're like brother and sister, are we not?

You're certainly annoying enough to be my sister.

Chaotic Siblings:

Arthur didn't want a sister, and Morgana didn't want a brother.

Arthur knew this before he met her. At least, of himself. He became acutely aware that she felt the same when he met her for the first time, standing behind her escort, hidden away in the fabric of the Knight's red cloaks. Arthur had done his best not to sneer at her, but he didn't want a sister so it only felt appropriate, and Father was all but adopting her. She's the King's ward now, he'd heard gossiped around the castle. Ward. Ward meant guardianship. Father was his guardian. Father was adopting her in all but name.

Arthur didn't even know this was happening until three days ago. Normal siblings have time to prepare to hate each other. A whole pregnancy, but Arthur had three measly days because Father didn't bother to explain what was going on until Arthur asked.

Morgana wasn't tall. She was thin and wiry with long black hair that went down to her waist; the proper length for a woman of the court. Morgana seemed tiny. Arthur didn't want a sister, much less a tiny sister. Could the gods have at least cursed him with a tall, bulky thing that Arthur could pretend was a brother? No. Instead, it's a dainty little flower whose skin was as pale as snow with big, wide green eyes; hiding behind the cloaks of her escort.

"Sir Owen," his father stepped forward, clasping the Knight in the familiar gesture. The other hand remains on his sword. "Thank you for bringing her here safely."

"Of course," Sir Owen responds, something rather dull in his tone. Personally, Arthur thinks most of the Knights are a little lifeless, if proud, but he wouldn't admit that to anyone. "It was my pleasure to escort her. Gorlois was a close friend of mine."

Arthur's father gave a solemn nod. "He will be missed."

Arthur expects Morgana to start crying at the mere mention of her father, but she doesn't. Her lip trembles, but she only straightens her shoulders and bores her vivid green eyes in Arthur's. There's a fire there. Something almost taunting. Well. Not for long.

Arthur does sneer then; an expression that causes anyone teasing him to back off. Not that there are many. He doesn't interact with anyone his age save the noble's children, and the Knights don't care for him. But still. It's a practiced expression, and one he's sure will cause her to squeak like a girl and completely duck herself behind the cloak.

Morgana steps out from behind Sir Owen and scowls at him.

Arthur feels his expression flare with open surprise, and then he glares right back. They continue this as his father and her escort keep talking. Droning. Going over the details of Morgana's stay. The final arrangements. Little things Arthur doesn't care about. His focus is only about making Morgana back down first. She does not.

Arthur is twelve and Morgana ten when their fight stares. Arthur will not make a claim that it ever stopped.

000o000

They argue over everything. From her being there at all to the placement of forks next to plates. It's a never-ending bicker that drives ceaseless people to desperate lengths at getting them to stop. His father appears to have a constant headache brewing, but no amount of yelling stops them from fighting. Arthur pulls her hair, and she steals his swords. He massacres her dolls and she burns—burns—a wood carving that his father gave him.

The fight continues. Words. Actions. Deeds.

Days. Weeks. Months.

Arthur was never much of a loud person—he didn't have anyone to talk to—but Morgana arouses a voice in him that he didn't know he had. And it's not just him. Apparently it awakens Morgana as well. He overhears one of the courtiers talking with his father and saying that "Morgana was such a sweet child, so quiet. Her father's death must have hit the poor thing hard."

And Arthur puts quiet and sweet next to the girl-that's-not-his-sister and cannot compute them.

"I know," his father sounds at his wits end. "I don't know what to do. I'm ready to have Gaius simply perform an operation to remove both their tongues, though I don't know if it would help."

Arthur's hand slaps over his mouth, and he chides himself a moment later, remembering that he's not supposed to be seen. He didn't mean to eavesdrop, but he'd overheard them talking and couldn't help himself. It's a cowardly thing to do. Not at all princely. But they'd been speaking about Morgana and he'd…

He'd what?

He doesn't even like her, never mind is worried that they were discussing something that would relate to her wellbeing. Wait. No. That's ridiculous. Why did he even think that? He'd be happy to see her go. In fact, he'd help anyone attempting to take her. He didn't want a sister. And Morgana isn't his sister anyway. Not as far as he's concerned. She's just...just a brat.

The other noble laughs quietly. "And you'd give your kingdom to a mute heir, my lord?"

His father sighs. "It's tempting."

Arthur presses his hand harder against his mouth. His father won't have his tongue. But...but maybe it's…time to stop if this is what his father is...

No.

He won't stop until Morgana does. Or apologizes first. This whole thing is her fault anyway.

000o000

So it continues. Day in and day out, the arguments and fights and cruel teasing and yelling, until his father finally does reach his wit's end. Calling together a group of Knights, his father orders Arthur and Morgana to the forests for a two-day trip together and says they are not to come home until they can get along.

Arthur thinks this is ridiculous, and says as much to Morgana.

She only lifts her chin. "Well I guess we won't be coming back here because of you."

Back here. She doesn't say home. Arthur has never heard her refer to Camelot as home, and it bothers him for some reason. Even if Morgana is the girl-whose-not-his-sister, she should feel comfortable enough within Camelot's borders to claim it a safe place. Arthur wants Camelot to be safe. His father makes it safe, even if Arthur doesn't like watching people burn.

(He remembers the first time. He was six. His father had to hold his chin to face the pyre, and Arthur threw up afterwards. He was so sick he couldn't look at his father for a week. He wouldn't stop crying. Not until his father struck him and told him to cease his tears or he would do it for him. Arthur fears the pyre for a different reason than dying by it.)

But that's beside the point. The point is that Morgana should say that Camelot is home, even if Arthur doesn't want her here. Anyone who comes to Camelot should be able to call it home.

Arthur scowls at Morgana, "You have yet to extend an arm of friendship." He accuses. It's strange. He can't remember a time he was ever quiet now. He feels as though he's always been loud. As if his voice was meant to be heard instead of stuffed up inside him and only drawn out when his father demanded it of him.

"Oh please," Morgana says flippantly, in a way that makes her seem far older than she is. "As if I'd want to be friends with the likes of you."

Arthur pulls her hair again, and Father looks like he might strangle both of them.

000o000

When the banishment to the forest finally does happen—"It's not banishment," Gaius had said, seeming amused, "your father thinks that it will help." Arthur had most assuredly not pouted, because he's twelve, not five, or a girl—Morgana has been at the palace for a little over eight months. It's enough time that people know who she is, and what she's beginning to mean to Arthur's father.

And it's because of this that everything changes.

They'd set up camp, and their bickering had continued. Their—his father couldn't come to oversee things himself, something about matters of state taking precedence, but the Knights and the servants made Arthur feel awkward. There are too many for their banishment. It's strange. Arthur doesn't need that many people to attend to him. He'd be fine with one. Or none. Morgana thinks that taking anyone out is foolish, which is why he'll take his servant with him on hunting trips when he's older and can be in charge.

Just to spite her.

They're meant to share a tent, and Arthur scowls at his realization, scooting his things as far to one side as he can and glaring at the girl-who-is-not-his-sister. "You come onto my side and I'll chop off all your pretty hair."

Morgana only quirks a brow. "You think it's pretty?"

He throws an apple at her head, but Morgana catches it deftly, and bites into it pointedly, smirking at him the entire time. He scowls. He hates her. He didn't want a sister. If he was meant to have a sister, his mother would have birthed her.

Instead he gets the girl-who-is-not-his-sister. The brat.

Whatever his father's magical plans to suddenly make them get along, it isn't working. They're here for two days with no progress beyond Arthur not pulling Morgana's hair for a total of one day and Morgana managing to hold her tongue—once—when everything goes south. Arthur doesn't know how the mercenaries learn of their location, but one moment they go from Morgana trying to read something and Arthur goading her about being such a girl, the next one of the Knights comes screaming into the camp shouting that under attack.

An arrow is sticking from his chest, blood bubbling from his mouth and all over his neck and hands. The image haunts Arthur for the rest of his life. It was the first time he'd seen that much blood on one man. The Knight had collapsed, panting, but Arthur suspects he dies quickly, if painfully.

"Protect the Prince and the King's ward!" Sir Ector had demanded, and the Knights and servants immediately swarmed around them in a protective circle. Arthur had felt...small. Not afraid, never afraid, Father said that princes, least of all Arthur, were allowed to show fear. So he didn't. Instead, he clutched his dulled practice sword and stood beside Morgana as the sea of red cloaks had built like a wall around surrounding them.

Morgana's eyes were wide, but she hadn't cried. Morgana didn't cry. It was one of her few saving traits.

Blows began to land, crossbows fire, sword clang. Morgana sticks as close to his side as she can without making it seem like she's afraid, but Arthur knows she is. The gods alone wish how much he wants to allow himself to be, too.

"They're everywhere," one man breathes, shoving someone back.

"We're surrounded!"

"Someone take the Prince and the King's ward, make a break for the trees!" Sir Ector demands, breaking free of the circle to push someone back. "We'll hold them off!"

These aren't mercenaries, Arthur realizes, but sorcerers.

The camp is beginning to burn, the tent he and his not-sister were sharing burning brightly as a beacon to the sky. Everything is burning and burning like the pyres and the sorcerer's screaming. The trees are beginning to go aflame as well, and a bolt hits Sir Ector. Blood spurts and Morgana screams. Arthur covers her eyes, grabbing her arm and yanking her close to his side. He can't move. His feet are frozen in place. He wants to be brave, but the bravest thing he can manage is continuing to breathe. He raises his sword, but the people are running around and fighting, seeming to have forgotten about them.

A red-cloaked man grabs his arm suddenly, yanking him towards the woods. "Wait—" Arthur manages to grab hold of his voice. He doesn't want to leave the battle. Retreating is for cowards. But Morgana is shaking and pale, and she isn't meant for this. Arthur has to be. But his not-sister isn't.

"Come my prince," the red-cloaked man demands. Arthur can't see his face from this angle, and his voice nearly lost the flames and the shouting from the Knights, servants, and sorcerers. Arthur looks again at his pale-faced not-sister and allows himself—and by extension, Morgana—to be dragged into the woods. When they're far enough away from the camp that the smoke isn't choking him any longer, the man turns to face them.

Morgana is crying now, clinging to his hand and has refused to leave under his arm. Arthur is heaving, blood on him that isn't his own, nor obtained by any wounds he caused. Too many arrows. Too many dead men. They're both a little cut up, but nothing serious.

But despite all of that, both of them inhale sharply.

This is not a man they know. It is not a Knight.

Arthur raises his sword quickly in defense, but the man laughs. His face is hard, eyes dark and hair cropped short. He's dressed in far too much leather, but draws a long, gleaming knife. "Is your little stubby metal stick going to save you, Prince Arthur? Like my wife and children's pleas for mercy saved them from the pyre?"

Arthur feels his stomach drop, the awful sights and smells of the executions burned behind his eyelids.

He pulls Morgana closer. She's trembling so hard he thinks she might topple them both over.

"Leave us alone," Arthur demands, his voice steady. It sounds braver than he feels. He lifts the weapon higher, chin jutted in defiance. The man sneers and smacks the weapon from Arthur's grip with a strong swing of his dagger. It goes sailing from his grip uselessly, embedding itself on the ground nearby.

Morgana curls into him further, releasing something close to a whimper.

The sorcerer snickers, "Tut, tut. The King's ward and his son. A child for a child. A fair enough trade. Arthur Pendragon, you will pay for the sins of your wretched father."

"How dare you! My father is a good man!" Arthur shouts, defiant. "You're evil! Go to hell, you filthy monster!"

The sorcerer growls and lurches forward, grabbing Arthur's arm. Arthur yelps and struggles, shoving Morgana behind him as the sorcerer drags him forward. His panic begins to blossom fuller, and he struggles and fights, but the man snaps his arm in a fit and Arthur screams.

Never before has he wished so desperately for his father to be there. For his father to wield his sword and slay this man where he stands and keep them all safe. To protect Morgana when Arthur can't. But it's not his place to choose, and Father has always said that only cowards wish for heroes. And maybe Arthur is a coward, because that's all he wants.

The sorcerer presses his dagger against Arthur's neck and starts to slide, the red staining the metal and Arthur can't breathe. The word slows as he watches himself murdered, but Morgana releases a scream. Something hoarse, broken and guttural. The world seems to almost bend for a moment as something whooshes past his face and the man is just—gone. Blasted backwards as if pushed forcefully by a mighty hand. Arthur lands in the dirt with a gasp, twisting around to try and find the source and sees his not-sister's golden eyes turn to a green.

She's trembling and gasping and Arthur's mind blanks. There's only one explanation for his sudden rescue. For him to still be here, bleeding and broken, but alive.

Morgana just used magic.

Morgana is evil.

Morgana—

Morgana—

"Arthur!" Morgana shouts and races towards him, still crying, with snot all over her face and tears running down her pale cheeks. "Arthur, are you alright!?" She lands next to him on her knees and reaches for him, but he flinches back from her.

"Don't touch me, witch!" he shouts, panicked. How could Morgana know magic!? How could she have...her father was loyal to his. She couldn't...she couldn't...Morgana fights with him. He knows her. She's his sister. She's...Arthur didn't want a sister, but a sorceress for a sister is worse. Especially when it's Morgana. Morgana who isn't supposed to be this. Morgana who—

Morgana who is crying and shaking and shaking her head. "Arthur, I don't understand!" she exclaims. "I don't understand what happened, please, it wasn't my fault. I don't understand. I didn't choose that. Please don't be mad. Please don't let your father kill me! I don't understand!"

She...how can she...how...how…?

"Please don't leave me for the pyre. Please, Arthur! I don't want to die! I didn't choose magic. I didn't choose this. I just wanted to save you. I didn't want you to die either. Please, Arthur…" she's crying harder now, nothing like the stubborn brat that walked into his father's courtyard eight months ago. This is a broken little girl who lost her father and is alone. Arthur was alone before Morgana. And Morgana isn't evil. Morgana didn't choose that, even if it doesn't quite make sense. He knows that the aptitude for magic doesn't really show until late childhood, but...

Sorcerers are demons walking the earth, his father said.

Sorcerers are the damned souls even hell would not take, his father said.

Sorcerers cannot be trusted, his father said.

Sorcerers are liars. Consorts of the devil himself. To associate with one is on penalty of death. Sorcerers choose this path for themselves. They are the agents of pure evil, Arthur, you can never trust a sorcerer with your life, or anyone else's. If given a choice, they will kill you. They will always kill you.

So why didn't Morgana?

Morgana, who is his not-sister, and crying, and broken, and that is wrong. Arthur swallows apprehension, his confusion, the words his father has drilled into him, the smell of the pyres and the screams of the Purge. He sits up and wraps his unbroken arm around his sister. Morgana sobs and sobs and sobs, burying herself into him.

"I'm going to die," she wails, "I'm going to die!"

"No, no, I won't let that happen." Arthur says firmly, surprised when he means the words with every fiber of his being. When, he wonders, did his second loyalty shift from his father to this girl? His first and foremost will always be to Camelot, but the people he chooses...the one's he will guard...when did Morgana become his first priority? When did this girl who is not his sister become his family?

"No," he shakes his head again and pulls back, just as confused and frightened as Morgana. He holds her face with his broken hands. "No, Morgana, we'll figure this out. You didn't mean it."

How can someone not mean magic?

His father always said—

"It just came out," Morgana cries. "It just came out of me. Like a voice, or a breath. I didn't—" her lip trembles and he wipes away her tears.

"We'll figure this out, I swear on my mother's name," he says firmly. Morgana's eyes go wide and she nods, lip still trembling, tears still streaming down her face.

"You—you aren't going to tell your father?" Morgana whispers.

Arthur stutters. Stops. He breathes out. Every instinct within him is screaming that he has to tell his father. That magic is bad and Morgana is therefore of the devil, but this is Morgana. Common sense derails that he has known his father since he was born. That his father has cared for him as best he's able, and Morgana has been here for a scarce few months. That Morgana could be faking, and Arthur would be playing into her hands.

But Morgana is afraid. She is crying. She is as afraid as Arthur is. His sister is a sorcerer, and she did not choose to be. What now, Arthur's confused heart demands. What does this mean? If all sorcerers do not choose this path, and his father executes them for simply having magic...what...what then? Has he...has he…

No.

Best to think of this later. Now he...now he needs to focus on Morgana. He releases a shaky breath and shakes his head. "No, Morgana. This will be our secret. Our burden. We will deal with it ourselves, but I will not see you taken to the pyre."

Morgana begins to cry again, and buries herself into his arms. And if Arthur's tears stream down into her hair as he holds his baby sister and weeps in his confusion and for his aching heart, well, no one's there to see it but Morgana.

000o000

When they've both settled somewhat, Morgana tears off strips of her cloak to make Arthur a sling, Arthur gathers his sword, and they walk away from the unconscious, magic-thrown man. The memory unsettles him, but he takes the man's dagger and hands it to Morgana. The two of them trek into the forest, as far from the angry sorcerers as they can get. When they're out of danger, Arthur will have them double back to Camelot, but he has to admit he doesn't know the way as much as he'd like. He grew up in these woods, but it seems so different without an adult to supervise.

It's days before Arthur's father finds them. They've set up a little camp next to the river. Arthur has hunted, Morgana prepared the food. Morgana has attempted to use her magic again, but finds it useless. Though she says that she can feel it—and Arthur hates that he is so curious, but his father will teach him nothing of the craft save the devilry of it—like a warmth in her chest. They've traded watch, and slowly tried to make their way home.

But they are young and directionless, and Arthur vows to never be lost like this again when they return to the palace. They bicker, but it's gentle, like a river flowing over stones instead of a waterfall crashing into sharpened rocks.

Arthur does not know it is his father at first, and shoves Morgana behind him as she holds up her dagger—and Arthur also quietly promises himself that he will teach her the art of a sword when they are back, so Morgana will be better protected—and that is how Arthur's father finds them. Standing next to a stream, a small fire, and guarding each other with their lives.

It is not Arthur's father that finds them, but the King of Camelot. Arthur is beginning to learn the difference. His father is a piece of Uther that Arthur yearns to see more of. That he would bend over backwards and walk blindfolded across burning coals for. But it is a man that is scarcely revealed. Uther shouts at them for being stupid, for wandering away from the camp and the Knights and that they've been missing for four days and how he's given them a heart attack and the wolves and if there had been something that taken them, Camelot would have no heir and—

His ranting is a relief and familiar, because it distracts from the fact that he and Morgana should not have gotten away at all. Helpless children. One of which is a witch, and the other whose entire world has just fallen apart.

Morgana is not evil.

So not all sorcerers can be, too.

After four days of thinking, Arthur has come to the conclusion that magic must be a bit like a sword. The sword isn't evil, it's just a sword. It can do good and bad, but that doesn't mean that swords are of the devil. They can be used for good. They can protect and defend and provide for. But they can also kill and main and hurt. But that doesn't mean that a sword is bad. Arthur has never looked at a sword and thought that it was evil.

He wonders why his father thinks that about magic. Why he would ever think that about someone as sweet and caring as Morgana. And as his father rants about the mercenaries that were never mercenaries, furious, Arthur realizes with a dull ache that he can never tell his father what they have discovered. Not until his father changes his views on magic. Not until Morgana will be safe.

He squeezes Morgana's hand when he sees in her eyes that she has come to the same conclusion.

In the end, his father did get what he wanted. He and Morgana are closer than ever now. But it's a quiet trust. They are silent the entire way home, but the moment that they step onto the castle courtyard to see Gaius's awaiting figure, Morgana quickly latches onto how the entire thing was his fault. Arthur, not nearly the idiot he pretends to be sometimes so the court ladies will leave him alone, catches on swiftly. He derails her harshly, and the bickering continues.

Because that is what was normal.

And his father mustn't discover that anything has changed. Gaius asks them how they escaped so many sorcerers, and the two of them share a look. Gaius used to practice magic, but Arthur is still afraid. His mind has latched onto the simple thread of protect, protect, protect, and he launches into a fabrication that makes Morgana look like a cowering girl and him a hero. She protests, of course she does, but that is normal.

Arthur is almost thirteen, and Morgana eleven when they learn how to lie.

000o000

Things change after that. Not openly, but privately. Arthur replaces Morgana's beheaded dolls and is rewarded with a rare, real smile that makes her look like the young girl she's supposed to be. She picks him flowers, which he claims are disgusting and too girlish for him, but he displays them on his bedside table and scowls at his manservant when he chortles because of them.

Morgana braids his hair, and he learns to braid hers. She says that he's got the most sloppy hands of anyone she's ever known, but the rebuke is met with his laughter, and she has to deal with the knots.

When he asks, at least once a week, often more, about the magic, she always drops. Curls in on herself and promises she hasn't told—even though he never said she couldn't—and says its still there. She admits that the warmth doesn't respond to her normal words—warmth, she says, how can anything evil be warm?—but her tongue catches in her throat with unfamiliar sounds sometimes, as if she's meant to be speaking a different language.

The language of the sorcerers. Arthur's heard it spoken. It sounds harsh and grating, like a knife being dragged over a shield. Like betrayal and fear. But it's...weird. Because how could she have thrown that man across a clearing with nothing shouted but his name, but is incapable of doing so little as lighting a candle?

Arthur knows nothing about sorcery, and Morgana even less.

"I think I need spells, if I'm going to use it," she admits once, when they're on her bed, on their backs and looking up at her ceiling when both are meant to be in their chambers, asleep. "I can't get it to answer me."

Arthur tries not to shudder at the thought of her using it.

"Should you?" he wonders, "What if you get caught?"

"Please, Arthur," and there it is again, the voice that makes her sound twenty, not eleven. "I'd never get caught." He wants to think that, but he's not foolish. There's always the possibility. Every day there's the possibility that Arthur will no longer have a sister at the end of it. Morgana hasn't even been here a year, just close to nine months. "Besides, even if I did, you'd talk me free."

"I couldn't talk my father down from anything," Arthur mutters miserably.

Morgana sighs heavily, but she agrees. "You will one day." She promises, and clasps their hands together. It's a familiar gesture since their near-murder. Arthur finds he likes it. No one ever touches him unless they mean to hurt. He can count on one hand the amount of embraces he's received from his father. His father may grab his shoulder, but it's always a little too tight, like if Arthur disagrees he'll break something.

But Morgana's touch doesn't bother him. Even if she is a girl. And she makes him feel like a girl, too.

"But Arthur," her voice is quieter. He hums in question. "I don't know if I can not use magic. It hurts. And it's getting worse." He props up on one elbow to look at her confused. He doesn't understand, and admits as much. Even if admitting that he doesn't know is a foolish and un-kingly or un-princely thing to do. "It's like...like a wound. Like when you cut your hand and Gaius puts that weird slime on it and then makes you drink those foul things? But the cut only hurts, and I think that using it is the slime."

Arthur's brow furrows. "You have to use magic, or it will hurt you? Gaius hasn't had any problems and he hasn't used it in years."

"But we don't know that," Morgana argues, still in that tone that makes her older than she is, "he could be using it to make potions. Arthur, I don't think that I can ignore this. Maybe it's just...just when it awakens or something. That I have to use it to flex it. Like a muscle or something. But maybe that's why all the sorcerers are mad. Because your father doesn't understand that they can't live without using it, and he banned it without ever asking."

Arthur frowns, but he doesn't have anything to say. If magic is a sword, and his father didn't even ask what would happen if he melted the sword…

"We need to learn more about magic," Arthur concludes, even if the words feel awful in his mouth. It's one thing to withhold a known sorceress from his father, it's a whole new level of treason to actively seek out magic.

"From who?" Morgana laments. "The Druids?"

"Maybe." Arthur rubs at his face. He's getting a headache. "If Gaius is still practicing because he can't stop, then he's got to have magic books somewhere. We can, erm, borrow them."

Now it's Morgana's turn to sit up. "You want to steal from the court physician's chambers? And magical items at that?"

Arthur rubs at his face harder. "We'll just wait until some plague or another breaks out in the lower town. Then we can sneak into his quarters and rifle through a few things. Until then, I guess we could always go to the library." Morgana snorts and he shoots her an offended look. "What?"

"I can't imagine you reading," she says flatly. "No, Arthur dearest, let me do the studying. You stick to your swords and maps. You need to fill that empty space in your head with something."

Arthur pulls on her hair, but Morgana only laughs.

000o000

Morgana finds scarce little in the library, but Arthur suspects that all the books are either in a hidden section, or simply don't exist there anymore. His father ordered anything related to sorcery to be burned. Including the group that nearly assassinated them. That was two days ago. Arthur had felt sick watching the men and women burn together.

Morgana had buried her head in his shoulder, but his father wouldn't let them not attend. Arthur tried to protest against it, Morgana is getting sick. They both know the cause, even if they don't want to admit it. Magic. Without using it for nearly three months since she "awoke" as they've called it for lack of a better word, she's starting to get ill.

But his father didn't care, said that they should watch justice spread out before them. Watch what sorcery would lead to. Learn the "lesson."

Arthur learns something important that day, that answers all his childish questions on why the sorcerer's never ran away or tried to escape. Iron binds sorcery. The weakness of the fae, it's said in legend, and all the sorcerer's chains are made with iron. All the shackles, burned up with them. Morgana vomited when it was over. Arthur nearly did, too. Instead of the twenty people standing there, he kept seeing Morgana.

Protect, protect, protect, his insides screech.

000o000

When the inevitable plague—sweating sickness—breaks out in the lower town, he and Morgana take their chances. Sneaking into Gaius's chambers is a bit like ransacking through someone's life, but they have to do it for Morgana's sake. She's shivering and pale and generally sickly. Gaius fears that if her condition worsens, she won't last the week. His father had demanded Gaius stay within range of her, but they could no longer ignore the people's need and Gaius had been forced to leave.

Saying they sneak in is a bit of an overstatement. Arthur half helps half carries his sister to a bench and seats her there, dumping books before her as they go as quickly through Gaius's library as possible. Arthur would be amazed if he just had it out in the open like this, but no one touches Gaius's things on fear of death by boredom. Also, Gaius is so very picky about it. Threatens talking to the king.

Maybe this is why.

Hours after their search has begun and Morgana has slunk into the blanket she brought with her, looking like death and probably feeling the part, Arthur decides that it wouldn't just be sitting on a shelf. He turns his gaze to the stairs. Arthur searches the storage area in the back, stuffed with boxes and equipment, but large enough to be a closet. Large enough to hide a magic book.

Or books.

Arthur finds a crate stuffed in the far back with a cloth covering it, but not nearly as dusty as everything else. Suspicious, Arthur pulls off the cloth and tears off the top to see the inside is filled with books. He opens a few and flips through them, seeing creatures he's never even heard of—griffins, hydra, lamia—and a few others have language that he can't read. He recognizes it, though, as if a part of his soul has been longing to touch and hold these.

There's a power in them. A power that frightens him, but not more than Morgana's dying does. He gathers up as many books as he can carry and hobbles down the steps towards his sister, dumping them on the table next to her. Morgana flinches, blinking her eyes open and staring at him through half lids.

"Look," he says and lifts up a book. It's brown with two latches and a strange design he doesn't recognize on the front. Old, but well cared for. "I found some. Morgana, it has magic in it."

A year ago, he would have taken this to his father and Gaius may have been executed. Harboring things of magic is against the law. Gaius knows that. But Morgana is more important than some dumb rules. A sword is a sword.

Morgana takes the book from him with trembling hands, but he has to undo the latches because her shaking fingers won't hold steady enough for her to do it herself. Arthur bites down hard on his lip as she rifles through the pages, her brow squinted.

Eventually, she stops at a page and opens her mouth, lifting a trembling hand towards a candle. "For—" Morgana's mouth fumbles around the unfamiliar word. "Forbarnaaan." She slurs. She shakes her head, looking at the candle. "Forbarnan." Still nothing. Arthur waits with baited breath. "Forbearnan."

He tries not to flinch back as he feels the rush of power surge from her mouth to her hand.

Evil, his father's voice whispers.

Protect, his own counters.

The candle alights. Morgana's eyes glow a pale gold for a moment, and then it recedes and she breathes out sharply. Her face gains some color and her hands stop trembling. She rubs at her chest like it aches and looks at Arthur. There's something like fear in her gaze. Arthur does his best to bury his terror, his fear, everything screaming that this is wrong and magic is wrong so Morgana is wrong. He gives a weak smile.

"Do you feel better?"

Morgana gives a hesitant nod. She turns to another candle and whispers the unfamiliar word again. It alights. Arthur looks down at the book and then up at her. "How...how did you know how to say it?"

Morgana looks up, with tears in her eyes. "Arthur…" she whispers his name, "I can read this. Read it like it was a part of me. Like I've always known how to read it. Or speak it. And I shouldn't...because I never learned. It feels...it feels almost like home."

Arthur frowns. That doesn't make sense. He's learning multiple languages, he knows how difficult it is to translate. The languages never feel quite as normal as his mother tongue. But if the language needed to be spoken in order for Morgana's magic to work...maybe the language and magic are connected in a way. One cannot survive without the other.

Morgana looks far less like a corpse than she did when they arrived. She's sitting up now. And smiling. Arthur feels a tightness in his chest release as the worry ebbs away. But it's swallowed by a whole new one. Morgana has to use magic, at least for now, or she might die. They can't get away with Morgana just having magic and them not saying anything about it. Morgana has to be taught. And they can't contact the Druids. They're going to have to get her an education a different way.

Arthur looks at the book, and bites on his lip when he realizes that they're going to have to transcribe the whole thing if they don't want Gaius to learn. Resigned, Arthur groans and gets up to his feet to find some paper and ink.

It takes them the better part of a year, but eventually, Morgana has the entire book, and they begin to work on gathering others from Gaius. Morgana doesn't do anything heavy with magic, just levitate a few things, spawn a few flowers, fix her dresses. Girlish things. But it's weird knowing that a sorceress walks among them, eats dinner with him at least once a week, and...well...Arthur doesn't mind.

And his father still has no clue.

000o000

Morgana tells him about her dreams. Well, tell makes it seem calmer than it was. After a bad one, she slips into his chambers and cries herself to sleep in his bed as she explains about what's going to happen, and Arthur realizes to his horror that the event occurs exactly as she said it would, and the training Knight returns home that week missing six fingers. She says that she told Gaius about them, when she first arrived, but his sleeping remedies haven't helped.

Morgana can see the future. She has magic, and she can see the future.

Can their lives get any more complicated?

000o000

He should not have challenged the fates like that. They laugh at his ignorance, shameless. Arthur is fifteen and Morgana thirteen when Arthur stands up to his father for the first time regarding magic. There's a Druid camp not far from the borders and his father wants him to lead the skirmish—slaughter—against them, driving them from their lands.

"No," Arthur says, slamming his cup down on the table. "No. The Druids are a peaceful people, Father. What harm have they done us?"

His father looks at him as though he's growing a foot from his ear. "The Druids practice magic, surely someone has explained that to you by now. Those who practice magic are cursed and deserve whatever foul punishment we can reign down upon them."

Arthur's gaze flicks to Morgana's by habit. She's clenching her fork tightly and looking very much like she'd like to stab it into his father's hand, just to see what would happen. He shoots her a warning glance.

"But Father," Arthur tries again, "there are women and children there."

"All the better!" His father snaps, and both he and his sister flinch. "If we can stop them from reproducing their wretched spawn now, then the less we have to worry about in the future!"

Arthur stares at him. How can his father think that. Women. Children. People to be guarded and protected. Arthur is good at protecting. That's what he does. He's done it for three years now, and will until his father...his father changes. Which Arthur realizes with a sinking heart, is never going to happen.

"I'm not going to attack the Druid camp, they haven't even provoked us!" Arthur protests. "All they've done is grow their crops and raise their families, what reason do we have to ruin their lives?"

His father strikes him. It's hardly the first time and will not be the last, but Arthur's eyes still sting and his heart leap with a sadness he can't express in his chest. His cheek burns and his nose bleeds. His father is scowling at him, face a type of rage that Arthur has rarely seen. Morgana has gone still on the other side of the table. This, Arthur knows, is the first time that his father has struck him in front of his sister.

"You will lead the attack on the camp or you will face fifteen lashes tomorrow." His father snarls.

Arthur feels his eyes go wide. His mouth runs dry and he clenches his fists. Five lashes can cripple a man. Fifteen? Does his father intend to kill him? The word magic is brought up and he stops listening, Arthur remembers himself muttering to Morgana. He stops caring. He stops being Father and turns into the King.

"My lord," Morgana says, aghast, "Arthur wouldn't survive that!"

"Then you better hope he changes his mind." His father growls and storms from the room. Arthur blinks back rapidly, his eyes stinging. The servants linger, but obviously have no idea what to do with themselves. Morgana gets up from the table and crosses around it, next to him, pulling a handkerchief from seemingly nowhere and lifting it to his face. To wipe the blood from his nose. He shakes his head and brushes her hand away.

"Arthur," Morgana warns.

"Don't." He snaps.

"Arthur," she says more firmly. He gets to his feet, shoving the chair back and standing over her.

"No, Morgana."

Arthur leaves the room. He panics and is restless all night, chews his nails nearly to bone, paces a hole through the floor and can see no way out of the situation. Arthur can only hope and pray that the Druids have left, or they were never there to begin with.

He leads the attack, even if he didn't want to. Morgana has a nightmare about it, and begs him not to go, but Arthur can't. It's this or a whip, and Arthur doesn't want to be a crippled king. His heart cries, wondering when his father's love stopped protecting him. Arthur miserably concludes that it never was in the first place.

Arthur cannot do anything but stand as his Knights—his people—slaughter the camp. Children, women, fathers, families. They fight with magic, with swords, but the camp is burned to the ground. Any survivors are drowned by order of the head Knight, because Arthur does nothing but stand there, sick to his stomach and the blood on his sword of self defense. He killed these people, because they tried to harm him. But he was the one who didn't stop it in the first place.

Arthur returns home and Morgana finds him sobbing. She says nothing, only holds him as he allows himself to fall apart. To have the emotions that his father so despises and be the broken youth that he's not allowed to touch.

"I won't let this happen again," Arthur keeps repeating, swearing it over and over, "we can't let him keep killing them. They were innocent. Sister, I killed...I…" Morgana shushes him, and he clings her arms.

"I know," she says softly, running a hand through his hair. Morgana, who is only thirteen, but well beyond her years. His very soul is aching, as if he has wronged it somehow. As if there is a part of him that died today, right along with the Druids.

Arthur shakes and trembles, but eventually settles on his resolve. His father is wrong. Arthur isn't going to follow around like a mindless puppet, waiting for something to clip his strings. If he wants a place where Morgana is safe, where he can protect her, he is going to have to build the stupid thing himself, from ground up. Because he will not rule as his father does. Nor will he father. He will not have a reign or a fatherhood that his people or his children must recover from. That will not be Arthur.

"The prisons," Arthur manges to get out. "If they have done nothing wrong, I will break them out."

Morgana quiets, but she's still the only thing holding him up. "And I will help you."

And maybe this was how it was meant to be. Brother and sister, against the world. Because Arthur cannot imagine anyone else that he would dare care for. And anyone else that would dare care for him. Arthur has scarce allies. He's allowed much fewer friends.

000o000

Guinevere arrives at the palace, and quickly works her way through the ranks to become Morgana's personal maid. At fifteen, she's older than Morgana by two years, but age hardly matters in the position. Arthur thinks that Guinevere is the most beautiful person he's ever met, but he bites his tongue and doesn't say anything to her, even if Morgana laughs at him when he tells her.

He shoves her good-naturedly, but she only gives him that knowing smirk.

Guinevere—Gwen, as she likes to be called, but protocol dictates that Arthur isn't allowed nicknames—and Morgana grow close quickly, but not close enough for Morgana to explain anything about the magic. It's weird, though, after so many years of having Morgana come to him for nightmares, Guinevere slips into that place for him. He misses it, almost, but tries not to be resentful at Guinevere for stealing his sister and only friend. Not terribly, of course, because Morgana has trust issues to revile his own, but still. Morgana gains a sister, and Arthur gains a desired suitor, but one he's never allowed to have.

Not until Uther is off the throne.

Things grow...strained between his father and himself. It's not enough that the public worries, but Arthur finds that he can spend less and less time in the man's presence without wanting to tear out all his hair. He loves his father, he always will, he thinks, but that doesn't mean he approves of what he's doing or who he became.

But there is still that little boy inside Arthur that will forever plead to be loved, and Arthur never knows how to quiet him. That boy that wants nothing more than his father's affections, even if he does not deserve them.

Years pass and things do not get better. Arthur loses track of the amount of people he and Morgana smuggle from the dungeons. They only leave those who have truly committed a crime, and were not just thrown in for association of magic or growing crops or some other stupid little thing. The dungeons grow notorious for a phantom who releases the wrongly accused. Uther claims sorcery, but he says that about pretty much everything that doesn't please him.

He and Morgana only amuse themselves by spreading rumors about the phantom, and watching them take off. Guinevere eventually learns of what they're doing, and only shakes her head wearily, but joins in on the escapades. No one knows the castle better than Arthur or Morgana, but having a third member to their party that isn't nobility does help.

Morgana's magic only grows, enough that she can start to incant only in her head for simple spells, and oddly...it doesn't frighten Arthur. Years of watching her use magic has numbed him to it, almost, and a part of him seems relieved to see it. As if he was always meant to accept magic, and magic is as much a part of him as it is Morgana.

Sometimes Morgana can still seem like the powerful, relentless sorceress that his father screamed in warning over, but then she'll turn and look at him with a cheeky grin and there will be his sister, by his side as always. And there they will be, fighting for their people, the phantom of the dungeons, a thorn in Uther's side in council meetings.

Their duty is first to Camelot. The Camelot that everyone can call home.

000o000

Arthur is twenty and Morgana eighteen when Arthur meets Merlin. Well, attempts to take off Merlin's head with a mace would be a better phrasing, but the cheeky idiot had it coming. Morgana is less than impressed when he tells her about the incident, but he just mumbles about girls not understanding anything and she swats at him with a spell.

But the weird thing about Merlin is that…

Merlin seems familiar. As if they've met in a different lifetime, or have simply known each other since birth. "There's something about you, Merlin," he'd said, and he'd meant it. Why did Merlin feel like a familiar face? Why did something in Arthur's chest release with relief upon seeing him, as if it had been waiting for confirmation on Merlin's well being for years?

Then Merlin saves his life from Mary Collins and Uther appoints him Arthur's personal manservant. As Arthur privately curses his father to high heaven, his sister stares at Merlin as if he was some sort of murderer. It puts him on edge, and after the room is cleaned and the nobles reassured, Arthur learns that Merlin is Gaius's ward.

Which…

Great.

If he and Morgana need to sneak into the quarters again, now they have two people to look out for. But Morgana's stare won't leave his mind, so Arthur manages to pull her to the side after the dinner and asks what it is.

Morgana bites at her lip. "He's...Arthur, he's like me."

Arthur blinks. "Magic?" The thought of the skinny, dark-haired youth who couldn't be more than seventeen winters having magic and coming to Camelot willingly confuses him. Sorcerers are meant to be...frightening. Morgana can be frightening. Merlin couldn't scare a skittish rabbit.

She nods, but still seems flustered and shakes her head. "No. He's something...more. His very presence made me want to cower or kneel before him. I don't understand it, but he's...stifling. And invigorating."

"And a sorcerer?" Arthur concludes, tipping his head down slightly.

Morgana nods hesitantly.

Arthur sighs and rubs at his forehead, annoyed. Years of practice don't have him running to his father and shouting about treason, but he, Morgana and by extension Guinevere will need to keep and eye on Gaius's ward to make certain that nothing is amiss.

"He feels familiar." Morgana admits, still clearly confused, "Warm. Like my magic."

"He feels familiar to me, too," Arthur sighs, "but...but more like...I don't know." How does he say that he saw Merlin and a part of him just...clicked. Like they were two sides of some sort of coin that finally realized the other side was there? How does he say that without sounding insane or like a girl? But Morgana seems to understand, because she rests a hand on his shoulder.

"We'll watch him." She promises, "I'll ask Gwen to keep an eye on him in the servant's wing. She's already met him. In the stocks."

Arthur nods, and then his lip quirks, because this isn't a story he's heard. "The stocks?"

000o000

Arthur makes it a total of seven months before Merlin does magic in front of him. He'll admit that he'd grown fond of the idiot, like a brother he never had. Merlin is mouthy, incompetent, clumsy, and the most loyal person Arthur had ever met. Merlin would walk barefoot through fire for him, and Arthur hasn't the faintest why he would do the same for Merlin. Even though they haven't known each other for a year, it feels as though they've always known each other. Like when Merlin moves, Arthur shifts to adjust for it. A synchronization that Arthur has never experienced with anyone before. Merlin is a part of him. Always has been.

His name is as familiar to Arthur's lips as his own.

And it's...weird. He tries to explain it to Morgana, but she's only as puzzled as he is. How can this boy, hardly sixteen winters, and Arthur be so interconnected?

Merlin never tells him about the sorcery, and Arthur doesn't blame him. He thinks he sees fragments of it sometimes, in the way that Merlin moves or glints in the corner of his eye. Raids they should have survived, fires that shouldn't have lit, but there's nothing to prove that the youth is a sorcerer.

Arthur does make a point to voice is disagreements of Uther's treatment of Merlin and Morgana's people when he's in front of his servant though, just to make a point. That when Merlin was ready to tell him, he'd be a safe place for the secret to go. But Merlin also has more trust issues than Arthur has ever seen in a person before—thought possible before—skittish with a weight that lingers in his eyes.

He knows that Gaius knows about Merlin, even if nothing has been said, but Gaius doesn't...Gaius seems more intent on keeping Merlin physically safe than thinking of the mental implications of what he's doing. Just because Gaius has adapted to live one way does not mean that it is healthy for Merlin. How is Merlin going to learn to connect with anyone when the only thing Gaius is encouraging him to do is lie? Merlin will be irrevocably damaged if this continues for much long.

Morgana would have gone insane if she had had to keep her gifts to herself. (Arthur doesn't like to go down that path, because the thought of losing his little family, Guinevere, Morgana, and Merlin, makes him ache in a way he can't describe.)

Remarkably, even though it took Guinevere the better part of six months, Merlin takes about two weeks as his manservant before he learns about his, Morgana and Guinevere's phantom, and is more than happy to join. "Can't miss all the fun, can I?" Merlin had questioned and jabbed at Arthur's chest, "Who'd make sure that that armor doesn't get a scratch?"

"How very thoughtful of you," Arthur had snorted. "Perhaps I should give you a raise."

"'Course," Merlin had agreed, smiling in a way that reached his eyes; it didn't always, "maybe even a day off."

"Don't push it."

But eventually there is just no way for Merlin to hide the fact that he just stopped more than two dozen crossbow bolts in mid-air and Arthur is just grateful that he'd decided to break off the main hunting group so it's only the two of them.

Merlin throws the twenty or so men away from them with a single wave of his hands and a flash of golden eyes without a spell uttered and Arthur had stared for a moment, because Morgana still can't use magic without any sort of incantation whether verbally or mentally, but Merlin had seemed to do this on instinct. Morgana had said that Merlin's very presence had made her want to bow in respect, and Arthur thinks he's beginning to understand why.

Merlin then turns to Arthur, resigned. His fists are clenched by his sides, his lips pressed taut. He looks like he might start weeping, but is trying to hold himself together because he has to. He's visibly trembling, and pale like he's seen a ghost.

Here, Arthur thinks with some relief, is Merlin. Not the facade he sometimes puts up, but the boy of sixteen winters, afraid and alone, unable to trust anything or anyone. His manservant, who would do anything for someone to give him direction, to tell him what to do or how to act, and tries so desperately to mold himself into something he will never be.

It's...raw. A flayed wound drawn open.

And Arthur has the strangest desire to smile. Instead, he claps Merlin on the back—to which the sorcerer flinches—and asks, "Well, Merlin. Do you think you got them?"

Merlin's head snaps back up. Blue eyes meet his own, wide and confused. "I—I don't…" Merlin stutters, "what...what…? You're not...did you see?"

"Merlin," Arthur sighs, rolling his eyes and trying to play this down to something closer to their normal behavior to make Merlin more comfortable. What he really wants to do is grip Merlin's shoulders until Merlin is looking at his face and tell him very seriously, be the sword, Merlin. Be the sword and be the sword that is wielded by a man who is good. But instead, he says, "I already knew."

Merlin gapes. "When? What? How?"

It's not his to tell, and that part of him still screams protect, protect, protect, but now it does not speak for only Morgana, but Gwen and Merlin as well, and Arthur only shrugs. "Since Mary Collins. Merlin, honestly, relax. I'm hardly going to have you executed for saving my life for the hundredth time. At least now I can give you a proper thank you."

"A proper…" Merlin looks lost. Like the rug has been torn from under his feet or his perceptions of the world have just changed completely.

Arthur gives him a thin, tired smile. "I think we should talk."

000o000

There's the Questing Beast fiasco, followed by what is probably the longest reprimanding that Morgana has ever given him in his life, and the fact that she sleeps next to him that night, terrified that his survival was all a dream, and Merlin tells him about Nimueh. And Gaius. And his mother.

It was part of their deal. Merlin had to tell him what he did, and Arthur would do his best to help. Merlin has relaxed somewhat—very minimally, but given the lack of trust Merlin gives anyone, Arthur considers anything an improvement—since the forest, and he seems inexplicably lighter.

Morgana tells Merlin about her magic. Arthur isn't quite certain when it happened, he only bursts into his sister's chambers to see them going over Gaius's magic book together and discussing something very seriously with fire in their palms and Arthur stops for a moment, confused, before he slams the door.

"You're practicing magic!?" he whisper shouts.

Gwen, from across the room—she knows now, too?—presses a finger to her lips and jerks her neck pointedly towards the door.

"Yes, brother," Morgana rolls her eyes and rests a hand on Merlin's shoulder. Merlin is all tense, looking very much like a spooked cat or a man caught doing something horribly wrong. Still not used to the idea of Arthur knowing, or anyone not being furious with him for being born as he was. "We discuss it often."

Arthur sputters for a moment, not remembering quite why he entered before he releases an agitated breath, frustrated, and snaps his hand to the door. "At least lock it, next time, will you? What if I had been a servant, or a gourd, or Uther?"

Morgana's smile freezes. Merlin looks like he might be sick, his face so white it's almost gray. Merlin is afraid of his father, Arthur realizes. Morgana is afraid of his father. And it makes him sick, because Arthur is too. He has always been afraid of his father, but realizing that all of them could be killed by a few words from Uther simply for being born the way they were and knowing what they know makes that beast within him rise again.

Protect, protect, protect.

"Yes," Morgana recovers herself, "I suppose we should be more careful."

"Understatement of the century," Arthur mutters, scowling as he storms across the room and takes a seat on Morgana's bed, moodily, and watches Gwen work and Merlin and Morgana whisper words of the Old Religion, but with obvious hesitance to their movements. Merlin is jerky and clumsy, setting the table afire which Morgana puts out without a problem.

Gwen takes a seat next to him when she's finished and stares at the two. "It's beautiful, isn't it?" she questions softly. "Magic?"

"It is," Arthur agrees, watching his brother and his sister work, eyes flashing and laughter bubbling up between the two of them. "A bit like swordcraft."

Gwen smiles knowingly, resting her hand on his. His heart flutters within his chest as he stares at her, and he wishes desperately that things could be different and he could court her. But things will be different, when Arthur is king. When Arthur is king, Merlin and Morgana will be free.

000o000

It's a little over a year later when Morgause arrives, clad in armor and face stone cold. Morgana comes to him with a bracelet in her hands and a confused expression on her face.

"She claimed that we were sisters," she says, "that she was also the daughter of Goloris."

Arthur stares at the jewelry, his brow furrowed. "There...was a babe, I think," he works his brain, trying to remember details. But Merlin has always been the details of his memory. "Perhaps she isn't as dead as everyone thinks."

Morgana spins the jewelry again, then sets it down on the table. "She gave me this. Said it would help with my nightmares. She wanted me to remember her fondly, but something about her didn't seem right." Morgana bites on her lower lip, "She seemed...tainted."

Arthur frowns, the sudden desire to cast the bracelet into the fire arouses in him because protect, protect, protect. "Thank you for bringing this to my attention. She's gone now. She can't do anything."

"Still," Morgana is frowning as well before picking up the jewelry. "I'm going to ask Merlin to look at it, he's good at sensing these things, and then have Gwen tell her father to destroy it. There's something about her I don't trust."

A part of Arthur curls with relief and the mention of the destruction.

He nods, "That's probably for the best."

Morgana smiles faintly, resting a hand on his shoulder. "I believe she invoked our family ties as a means to arouse some sort of lost sentiment in me. I don't think she realized that all the family I need is right here."

000o000

When it happens—because it was always going to happen, no matter how much they tried to prevent it—when Uther finds out because Morgause attacked with an immortal army, and Arthur wasn't going to face that with a frickin' metal stick, thank you, magic is far more effective, Morgana is barricaded to her rooms and Merlin sentenced to die by fire as soon as the pyre is completed.

Arthur fumes.

His new Knights, Percival, Lancelot, Gwaine, and Elyan are just as furious as him, but they don't understand. Not completely. They don't understand that Morgana aroused him, and Merlin was that missing part of him. The part that was always meant to be found.

And Merlin is going to die.

Uther is making him choose between family, and Arthur already made his choice a decade ago, holding a sobbing Morgana and promising her she'd be fine.

He storms into the throne room without warning, his Knights behind him, and stares at his father, seated on his bitter throne. "I will not allow you to do this." Arthur says firmly. "You cannot kill Merlin." Morgana's fate is still unknown, but Arthur isn't going to wait when Merlin will be dead before the sun rises.

Arthur notices that Gaius is already there. Likely pleading the same case.

Uther's eyes narrow. "He was caught using magic, Arthur. He committed treason against the crown and against you. I have every right to see that boy burn. You may very well be under his enchantment if you believe for one second that my son would ever save a monster—"

"I am the phantom." Arthur interrupts. His father stops, confused. Arthur rests a hand on his sword, "The phantom of the prison that's been helping the sorcerers escape."

His father is on his feet, face alight with rage, but Arthur is done. "I have known about Morgana since I was twelve, and protected Merlin for the better part of three years. If you think that i'm going to let you kill my best friend than you are sorely mistaken."

Uther's mouth is working, but no sound is coming.

Arthur sighs, resigned, "Father, I have wanted to believe that you would see past your hatred and be the king that Camelot needed, but you cannot see past your own prejudices long enough to protect the people that are in the most need of safegaurding." He lifts out his hand, hopeful despite himself, "Please, it's not too late to change. We can do this together. We'll make Camelot safe again, for everyone. For people like Morgana."

His father slowly lifts his gaze to Arthur. He almost seems to think about what was said. Then he says, low and careful, "Sorcery took my wife, I will not let it take my son as well." He draws his sword and leaps at Arthur with the intent to kill. Arthur draws his weapon up to defend, his heart aching with every blow.

Uther is trying to kill him.

He hates magic so much he is not willing to save his child.

Arthur is not trying to hurt his father, and this puts him at a disadvantage. One that Uther exploits. Soon Arthur is on the ground, his sword too far away to be of any use and Uther standing over him, sword raised above his head and ready to bring it down like an executioner's axe. He never makes it. A sword pierces his chest and Arthur gasps as Uther falls back and there stands Gaius, his face ashen and ashamed.

Arthur breathes out heavily as his father gasps on the ground, bleeding, and stares at the physician. Gaius is crying, "I could not let him take you," he whispers, "I'm sorry, Arthur."

Arthur crawls towards his father and grasps his hand, tilting Uther's head up towards him. "Father," Arthur says softly. "Father, I didn't want this, I'm sorry. I wanted you to live, so we could fix this together. I'm sorry."

"You…" Uther's voice is cold. "You...have...destroyed everything I did. My legacy...my legacy is ruined. Dis...disapoint..."

Arthur flinches, but if he was expecting words of comfort, he's been disappointed since birth. Instead, he only breathes out, discouraged, and lays his father down to rest. The words still hurt, but in a way, it's freeing. Because Arthur never intended to live in Uther's legacy. The weight of it would crush him, and he has to protect, protect, protect.

000o000

Arthur frees a shaking Merlin and a furious Morgana. He alerts the council to his father's death, saying that Gaius acted in defense and madness had gripped Uther's mind. They plan for his coronation, and Arthur attends his father's funeral with Morgana and Merlin.

Arthur doesn't know if he will miss him.

Uther may have been his father, but he was always his king first.

And Arthur just wanted a father.

000o000

Arthur slowly untangles the mess his father made of the kingdom. He repels the laws on magic, freeing his sister, Merlin, Gaius, the Druids and so many more. He marries Gwen and does his best to make the kingdom the safe haven he always wanted it to be. The place his people deserve. It isn't easy, and Arthur stumbles through his reign like a drunk man, but it is worth it.

In a rare moment of freetime, Arthur, his Knights of the Table, wife, sister, and Merlin are all gathered in the woods a little past the citadel, beside a river and doing nothing but soak in hours of sun and listen to nature.

Arthur is leaning against a tree, Gwen asleep on his shoulder, overlooking the rest of the encampment. Gwaine and Elyan are having a knife throwing contest, Percival is sleeping, Lancelot is sharpening his sword and laughing with Leon and Morgana and Merlin, splashing around in the river like children. Well, Merlin is barely twenty-one now, barely a man, but that's beside the point. And they're using magic, of course, because just kicking water at each other isn't enough.

But they're carefree and safe, and the protective beast in his chest is silent for now. Arthur is content, even happy, watching his Knights and his siblings, with his wife sleeping soundly next to him. Morgana laughs loudly and looks up at him, and for a moment, their eyes meet. There's life there. Gratitude, and a deep understanding that they have shared through these long years.

He may not have wanted a sister, but he needed her.

Just as Morgana needed him.