Since it's pointed out a few times in the novelisation, and in fanwork, that Merlin has three mothers, when I came to try and write a story for May's challenge it got me to thinking that Arthur has a similar set up, but with fathers.

I don't think it's ever actually specified where Hector lives in the film, and I don't have the novels immediately to hand, so I've just made it up.

Merlin walked quietly beside Sir Rupert, ears attuned to the sounds of the forest around him. Every snap of a twig, every rustling of leaves had him on edge. Finally, with a sigh, he halted his horse and sank down to the floor, crossing his legs and closing his eyes. Years of not using magic at all, and then more years of only using it out of necessity had taken their toll on his instincts. It took him a few moments to concentrate his senses, but as he moved his hands in a wide arc, he was pleased to find that the spell worked just as he remembered it.

Mab and Frik would be so proud, he thought to himself dryly. As he had hoped, the spell revealed no other humans in the nearby forest besides himself. A bird took off from a nearby tree, setting the leaves to rustling. A squirrel darted across the forest floor, accidentally snapping a twig as it went. Satisfied, he pulled himself to his feet and set off through the trees once more with a spring in his step.

"Did that finally set your mind at ease, Master Merlin?" Sir Rupert sounded almost teasing, "Or will we be stopping for a sixth time before we get there?"

Merlin raised his eyebrow, "I do apologise for the inconvenience, Sir Rupert. I thought you might be glad of the rest. Besides, we can't be too careful. Uther might still have his men on the lookout."

"I would be more glad of a rest with some hay and a blanket," the horse replied balefully, "How many times will we have to make this journey before you admit that Uther's spies aren't coming? If there is a threat to Arthur, it's not one you can prevent this way."

Merlin sighed. Sir Rupert had a point. Rumours from the king's court spoke of an increasingly insular and paranoid king, of the first signs of madness. The likelihood of Uther finding his son faded with every passing year, and it seemed that the likelihood of him even still looking was becoming more remote. The only person who knew of Arthur's location and his relationship to Uther was Merlin himself, and he had avoided the king steadfastly since removing Excalibur from his keeping. Of course, Mab probably knew too, he had no doubt that she was keeping tabs on his movement, or at least having Frik do it for her. Merlin knew he wasn't powerful enough to shield Arthur from her gaze, but he knew there would be no benefit to her from bringing Arthur's location to Uther's attention – he simply had to trust that a loathed Christian king on the throne with no acknowledged heirs was a more enticing prospect to her than spiting her estranged son.

He shook the thoughts of threats from his head and smiled to himself upon hearing the playful shouts of children echoing around the fields below, before reaching the crest of the hill and finally being able to look across to the small but well fortified castle, where Arthur lived and played under the guardianship of his foster father, Sir Hector, and where Merlin served in the capacity as tutor to both Arthur, and Hector's son Kay.

Hector did not know Arthur's true parentage – of course, he knew that the boy was more than simply a foundling that Merlin had taken pity on, perhaps he thought the small child to be the son of one of Uther's enemies, the number of which seemed to be growing daily. Technically Merlin supposed that was true – from the few whispers that he had picked up, Igraine had harboured no love for the king, less so after he killed her husband and left her reputation in tatters. Had she lived more than a day or two past Arthur's birth she may have grown to love the boy, but he would have been raised hating his father.

You don't care that he would have hated Uther. A little voice in his mind that always sounded like some mixture of Mab and Ambrosia reminded him sharply. You hate Uther. You care that he would have hated you.

That much was true. Merlin had tried to maintain a certain distance from Arthur in his early years, knowing that Uther would have his spies out searching for any sign of his son. Hence bringing him to Hector, a minor lord of a wild land who rarely came to court since Uther's victory had been assured and his sword was no longer needed. But as it became increasingly apparent that Uther's search for his bastard son was bearing no fruit, Merlin had started spending weeks and then months at a time here in Rheged, and in watching Arthur grow he had grown to love the boy as if he was his own. The idea of Arthur being raised by his own mother, raised to hate Merlin, cut him deeply, and in some unworthy part of him he thought that perhaps Igraine's death had been for the best, for she might not have given up her own search for her son quite so easily.

And as for his father, well...

Perhaps the best thing for Arthur was for his father to be as Elissa had been to Merlin – unknown, an idea more than a person. He could build up fond ideas in his head whilst safely away from the reality. Of course, Arthur would have to learn the truth of his parentage at some point. When he was a grown man, old enough to accept the idea of his future kingship and accept the kind of man his father was. Or better yet, once Uther was dead and gone. Merlin couldn't see any good coming of Arthur and Uther meeting together as father and son. It would likely go one of two ways, either Arthur would choose to idolise his father, as so many children do, and end up corrupted by the mess that was the current king of Britain, or the knowledge of his father's true nature would crush him. Neither was a desirable outcome.

It wasn't such a very bad thing to be raised without knowing your parents, Merlin thought to himself. After all, he had been raised by Ambrosia and she had been no relative of his by blood or magic. And yet, she had given him her love, and a happy childhood. Hector was different from Ambrosia in many ways – his quiet devotion to the New Religion compared to her firm insistence that religion, be it old or new, was far more trouble than it was worth, his castle and lands compared to a small hut in the forest, his wife and son and household compared to the animals and hermits of the forest. And yet, Hector shared one important quality with Ambrosia- an open heart, a willingness to care for those in need. Merlin had brought Arthur here to keep him safe, but it was a relief to know that Hector and his wife made him happy, too.

And what does that make you, Merlin? That inner voice spoke up again, as Merlin turned a fond gaze onto the curly haired boy in the courtyard chasing after his older foster brother with a child's cheery determination.

You love the boy too, as if he were your own child. So if Uther is Elissa in this scenario, and Hector is Ambrosia, then who does that leave you with?

The thought was jarring. Merlin shook his head, trying to rid his head of the thought. There might be some similarities with his childhood and Arthur's, he told himself. But that alone did not make him similar to Mab. The situation here was completely different...

You, who used your magic to ensure Arthur's conception.

You who let others die to serve your purpose.

You who would teach Arthur, who would raise him as your champion, to fulfil all of your hopes and dreams.

Who does that make you?

Merlin had to stop walking for a moment, so shaken was he by the thought. He had avoided – perhaps deliberately avoided – thinking too deeply about his actions, about any consequences beyond the birth of Arthur.

It was for the greater good. He had believed it at the time of Arthur's conception, he believed it still with all the confidence of prophecy and natural, unshakeable stubbornness. He had done this for Britain, not for himself.

And yet, he wondered to himself, is that what Mab had thought all those years ago? That his birth would save the country, save the Old Ways, and that everything else was unimportant by comparison? He hadn't agreed with her on Ambrosia's deathbed. Did he agree with her on Gorlois's deathbed, on Igraine's?

It was at that moment that a loud call from nearby broke Merlin out of his dark introspection. Arthur had spotted him, and come bounding up to greet his tutor, a grin on his face heedless of everything from the grass stains on his clothes to the wizard's inner turmoil. It was, Merlin reflected, quite hard to stay miserable in the face of such cheeriness. He smiled at the boy in return and ruffled his hair before following him back to Hector's castle.

He had done wrong, he conceded to himself. Perhaps he was more similar to Mab than he would ever like to admit. Perhaps his justifications to himself were as hollow as hers had been. But he allowed himself one plea – to himself, to fate, to whichever god was paying attention – that if he was to Arthur as Mab was to him, even if it was his destiny to repeat every other mistake that his mother had made, that he never caused Arthur the hurt that Mab had caused him.