A/N: Four parts to this story, each containing Arthur, Merlin pov…

Chapter 1: The Problem

"It was me! It was me who used magic to cure Gwen's father."

Time seemed to slow as Arthur stared – the whole council stared – at the servant who dared push through the double set of doors to make such an audacious, suicidal declaration.

Shock. In Arthur's case, horror.

Because he believed Merlin, believed that awful conviction and glacial clarity in those blue eyes. It was nothing more or less than the truth. And because, he already knew Merlin and Gwen both were innocent of causing the plague.

It hadn't made sense to Arthur, the assumption that a person who used magic to cure someone of the horrific disease, would be the one causing or sustaining it. No one inside Camelot would risk their friends and relatives by setting loose a contagion that struck so quickly and so randomly. Not Gwen, and not Merlin.

But. Merlin lived with Gaius, and had been assisting in the old physician's investigation of the plague. He had a friendship with Morgana's maidservant, and even without the clear and terrible truth in the boy's blue eyes in that moment of stunned silence, Arthur could very well believe that Merlin would go looking for a cure, even by magic, for her father.

"It was me," Merlin repeated, as though they hadn't heard him the first time; he spread his arms in a gesture of strangely defiant surrender. "Gwen is not the sorcerer. I am."

Gaius lurched up from his chair. "Merlin! Are you mad?" he hissed.

"I cannot let her die for me," Merlin said to the old man, and met the king's gaze, down the long table, with more courage than Arthur had seen in many a knight of the realm. "I place myself at your mercy."

Arthur felt sick to his stomach, and ransacked his brain for some way out of this – didn't Merlin realize by now, there was no mercy for magic-users, no matter what the actual use?

Gaius rounded on the king, stern but desperate. "He doesn't know what he's saying."

"I do," Merlin protested.

"Then arrest him," Arthur's father said calmly. Probably just as taken aback as the rest, but he at least knew the natural consequence of confessed sorcery.

"Father, please!" Arthur blurted, as the two door-guards stepped forward to take either of Merlin's arms in a surprisingly desultory manner. "This is madness!" His feet took him closer to his servant almost involuntarily; what to do? what to say? He didn't want Merlin executed any more than he wanted Gwen to die, and neither conclusion would save the rest of their citizens, in any case. "There's no way that Merlin is a sorcerer."

"Did you not hear him?" Uther said, slightly patronizing.

"Yes," Arthur had to admit.

"He admitted it."

"He saved my life, remember," Arthur said. Surely that merited… something.

"Why should he fabricate such a story?" the king said, and Arthur recognized his opportunity. He wasn't sure whether his father yet believed Merlin, as Arthur did, or was simply dispassionately following the dictates of his own law, but the question was a natural opening for an excuse.

"As Gaius said, he's got a… grave… mental disease," Arthur said. Are you mad? This is madness!

"Really," the king drawled.

Perhaps madness was not enough to prove Merlin's innocence, or prevent the punishment of execution. Think faster, think faster… All he came up with was to tease and mock, to belittle the boy and make the whole thing a joke. Somehow.

"He's…" Inspiration struck, and Arthur concluded triumphantly, "in love."

"What?" Merlin said.

Shut up, idiot, and let me save your life. "With Gwen," Arthur added, with a smirk and flourish.

"I am not," Merlin protested.

Arthur could have rolled his eyes, but the rest of the council – and more importantly the king – seemed willing to believe. And it probably wasn't too far from the truth, anyway; Merlin obviously cared enough for the girl to make this confession.

"Yes, you are," he told the boy – and another memory teased. "I saw you with that flower she'd given you." That'll settle it, he thought, satisfied, as he cast another glance around the table; Gaius was relieved enough to seat himself again.

And Merlin seemed to realize that they didn't believe him, any longer. "But – I'm not in love with her."

Arthur covered his sigh of relief; the protests only served to strengthen the truth of Arthur's excuse, to their audience. "It's all right, you can admit it," he drawled, draping his arm over Merlin's narrow shoulders.

"I don't think of her like that!" Merlin said to him, embarrassed.

"Perhaps she cast a spell on you," the king remarked. Arthur froze for an uncertain second, wondering if Uther was serious about the suggestion; then his father laughed – the whole council laughed – and he relaxed again.

"Merlin is a wonder," Arthur said, "but the wonder is that he's such an idiot." He palmed the back of his servant's head and gave it a little shake. Maybe some sense would rattle loose. Through clenched teeth he concluded, as a warning to the boy, "There's no way he's a sorcerer."

"Don't waste my time," the king said, with a dismissive wave of his hand. "Let him go."

The guards released their hold and stepped back. Merlin gave him a look that was almost disappointed, glanced back at a king and council preparing to forget the interruption and resume business, and turned on his heel. As Arthur returned to his seat at the top of the table, Gaius stood and bowed to Uther as a request and excuse for his departure as well.

A temporary solution, Arthur knew, as the meeting droned on. An emergency, as the whole situation was an emergency, but without any definite leads to act on, they could only fall back upon measures taken to contain and minimize damage.

Merlin had used magic. Healing magic, evidently, and successful. Arthur wasn't quite sure what that meant, how it would change things. How it might change them.

As a knight, he'd fulfilled the requirements of honor by saving Merlin's life in return; he owed him nothing further. Did he?

His second inclination was to keep Merlin away from him – and the order to assist Gaius in physician's duties served perfectly. Until Arthur had time and opportunity to decide what should be done, next. Having saved Merlin from the king's wrath and judgment, he wasn't about to negate the effort by reporting the truth, but neither could he pretend – at least not for long – that he was fooled by his own excuse.

As he crossed the courtyard heading for the entrance to the underground cisterns supplying the city's water, Morgana just behind him – Arthur's third and instinctive reaction was to draw his sword for protection against the sorcerer fidgeting and biting a thumbnail as he waited and watched the guards erect a pyre for Gwen.

Witchcraft was evil. If there was the slightest possibility that Merlin was dangerous, he would have to be dealt with.

And then Merlin turned his back to Arthur without hesitation, without a second thought. If Merlin was willing to lead him – to trust him – to fight a monster that threatened the health of all of his people… the contemplation of what punishment fit his crime, would have to wait.

Because injustice was evil, too.

There's a possibility… (there's a possibility…)

All that I had… was all I'm gonna get…

Bright and early, Merlin grumbled internally as he made his way to the prince's bedchamber. After that nightmare battle in the cistern-tunnels, couldn't they all take a few extra hours in bed that morning?
And what kind of order was that, anyway? A contradiction in terms. Early couldn't be bright – not when it applied to Arthur Pendragon, anyway. Not that bright applied to him, either.

Merlin huffed to himself, his mind on the scene in the council chamber the day before – the fear of confession that was somehow exhilarating, too, to stand before the king and admit to the power he'd hidden. And then at Arthur's ridiculous floundering for an excuse, they had all laughed at him. Even Gaius had called him stupid, after – though he could see the old man's reasoning over solutions, quick and easy, or complicated but lasting.

He skidded around the last corner, noting the absence of any guard stationed near the prince's door, careful not to tip the breakfast tray. It might serve to sweeten the prince's temper, or distract Arthur from whatever he had planned that he wouldn't tell Merlin about. Hunting, maybe, or a double training session, something to work out the worry-danger-relief of the plague-magic-afanc of the last few days.

Pushing his way through the prince's door, he closed it behind him and kept his eyes on the tray as he slid it carefully onto the table – cluttered as that surface was, he simply shoved dishes and food and articles of clothing indiscriminately into a bigger pile in the middle, before turning toward the bedchamber.

He'd barely glimpsed that the great bed was already empty, through the archway, when an unseen assailant snatched him from behind, flinging him several feet back, to slam him bodily into the closed door. Hard enough for black flecks to obscure his vision.

Shock and magic sparked through his veins but he held. No matter what Gaius thought, he was learning control – to think first and judge a situation instead of just reacting.

Though immediately - physically, instinctively… briefly - he fought the enemy weight. His own hands fisted in his attacker's clothing – too close to hit, he settled for trying to shove - he bit a yelp and his tongue, as his neckerchief was yanked sideways hard enough to constrict his airways.

The cold sharp edge of a blade kissed his neck, just under his jaw, forcing his head even higher, warning him to surrender. But he couldn't.

He couldn't see the prince. Couldn't call out. Couldn't use the magic, just in case –

"Don't fight me, Merlin." Arthur's voice in his ear, hissing command and warning.

He froze; part of him relaxed – it was only Arthur, no one else there intent on murder, and the prince wouldn't hurt him, after all – while part of him tensed with uncertainty. Because the knife was sharp, and kept his muscles from slacking, or him turning his head to see Arthur. Whose tone was serious – even maybe dangerously serious.

"Don't fight me," the prince repeated, "and I won't hurt you."

If he nodded he might slit his own throat on the blade, now warming a bit from proximity to his skin. If he opened his mouth to speak, he might cut himself at least. He still couldn't see more than an upper corner of the room – a cobweb he'd missed –

"Mm hm."

A moment more, before Arthur's weight eased away from him. Merlin started to turn his head, but the material at his throat tightened – the knife blade retreated, only to slam back into the wood of the door. Just brushing his earlobe.

Arthur stepped back – further out of sight – but the pressure around his neck remained. Merlin dared lift his hands to explore, tentatively careful of the sharp edge, and found that Arthur had pinned him to the door with a knife through the folds of his neckerchief.

His fingers found the hilt and tugged in experiment, but it was secure. Arthur was very strong.

Merlin wriggled around where he could see more of the room and still breathe, pushing himself up on his toes, the wood of the door rough against his back, snagging the material of his jacket. The prince stood five or six paces away, into the dawn sunlight of the open window, arms crossed over his chest as he seemed to gaze outward.

"What the hell, Arthur," Merlin complained hoarsely, trying to still the thundering of his heart in his chest.

"Stand still," Arthur responded evenly, not turning. "Don't fight, and I won't hurt you." He shifted, and something glinted just under his elbow; he had a second knife in his hand.

Merlin thought incongruously of their first meeting, Arthur throwing knives at a moving target, still in Morris' hands. He had since discovered that the prince's marksmanship was exquisite; Morris had been more humiliated than frightened. Even in their own mismatched brawl through the market, he knew now that Arthur would not seriously have harmed him, he was too good with those weapons for that.

That was Arthur, Merlin had learned in his first two months in Camelot – not cruel, just persistently, arrogantly dominant.

"What's going on?" he said. Maybe the prince could force his body still – but not his mouth. And he habitually relieved nerves in speech, not action. "What are you doing?"

"So," Arthur said deliberately, not answering him. He turned to pierce Merlin with his gaze, over his shoulder, raking him down, then up – then inexplicably turned his back again. "You're a sorcerer."

Merlin swallowed against the twisted material of his neckerchief, hand still ineffectively on the hilt of the knife just next to the hinge of his jaw. His body hadn't quite obeyed the order to stillness til now, and his mouth was dry.

He choked out, "What?"

Arthur moved his hands to his hips; sunlight flashed on the second blade between his fingers. He seemed to be engrossed once again with the view outside the window. "Come now, Merlin, surely you haven't forgotten so soon," he drawled. "Just yesterday you confessed to my father and the council."

"But… but you said…" He stuttered to a stop, and his mind couldn't seem to get started again. He thinks he's so sharp, he'd mocked the prince to Gaius. The blade now nestled next to his artery was almost ironic.

"I said what I had to, to get you out of the room."

Merlin suddenly realized that Arthur was positioned to see every move he made, in the polished surface of the breastplate on display in the corner. He hadn't really turned his back on a man he accused of magic; it was a test, giving a confessed sorcerer a clear opportunity, to see what he would do with it. That steadied him a bit, to realize the prince was prepared to be both intelligent and fair. He waited, watching the reflection of Arthur's face to let him know he'd caught on, and after a moment the prince turned with a sardonic half-smile.

"You think because I made the excuse for you, I didn't realize it was just that – an excuse?" He sauntered forward, with the fluid gait Merlin had seen him employ on the training field just before he lunged to attack an unsuspecting opponent, tapping the flat of the blade he carried against the other palm. "You are a sorcerer, then, or not?" Merlin considered, and Arthur pointed at him with the knife. "Don't lie to me, Merlin."

"Okay!" he said defensively. "No – not… really."

Arthur cocked his head. "Explain."

"Um. Because I haven't really studied or practiced the art of magic, I'm not a sorcerer, exactly."

"But you have magic," Arthur clarified narrowly. "You've used magic. In Camelot." And even though he looked angry and anyone finding out about his magic for real, was really really bad, Merlin was encouraged. The prince was questioning, not condemning.

"Yes," Merlin said.

"How long?"

"That I've used magic?" Merlin shifted. He had to stand with his heels off the floor to breathe, which stretched the muscles up the back of his legs. But the knife wasn't budging, and Arthur was listening. "Since I can remember. My mother said I used to move things around before I could walk."

Arthur scoffed. "I warned you not to lie to –"

"I'm not!" Merlin objected.

Arthur watched him a moment more, his expression one of faintly fascinated disgust. Then he gave his head a single involuntary shake, turned slightly to take a few steps, pivoted to return and repeat the process. "So you used magic to heal the blacksmith," Arthur said. "But you're not the sorcerer that put that creature in our water supply."

"What?" Merlin exclaimed, and felt the sting of the blade on his jawline reminding him to keep still. "Of course not!"

"You did something to help me defeat it, too," Arthur said, relentlessly compelling confession. "The sword was useless, but you did something to the torch."

"It was because the afanc was made of earth and water," Merlin tried to explain. "And the other two elements, fire and air –"

"What about the final match of the tournament a fortnight ago?" Arthur interrupted, unfaltering scrutiny in his ice-blue eyes. "The knight with the shield whose snake sigil came to life to attack. Took him by surprise as much as me."

"Well, I told you. And I thought – if it happened in front of the king and everyone, you'd have to believe–"

"How did you know what to do?" Arthur demanded, taking Merlin's half-protest, half-explanation as confession. Which it was; it felt a strange relief that the prince's knife was a breath away from ending his life, but it was honesty rather than blood that came pouring out. "You just told me, you don't study or practice."

"Well, I mean…" Merlin squirmed, feeling his face heat slightly. "I did have to find those spells – and the healing one – but otherwise…"

"You found them where," Arthur said.

"Um." Merlin pushed himself a little higher, tugged at the neckerchief tight around his throat to give himself a moment's thinking time. "I came across this old book – and oh, I should say, I did have to try the one to reveal the enchantment on the shield almost all night –"

Arthur wasn't diverted. "A book of spells? Where?"

Merlin pressed his lips together. This, the king's son couldn't make him tell.

Arthur watched him closely, then – why had he ever thought the prince thick – made the connection himself. "Gaius' chamber is full of old books," he remarked. "Any more like the one you found?"

Merlin said desperately, "No – I don't know – please, it was only me, he hasn't done anything –"

Arthur shook his head, looking down as he began pacing again, more slowly. "My father trusts our physician," he assured Merlin quietly. "I won't ask you to implicate Gaius."

"What are you going to do?" Merlin said, calming a bit as well to hear that his guardian was safe.

"What else?" Arthur said, almost absently. "What other magic have you done, here? Any more spells from the book?"

"No."

"What, then?" Merlin hesitated, and Arthur shot him a look something like an amused glare. "Come on, Merlin, might as well be hung for stealing the horse as the saddle."

Merlin swallowed, and felt the skin of his neck brush that sharp edge of the knife again. "Am I going to be hung?"

"Absolutely not," Arthur declared immediately. "As long as you tell the whole truth."

Merlin said, "I used magic to do some of the chores you set me so I could look at that book instead, and I used magic to get you out of the way of that knife and to loosen the chain of the suspended light fixture in the banquet hall so it would fall on the witch that was trying to kill you and to stop you hurting me when we fought in the marketplace and to save Gaius from falling and the water from spilling and that's it, I swear."

Arthur's expression was studiously neutral; Merlin couldn't tell if the prince felt shock or disbelief or amusement or rage. No, probably not rage.

Then he remembered – his stomach rolled uneasily – that sorcerers weren't hung, anyway. They were burned.

"All that, without reference to the one book of magic you've ever seen," the prince said.

"Yes I told you I've been able to move things all my life," Merlin said, feeling a bit desperate again. Achy muscles, and a shortage of unpanicky air.

"Show me, then," Arthur said. Still, without emotion that was recognizable to Merlin; he wished he knew the prince a bit better, to guess what he was thinking, in that moment.

Without moving his head – his throat still in danger from Arthur's knife – he searched the room with his eyes to see what, what… Something to throw at the prince, that would help relieve his feelings and Arthur would see how it felt to have something chucked at his head –

The goblet off the sideboard lifted and flew through the air. Not hard or fast enough to knock Arthur out, but to give him a jolt of surprise before he caught it.

Reflexively ducking even as his hand closed about the goblet's stem to halt its flight, Arthur twisted to stare toward the sideboard which had supported the odd projectile hitherto inert – and a ceremonial dagger, Merlin now realized, that had been half-behind the goblet. The prince straightened, to give Merlin such an inscrutable look that he shifted anxiously in an attempt to ease his muscles.

Then Arthur stalked toward him, setting the goblet on the single bare spot on the tabletop with a vehement clang, and passing the knife he still held to his right hand.

Every nerve in Merlin's body cringed instinctively; he couldn't turn his head but he screwed his eyes shut and gritted his teeth in anticipation of the second knife rammed into the door through his clothing – maybe this time through part of him.

Arthur stopped barely a foot from him, so close Merlin could hear him inhale, twice; he was holding his breath, himself. Then ripples of motion spread through the blade touching his neck as Arthur put his hand on it, and with a rough yank, Merlin was freed.

He opened his eyes to watch Arthur retreat, handling the blades familiarly, but absently. He didn't quite dare, yet, to move away from the door where he'd been told to stand still, but he sagged in relief, and to hide the trembling in his legs. The prince, without saying a word, began to pace again. Merlin took a deep steadying breath, and when he reached to untie his neckerchief it was with fingers that were – almost – steady.

There were holes. Three, actually, sliced right through the fabric, where a repair stitch would be obvious and the rip would continue to tear open.

"You've ruined it," he blurted, a bit angry over Arthur's arrogant carelessness. And maybe to deal with the uncomfortable shakiness that came after a moment of danger. Arthur swung about to look at him in surprise, and he held up the cloth to demonstrate the damage. "You've ruined it," he said again, and heard the tremor in his voice. Fear or temper, he wasn't sure, but he knew Arthur had heard it too.

He watched the prince lean backward against the window casement, half-turned from him, but the tension had gone from the set of his shoulders. Arthur drawled sarcastically, "If it matters that much to you, I'll have it replaced."

Merlin held his gaze and stepped forward, folding his neckerchief entirely by feel. Was it his imagination, or illogical hope that whispered to him, the prince's words assumed a future for him that included the option of a new neckerchief?

"Do you mean…" he said tentatively. "Ah… what are you going to do about me? You're not going to tell your father?"

"My father would have you burned at the stake before noon," Arthur said, and Merlin shivered at how nonchalantly the prince could make that statement. When it was of life or death importance to him.

"You're going to banish me?" he ventured. He could just go home – Ealdor was outside Camelot's border – at least for the time being, until he and his mother figured something else out.

"No," Arthur said decisively. "I can't just release you, a known magic-user. Any crime you committed, any wrong or harm, would be on my head, then."

Well, if Arthur wasn't going to kill him or free him… "What, then?"

The prince set his jaw and narrowed his eyes, thinking. "I don't know," he admitted. "I don't think the things you've done deserve execution. But the law is the law and I can't change that. Sorcery is outlawed, on pain of death." He straightened, facing Merlin fully. "Could you take a solemn oath never to use magic again, for any reason?"

"No." Merlin spoke without thinking, but the answer would have been the same no matter what. Maybe it would have been smarter to agree and later find a way out of it, but… Arthur was trying to deal with him fairly, the least he could do was the same. The prince frowned at him, and he scrambled to try to explain. "Sometimes I do it without thinking, to catch something that's falling or… or… and what if someone was in danger, like you were, or Gaius, I couldn't not do something."

"But if you get caught, you get executed," Arthur reminded him.

"I'm willing to take that risk," Merlin said, a little pleadingly.

"I'm not. I can't let you." Arthur was unapologetic. "It is my duty to uphold the laws of Camelot – I can't release you, I can't allow you to continue."

Merlin didn't want to say aloud that he didn't see another option.
"If I send you to Gaius, will you swear to stay in his chambers today, unguarded?" Arthur said.

Merlin thought. He could say yes, and then take his chance to run – but where and to what? And what would the prince think of him – of all magic-users, then? And what of the destiny the dragon had spoken of? The purpose of his magic that meant he wasn't a monster, and without which he might as well be dead?

"Of course, if you ran," the prince added casually, "I would have to set the hounds on your trail…"

Merlin snorted. Well, Arthur could have killed him already, and he hadn't; there was every possibility he'd live through whatever punishment Arthur came up with. He let Merlin have his chance to explain, so…

"Yes," Merlin said. "I'll stay."

He would let his prince have the chance to decide.

There's a possibility… (there's a possibility…)

All I'm gonna get… is gonna be yours then

All I'm gonna get… is gonna be yours still

"Possibility" ~ Lykke Li