Merlin 1. Chapter 1

**Category: **Gen (canon)**  
Characters/Pairings: **Gaius, Uther**  
Rating/Warnings: **M; descriptions of violence; genocide**  
Summary: **An account of the Great Purge.**  
Notes: **Title from _Night of the Crickets_ by mr. Gnome. Takes several of my other stories as canon, but they do not need to be read in order to understand this one. **  
Other notes: **An absolutely enormous thank-you to CaptainOzone for being the best beta on the planet. If any mistakes remain then they are entirely my own. Also, thank you to all the writing channel regulars over on the Heart of Camelot for putting up with my angsting and for being so immensely encouraging. And above all, this story is dedicated to my dear friend Heather, for being the best friend I've made in years. Thank you for everything, darling, and I love you to pieces.

* * *

**Chapter 1**

_O villain, villain, smiling, damnéd villain!_  
_My tables—meet it is I set it down_  
_That one may smile, and smile, and be a villain_  
-Hamlet, Act I, scene 5, 106-108

Nimueh vanished overnight.

There were whispers of necromancy, of screams from inside the throne room during the king's vigil, and it was said that guards were seen dragging Nimueh from within; but Gaius couldn't accept these rumors, because Nimueh would never dabble in such a dark art, and Uther would never be so desperate as to ask her. And while that rumor was quickly stamped out it could not be denied that Uther was angry and that Nimueh was inexplicably gone, and somewhere along the line the gossip that she had been banished for murdering the queen in her birthing bed turned into fact until there was no one left in Camelot who believed otherwise.

Except Gaius.

He had been there when the bargain had been struck, and Ygraine's name had never been mentioned. He had never asked who was supposed to die in the little prince's stead, but when he closed his eyes at night he could see Nimueh in Ygraine's chamber, weeping as though her heart would break, clutching the queen's hand and repeating, "It wasn't supposed to be her, it wasn't supposed to be her," so he found it hard to doubt her word. And yet she was gone, and there was no other explanation, so Gaius said nothing as the court gossiped and lied and said they knew it all along.

- -o- -

When the summons arrived a week later, Gaius feared that he too was about to be banished, because it had been he who had gone to the Isle of the Blessed to meet with Nimueh in the first place. But when he arrived in Uther's chambers he found him standing by the window, staring out into the courtyard, and he felt a wave of relief wash over him. "Did something happen during training, sire?" he asked, daring to hope, because while he could help with any physical damage, he could do nothing to fix a broken heart. But the king said nothing, and Gaius resigned himself to consoling his proud friend as best he could.

"Do you trust magic, Gaius?" Uther asked after a long silence, still not turning round.

"Sire?"

"Magic, Gaius," Uther repeated forcefully to the window. "Do you trust it?"

Gaius shifted uncomfortably. "I — I don't understand," he said. And he did not. Magic... _was_. It was everywhere, in everything; in the air, the water, the trees. Asking if he trusted magic was like asking if he trusted his heart to beat and his lungs to draw breath — unthinkingly, and without a doubt. But for some reason he felt that the king, in his current mood, would not accept this answer. "Yes. Yes, I do," he said at length, as finally Uther turned to stare him down with that same dangerous look that had been present since Nimueh's disappearance.

"I fear your trust has been misplaced, then," Uther said, almost pityingly. "As was mine."

"Sire?" Gaius said again, taken aback.

"I trusted magic," Uther continued, turning back to the window. "I trusted magic, and it took everything from me."

It broke Gaius' heart to hear the waver in his friend's voice, but he couldn't waver himself, so he said as gently as he could, "Not everything, sire. You have your son. You have Arthur, and—"

"At what price?" Uther gritted out, shoulders hunched. "Ygraine is gone, and she can never come back, no matter what I—"

He cut himself off and drew in a shuddering breath, and in a flash of horror Gaius wondered if perhaps those rumors of necromancy had been quashed so quickly for a reason; but the thought was too horrible to contemplate, so he forced down the bile that rose in his throat and opted for comfort instead. "There's nothing that anyone could have done," he said soothingly, taking a step forward. "We did everything we could — every herb, every spell — Nimueh nearly killed herself try—"

"Do not speak the name of that witch in front of me," Uther spat, whirling around with sudden fire in his eyes, and his vehemence shocked Gaius into silence. "She took her from me. She gave me hope and she took it away, and now Ygraine is gone. She _killed her_, Gaius."

"Nimueh did not mean for Ygraine's life to be taken," Gaius said softly. "There was a price to be paid, but it was never meant to be Ygraine." Uther scoffed, a sad, strangled puff of disbelief, but he had deflated a little so Gaius pressed on, finally seeing a way to clear his friend's name, at least with the king. "Sire, I don't think Nimueh even had a choice in the matter. I know very little about the intricacies of life-magic, but from what I've read, the priestess who bargains for a life rarely has a say in who it is that will pay the price unless that person specifically volunteers. Magic has a way of determining these things — it's all about balance, and keeping things on the preordained path. Sometimes no matter who the priestess specifies, magic will take the life of a certain person instead."

"So it was magic itself that killed Ygraine," Uther mused, sounding perversely satisfied. "Yes... yes, that makes much more sense..."

And Gaius remembered then what Uther had been saying at the beginning about distrusting magic, and felt a rush of panic. "Sire, what — it's not—" he stammered, and tried to explain; everything he had said was true, at least as far as he understood it, except Uther was interpreting it all wrong. "It's not malicious or — or targeting people, but it _knows_, somehow, who has to die — that's why it created the Questing Beast, as an omen, and I told you that I saw something outside the queen's window that night—"

"Ygraine did not have to die," Uther snapped.

"That's not what I _meant_," Gaius said helplessly, because how could he explain something that he hardly understood himself, especially to one who refused to hear it? "Sire, if you'd just—"

"You may go, Gaius," said Uther abruptly, turning away from the window and stalking over to his desk.

Gaius remained for a moment, shifting from foot to foot as he watched the king stare at his papers; he wanted to keep arguing, but when Uther continued to ignore him he finally sighed and bowed respectfully. "Sire," he said, turning to leave, but Uther's voice stopped him once more.

"Thank you, Gaius. You've been very helpful."

And for some reason, those words filled Gaius with a sick sort of dread.

- -o- -

For days afterwards, Gaius kept a close eye on the king, and even found excuses to visit him and gauge his mental state, but the king seemed to have forgotten their conversation — although he often became lost in thought as he stared at the chair where Ygraine used to sit, and there were whispers that he did so everywhere: in council, at mealtimes, even in the gardens where they used to walk together, until the servants took pity and moved them. And while Gaius often wondered what he thought about, he was so pleased Uther seemed to have settled into a less paranoid form of mourning that he did not press; and after several long talks with Alice, Gaius realized that he was reading far too much into a conversation that was surely only motivated by grief. The king had never truly understood magic, and it was only natural that losing Ygraine would make him lash out, as Gaius had experienced time and time again with the family members of some of his patients. And if Nimueh had to pay the price of Uther's misdirected rage — well, that couldn't be helped.

And so he did not take notice as reports began to trickle in from all over Camelot, reports of magical creatures attacking villages, of sorcerers playing tricks on innocent passersby to cheat them of their money and possessions, of a hedgewitch who drowned her children for not having the gift and then killed the soldiers who came to arrest her. He did not notice how more and more of their discussion during council sessions was spent on the misuse of magic, of rumors of necromancy on the Isle of the Blessed and of accidents caused by out-of-control sorcerers, and when Uther called a special council to discuss 'a matter of great urgency,' Gaius did not even think twice about it, and entered the hall expecting an update on the activity on the Caerleon border, or a tax revision, or even the announcement that a neighboring king was coming to visit — anything but what he received.

The session began as usual, with the lords gossiping like washerwomen while they awaited Uther's arrival. Gaius was just discussing with Gorlois whether his wife needed a sleeping draught to quell her recent restlessness when Uther swept in, looking grim and foreboding, and they all followed him to their seats. The last murmurs died down as Uther waited impatiently, and every eye was fixed on him as he rose slowly from his chair.

"I have gathered you here today," Uther began, "to discuss magic."

A cold knot of fear formed in Gaius' belly, but he carefully schooled himself to keep even a shred of it from appearing on his face because Uther's eyes lingered on him as he looked round the council. Gaius sneaked a glance at the rest as soon as Uther moved on; the lords all appeared interested, even afraid, and Gaius suddenly realized that he had no idea whether they shared his own fears about what was to come, or if they had already begun to fear magic itself.

"I'm sure you have all noticed that there has been a recent surge in magical activity," Uther continued. "Thefts, murders... just this morning my guards arrested a man who stood in the streets proclaiming the superiority of sorcerers and swearing that their time had now come, and that all others would be subjugated. He tried to kill the soldiers who came after him — they were lucky to escape with their lives."

Gaius had heard not a word of this; Alice had gone down to the market to restock and had not mentioned any such incident, but the council looked distinctly perturbed, and Uther ploughed on before he lost his captive audience.

"It has become clear to me in recent days that the death of my wife seems to have been some sort of sign," Uther said, and Gaius felt sick and his mouth tasted of ashes, because as he looked around at the men surrounding him it seemed that all of them — the majority of them — were nodding. "A public way of showing the power of magic. Nimueh—"

There was a collective hiss at her name, such had the rumors taken root, and Gaius could say nothing in her defense because it was far too late, because the hatred for his old friend had been planted weeks ago, and as he studied Uther's face he saw that the corners of his mouth twitched up before he continued, "The witch was trying to lead a revolution."

"And it seems like the bitch is succeeding," said Lord Eldridge, who Gaius knew almost for a fact had been prepared to leave his wife in the hopes that Nimueh would notice him, and the lords snorted at his play on words even as they scowled their assent. As he watched in silence he knew that it was far too late now to see that all of the small stories he had been hearing for weeks added up to a narrative of which he should have been suspicious, because it had all happened so quietly and so naturally that Gaius had not even realized that the king had not forgotten at all, and had instead been waging a quiet war on magic while Gaius went about his daily life in ignorance.

Then Uther's eyes were on him as the council began to talk amongst themselves, and Gaius swallowed hard against the lump in his throat, against the words that were threatening to spill out about how wrong all of this was, but Uther hadn't been swayed the last time, and it was never best to confront him about things in public anyway. So he forced a smile and a nod, and Uther smiled back in a way that Gaius hadn't seen since Ygraine died, with utter delight in an old friend, and suddenly Gaius remembered that Uther was implacable and headstrong and _king_ but he was still so, so young, and he looked to Gaius for guidance even if he never admitted it fully.

And as Uther turned away to bring the council round to talk about protective measures, Gaius felt deep in his gut that the moment for protest may have just passed unregarded.

- -o- -

Gaius hastened back to his chambers afterward, desperate to speak to Alice and ask her what he should do, what he _could_ do now that Uther had already planted the idea in the minds of the lords, and found her in the middle of teaching their apprentice how to enchant a headache potion.

"Alice!" he called, letting the door fall behind him and breaking her concentration, and she turned toward him with a scowl.

"Gaius, look what you've done! It's ruined now, I'll have to start from scratch! Couldn't you be more — Gaius?" she asked, finally taking in his expression. "Gaius, is something the matter?"

"Julius, leave us please," he ordered. "Go down to the market and — and fetch some more rosemary." The lad shot him a look — Alice had, after all, just restocked everything — but Gaius stared him down until he left without a word. Gaius waited until the door had swung shut behind him before saying urgently, "Alice, you must tell me — this is important — did you see anything unusual down at the market today?"

"Unusual? No, not at all — well, there was a new vendor there, all the way from Bharata, and he had the most _wonderful_ selection of herbs — we really must go down together soon to look, he promised to set some aside for me, and —"

"There was no commotion? No disturbances?" Gaius interrupted, striding over to her. "Alice, please! Uther mentioned a man preaching about sorcery, he—"

"_Him?_" Alice said with a laugh. "Well — yes, there was a man there, and he _was_ going on about how 'it is the age of magic' and how 'those without the gift will learn their place' and all that, but nobody paid any serious attention to him. I felt rather bad for him, really; he didn't seem right in the head, poor man. In fact that vendor and I were discussing—"

"But — but Uther said that he tried to kill the guards who came for him," Gaius said weakly. "Didn't—?"

"Good gracious, no!" Alice exclaimed, startled. "There was a little bit of a fuss — he put up a fight at first — but in the end he went quietly. Really, Gaius, hardly anyone noticed him. He was just some lunatic, and then the guards came and got him, and everyone went back to business. I don't know why Uther would bring him up in council. He was hardly a threat."

"But he was," Gaius said, and sat down heavily, his face in his hands. "Not — not to anyone at the market. But he _was_ a threat, because Uther said so, and now all the lords think he was a herald of the revolution of magic users against the kingdom."

"Wh — what?" Alice whispered after a moment of horrified silence. She dropped down onto the bench next to him and her hand found his. It was shaking. "He—"

"He and the council drew up legislation that — that magic-users have to submit their names to a registrar. Those who don't will be imprisoned as a threat to the kingdom." He paused to take a deep breath, and Alice's hand was crushing his as he said heavily, "It will be announced tomorrow."

They sat in silence for several long moments before Gaius finally sighed and spoke what had been weighing on his heart. "He never forgot." Alice shifted her head off his shoulder to look at him, but he couldn't look her in the eye. "He never forgot our conversation. And — and I have done nothing to change his mind since. I let his grief take over and pervert his judgement, and now it has come to this, and — and I fear there is nothing that can be done to stop it. He has planted it in the minds of the council now, Alice. He has planted fear there after spending these past weeks preparing, and... it's my fault, Alice, because I couldn't change his mind earlier."

"Gaius..."

"But it _is_," he insisted as tears pricked at his eyes. "He trusts my knowledge of magic, and it was not enough to turn him from this path. No, even — I put him on this path. If I hadn't tried to defend Nimueh—"

"You were trying to clear the name of a friend," Alice said gently. "It is not your fault that he misinterpreted."

"I should've—"

"You _could have_ done nothing more," she said firmly, but Gaius talked over her.

"I should've spoken up in the session. I should have said _something_. But instead I sat there because... because I'm _afraid_, Alice. Because... I fear that this is just the beginning. After the council meeting I saw him talking with a few of the lords — Eldridge and Godwyn, and Bors, and Agravaine. And... they're powerful, Alice. They're influential. The others listen to them, and if he has their support, then the council will follow their lead and do nothing to stop this."

"Are there any who would?" Alice asked haltingly.

Gaius sighed. "A few. Very few, by the end, because Uther was persuasive. Lord Mark... Lord Ector... Gorlois. Geoffrey. Aurelius, of course. They looked — worried. But the rest..."

"Gorlois," said Alice, pulling away excitedly. "Gaius — if Gorlois is on our side then there is still hope. Gorlois is Uther's best friend — he trusts him more than anyone — and isn't he influential because of that? Oh, _Gaius_ — you can talk to him. And he can talk to Uther. Can't he?"

"Alice," Gaius breathed, and kissed her. "Oh, Alice, where would I be without you? Yes — you're right. Of course you're right. I'll go speak to him now."

- -o- -

When Gaius knocked on Gorlois' door it was not he who answered, but his wife. "Lady Vivenne," Gaius greeted respectfully. "Is your husband back yet?"

She looked at him for a long moment before stepping aside and beckoning him in. "No," she answered, wrapping her robe more closely around her, and it was then that Gaius realized that she was still wearing her bedclothes even though it was almost midday. "I haven't seen him since before the council meeting."

"It was about that meeting that I came to speak with him," Gaius said as she ushered him into a chair. "Although — he did mention that you haven't been sleeping well recently. Is your bracelet not working properly? Perhaps you need me to prepare you a sleeping draught?"

Vivienne stilled suddenly, setting down the pitcher of wine she'd been pouring, and though her back was to him the outline of her shoulders seemed very tense. "No," she whispered. "No, sleeping draughts will not help. And my bracelet has been — it has not been working, these past nights."

"May I take a look at it?" Gaius asked hesitantly; despite their history, Vivienne had always intimidated him. "My magic is not strong, but perhaps I can detect some fault...?"

"You may look," Vivienne said, returning to the table and handing him a cup before holding out her wrist. "But I fear that you will find no fault in the spell. I enchanted it myself when I finished my training, before I left the Isle of the Blessed to marry Gorlois, and it hasn't failed me until now."

Gaius placed his hands on either side of the bracelet and let his magic twine through the silver, looking for holes in the spell, but there were none. "You're right," he said, releasing her. "If the bracelet itself is fine... why do you think it's not working for you?"

Vivienne sat down heavily in the chair across from him, staring out the window. "There are some dreams that are so powerful that no magic can stop them," she said distantly. "I have read of such prophecies... but I never dreamt—" she laughed bitterly — "I never dreamt that I would be one of those Seers who was so blessed." And at that, Vivienne took a shuddering breath and a deep drink from her cup, and added in a whisper, "But never before has my gift felt so much like a curse."

And Gaius finally noticed how pale and drawn she looked, how her eyes were rimmed with red as if she had been crying — and perhaps she had been. "What was the dream, milady?" he asked softly.

"You know it already," Vivienne answered, and though he could see how her hand shook when she lowered her goblet to the table, her voice was calm and level. "It is the same dream I had many years ago, when my daughter was born." Then she looked him straight in the eye and whispered, "I do not speak of Morgana."

Gaius felt the breath leave him. "My lady," he croaked. "Vivienne. Are you—?"

"I am certain," Vivienne replied, staring out the window once more. "I had forgotten about it, until now. I had convinced myself... I had told myself that it would never come to pass, and I became complacent. We all did — you, me, Nimueh... but especially me. For what I saw — it was enough to make me give up my daughter, was it not? And if that was not enough of a lesson, well — what a fool I am, to believe that changing one of the details would prevent the entire tragedy. I may have saved her from the pyre upon which I saw her burn, but many others will take her place."

"So — so it is to happen, then," Gaius said numbly. "I came to speak to Gorlois because — but it won't help, will it? Even if we delay it—"

"No. It will not help," said Vivienne sadly. "Gorlois will do what he can, for now — but it will not be enough to stem the tide. And he will turn against me in the end."

Gaius shook his head. "No. No, my lady, he loves you, he would never—"

"I have done things, Gaius, that would make any man turn against me," Vivienne said. "And Uther knows about them. Oh, he knows, and he is unforgiving. If he truly has begun this campaign then I am not safe, even from my own husband. He will turn against me, and — and perhaps I deserve it."

"My lady—"

"It is as it should be, Gaius," she said sharply, but her face softened when she saw his despair, and when she continued she spoke much more gently. "This time has been prophesied, Gaius. By more than just me. It has been written about since the beginning of time, though we did not realize that it spoke of today until it was already too late. And if what they say is true, then it is the long, black night before the dawn."

"None of us will live to see it," said Gaius.

"No, we shan't," Vivienne acknowledged. "But it will come. Someday it will come."

But somehow, facing down the infinite darkness, the promise of sunrise did not give him hope.

- -o- -

Night had fallen before Gaius could spare the time, but he finally made his way down to the dungeon to speak with the madman from the market. He did not know what prompted him to seek him out — perhaps it was because he had heard two very different versions of what had happened, and wanted to know the truth — but he had felt a pressing need to learn the truth, to learn whether or not the man was mad or truly set in his convictions, and so after finishing his rounds he blustered his way past the guards and stood before the cell.

"You there," he hissed to the lump on the cot. "Wake up. I want to speak with you."

The lump shifted and moved to reveal a middle-aged man whose round face split into a wide grin when he saw Gaius. "About time, eh?" he said, launching himself off his cot and coming over to stand by the bars. "Figgers ye'd wait till dark, though, seeing as he wanted it all secret-like. Ye got all of it?"

Gaius only stared. "All of what?" he asked, nonplussed.

"Me money, o' course," the man boomed with a chuckle, but then he stopped and looked warily at Gaius. "Ye are here ter pay me, aren't ye? I don't want ter rush 'im, on'y I have children ter feed, and the wife don't even know where I am. Prolly thinks I'm off at the tavern with Ord an' the lot, don' even know I got meself this job." He beamed at Gaius as though he should be proud, but Gaius could only look back at him with dawning horror.

"Sorry — what job? Who's — who's paying you?" he stammered.

The man seemed to discover some sense of self-preservation, because he looked over at the guards before leaning in and whispering, "The king, o' course." Gaius drew back as he continued, "'E brought me in all secret-like an' asked me if I could go down ter the market an' say some things. 'Sure,' I says, 'what kind o' things?' An' he promised me all sorts o' gold if I'd talk about them sorcerers an' their craft an' then let meself be taken in, an' I says, 'Yes sir, Tommen's yer man,' an' then he told me wot ter say, an' — wot is it?" he broke off as Gaius leaned against the bars because all the strength had left his legs.

"Nothing," Gaius got out. "It's nothing — what did you say your name was?"

"Tommen Acker, at yer service," replied the man, bowing a little.

"Tommen Acker," Gaius repeated weakly, and watched the man, the poor doomed man, jabber on about how much his family needed the money, and how he'd gone to a section of the market where none of his friends ever frequented so they wouldn't see him rabbiting on 'like some sort o' loony,' and how he very much wanted to get out of this cold cell and go home to his wife. And he thought that this man had indeed let himself be taken in, but not in the way that he'd meant; he'd been taken in just like the rest of them, taken in by Uther's pretty words and false smiles, while all the while he twisted and manipulated reality to fit his will.

"Tommen Acker," he said, interrupting him, "I will pray for your quick release. And I will speak to the king about your payment."

"Thank ye, sir," Tommen said, bowing again. "Ye're too kind."

But he _wasn't_, Gaius thought as he walked away. He wasn't kind, because he knew that Tommen Acker would only leave that cell to be executed, yet he didn't warn him or offer him words of comfort, didn't do more than perpetuate the falsehood that had landed him there in the first place. He wasn't kind, because he was never going to speak of this to the king, not if he wanted to live, even if he was only going to live for a little longer.

And Gaius hadn't known that it was possible to feel more afraid than he did after speaking to the Lady Vivienne, but then he hadn't known about poor, doomed Tommen Acker and the depths to which Uther was willing to sink.

- -o- -

The register went into effect with surprisingly little protest from the people — but then, the decree had been very prettily worded, and the people did not know that the king had already turned against magic. Those who did protest were arrested, and while Gaius did not hear of their executions, he did not hear of their releases either.

The issue of magic was not brought up in council again, but Gaius began to hear it whispered about in the market place as reports continued to pour in from around the country about magical beasts attacking villages, about horrific crimes perpetrated by those who the victims had considered friends, and Gaius wondered how many of these whispers and stories were true and how many of them had been created by the king.

He had not told Alice what he had learned from his visit to the dungeons, although he had anonymously sent money to poor Tommen Acker's family once Uther had mentioned in council that he had been hanged. He had not mentioned it to Alice because he wanted to spare her, because there was precious little hope left for those of them who knew what was coming and he wanted to make it last as long as possible.

Because the darkness was inching closer by the day. Gorlois tried to change the king's mind — Gaius saw him talking to Uther after council in the hallways, after training sessions, sometimes even in his chambers at night while Gaius dropped off a headache remedy for the king — but evidently he was not making any headway, because while magic itself was never discussed in council, they received weekly updates from the registrar, and after every session Gaius saw Uther pull a different lord aside. He did not know exactly what was said, but he suspected that Uther was talking them round one by one, playing on the rumors and reports, on their prejudices and their past experiences with magic gone awry, on their inevitable fear of the unknown, because aside from Aurelius, the court sorcerer, Gaius was the only one on the council who had magic and was therefore the only one who truly understood it. And while Gorlois spoke to those same lords afterwards — as did Aurelius — he gave no sign as to whether he had gotten through to them either.

And then Tristan DuBois happened, Tristan who had finally ridden out from Archenfield to challenge Uther over his sister's death. Agravaine had since departed to fill the void his brother had left at home, but Gaius also suspected that Agravaine had known what was about to happen and fled to avoid the association with sorcery, because few could forget the image of Tristan confronting the king, eyes blazing gold as he called out Uther's guilt for all to hear. It was sheer luck that Uther survived, though his shoulder would never be the same again; he had refused to allow Alice to treat it with magic, which she had offered to do quite hesitantly, and so the wound would pain him for the rest of his life.

Gaius tried to explain this to Uther while he cleaned the wound, but Uther was busy watching Alice leave with poorly concealed suspicion and did not seem to hear him. "You should be careful of her," Uther said.

"And you should have let her heal you," Gaius said sharply. "Julius, bring me that comfrey and thyme poultice. And a bandage."

"I _will not_ let that foul craft near me," snapped Uther as the lad moved to the shelves. "If it means that I must live in pain to avoid it — well, if only I'd learned that lesson before Ygraine." He flinched as Gaius prodded the wound, though his expression did not become any less resolute; however, after a moment in which Gaius said nothing, his face softened and he said, "I'm... concerned about you, being alone with her here. Magic corrupts, Gaius."

_Power_ corrupts, Gaius wanted to correct, but instead he thanked Julius quietly before answering, "Alice would not harm me. She wouldn't harm _anyone_. She's one of the best healers in the Five Kingdoms."

Uther looked at him almost pityingly. "You are still blinded, I see. Your love for her will not allow you to see that the evil of magic steals into the hearts of even those we trust the most, even the best of friends." And Gaius knew that they were not just speaking of Alice — not even just of Nimueh, anymore.

"Do not listen to Tristan, my lord," he said soothingly, spreading the ointment thickly on the wound. "He was merely a grieving brother; he did not know what he was saying."

"And I am a grieving husband," Uther said, with all the weight of that grief in his voice. "Could we not have grieved together? Instead he blames me — _me_ — for Ygraine's — as if I'd ever—"

"No one is to blame for Ygraine's death, my lord," said Gaius, but Uther was already shaking his head.

"Magic killed her, Gaius. Magic, and Nimueh's own evil. You explained that to me already."

And here it was — an opportunity to bring the king round to reason again. "My lord," Gaius said, pausing with the bandage half wrapped around Uther's arm. "My lord, please, you must listen to me—"

"Continue, Gaius," Uther said, and although he spoke of the bandage, he did not stop Gaius when he kept talking.

"You misinterpreted me earlier," Gaius explained. "I did not mean — I did not mean to imply that magic took Ygraine's life out of some sort of... malevolence, or — or ill intent. Magic took Ygraine because it was her time, because the gods decided that it was so. Not — not to cause grief, or to harm you. Magic has no hidden motives, good or otherwise. It shapes the earth, shapes our lives in ways we cannot see or understand, in the way that the wind shapes the clouds in the sky and the river shapes its bed. It isn't _human_, sire. It simply... _is_."

And he couldn't explain it any better than that; he couldn't explain how there was a ribbon of magic that wove through every living thing, keeping it alive and interconnected. He himself was not powerful enough to see that ribbon for more than a few seconds when he cast a spell, but he had read — oh, he had read the works of sorcerers who could see it glowing wherever they looked. But Uther had not even the slightest hint of the gift within him, and he was too hard a man for stories like that, so Gaius left his explanation where it was and tied off Uther's bandage in silence.

"Not human, you say?" Uther repeated, wincing as he tried to rotate his arm.

Gaius stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. "No — no, it is not. It's a force unto itself, like — like the weather, only so much more. It's—"

"Not human," Uther mused. "That makes it so much easier."

And to Gaius it seemed as though his insides had been scooped out, so hollow did he feel. "_Sire_—"

"Thank you, Gaius," Uther said as he stood from Gaius' bench, just as he had said the last time he had heard what he wanted from Gaius' words. Behind him, Julius' mouth was hanging open as he stared at his king in disbelief; and Gaius could only look at him in abject horror because he had only been trying to help, had only been trying to prevent Uther from doing something truly terrible, but there was no preventing the inevitable, and by trying to do so he had only made it worse.

"If you support me, I will protect you," Uther said suddenly, and he was looking at Gaius so earnestly that Gaius wanted to cry because this side of the king was so buried beneath grief that it rarely saw the light of day, and this, _this_ was why he loved his king in the first place. "You — you have been a good friend to me over the years, and — it would grieve me to see you harmed." And then his expression hardened once more and he took a menacing step forward. "But know this, physician. It would grieve me more to see you corrupted. If you cross me — I will not allow my son, or my people, to come to harm."

He stepped away again. "Think on it, Gaius," he said, and closed the door behind him.

- - o- -

Uther was not one to pass up an opportunity, and he twisted his recent injury to his best advantage. All it took was a whisper of Nimueh's name, and it soon became common knowledge that Tristan had been taken in by her, that his attack had been fueled by the corruption of magic and a result of Nimueh's urging, and that he was so confident in his return because he had already arranged with her to raise him up. And thus it was that three months after the queen's death, Sir Cador rose to his feet and declared, "The register is not working."

Murmurs of assent rippled around the table as Uther sat by impassively, and Gaius was somehow not surprised to see that there were only two others who did not join in, even if some of them did so reluctantly. Aurelius looked as if he were about to be sick, and Gaius did not blame him, because while Uther may have had some affection for him, there had never been any particular fondness between the king and the court sorcerer. And Gorlois looked on sadly, as if he had somehow failed them all, despite all his efforts.

"Only last week, magic showed itself to be a direct threat to our king," Cador continued. "Tristan DuBois was corrupted and twisted by his magic, leading him to turn on his friend and brother. And in the months since Ygraine's death, those with magic have shown their true colors — clearly evidenced here." He gestured to a pile of papers in front of him: the accumulated reports of magic that had been the subject of so much discussion recently. "They have declared war on us," he continued, and Gaius' memory flashed to Tommen Acker's honest face, pleading that he only needed the money. "And it is time that we fight back."

Again, all but three nodded their assent, and then Cador bowed as Uther suddenly rose to his feet.

"Some of you are reluctant, I see," said Uther. "I understand — you have friends, relatives even, who have magic, and _surely_ they do not mean us any harm. I understand. I once thought the same. But remember how Nimueh took us all for fools — she did not show any hint of the evil that she committed. No, she smiled and danced and wormed her way into our hearts — and then she murdered the queen, and probably would have taken my son as well, if there hadn't been witnesses." Uther bowed slightly to Gaius, who couldn't breathe.

"I tell you now that even if your friends seem harmless now — it is only a matter of time before they fall prey to the disease that is magic. Because it is a disease, a corruption of the worst sort, that can turn even the best of souls to evil. Look at Nimueh. Look at Tristan. Look at those reports — they speak of sorcerers turning on them for no other reason but the fact that they had magic and their friends did not."

Someone had to stop this. Someone had to — but Gaius was rooted to his chair with terror and Gorlois was staring down at the table in front of him, stony-faced, and Aurelius was weeping silently, and there was no one else who would speak up for them.

"I have spoken to one who is an expert on this matter," said Uther, and although he mercifully did not turn to look at him, Gaius still felt as though he had been stabbed in the gut. "And he has assured me that those with magic are not human." And Gaius could do nothing as Aurelius let out a terrible cry, and Uther pressed on. "The magic sucks it out of them bit by bit, until finally there is nothing left within them to fight the urge to kill. Sorcerers are nothing more than empty shells, filled with—"

"You're wrong," Aurelius gasped out, tears streaming down his cheeks. "You're wrong, you're — we're human, just like the rest of you, we're — you don't know what you're doing. Sire, please, _please_ — we're human, we're—"

"_Silence, sorcerer!_" Uther thundered, and Aurelius sobbed again. "I will not be spoken to like that, especially from one like you!"

Then he motioned the guards forward and nobody did anything to stop them as they dragged Aurelius out of the room, and they could hear him weeping piteously down the hallway even after the heavy doors closed behind him.

"Would anyone like to join him?" Uther said levelly, and when this was met with silence he smiled. "Good. Now, in the light of all of the evidence, you can see that the register is not enough. I propose a full ban on magic, effective immediately—" This provoked a round of mutters around the table, but Uther soothed them down by saying, "In a matter as important as this I should like to have the support of my council, and so I would know your minds. We will put it to a vote. Geoffrey?"

And Geoffrey produced a sheet of parchment marked 'yea' and 'nay,' and started by signing under 'yea' with a trembling hand. He handed it off to Lord Godwyn, then Lord Eldridge, and it went all around the table until it reached Gaius, and he saw that in the space marked for dissents there was only one name, Gorlois — but he was safe, because he was the king's best friend, and Uther knew that he did not have magic. But Gaius — Gaius had a chance at life, at being spared from this horror, because Uther had promised to protect him, and — and if it was inevitable anyway, why not save his own life, so that he could work to prevent future measures? It was not as if his dissent would change anything, aside from adding an execution to the list.

And so Gaius tremblingly signed his name 'yea,' and handed it off to the lord on his left.

The parchment finally made its way back to Uther, who scanned the list of names quickly. His eyes flicked up to meet Gaius', and he nodded once with approval, twisting the knife in deeper, before smiling broadly. "It is decided then, my lords," he announced. "Congratulations. You have prevented a great evil from spreading." He folded over the votes and turned to the court historian. "Draw up an announcement, Geoffrey, and mark it down in your annals. It begins today."

And Gaius looked at the way Uther smiled in delight at this tragedy, and felt his heart tear in two.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

_All that is necessary for evil to succeed is for good men to do nothing._  
**-Edmund Burke**

The announcement was made right after the noon bell. Uther stood on the balcony overlooking the courtyard filled with people, and spoke of Ygraine's murder and Nimueh's campaign to destroy them all; he spoke of homes and towns decimated by terrible creatures, of all the reports they had received over the past months, but twisted to strike fear into their hearts, just as it had been for the council. He told them of how Aurelius — trusted Aurelius, who used to conjure butterflies for their children and produce rings of fire to protect their husbands on the battlefield — had gone mad in the end, attacking him and his trusted advisors until they had had no choice but to drag him away.

Gaius stood below in the sunshine with the townsfolk, and knew that these words would wind through the minds of the people and settle in the dark corners of their thoughts, in the shadowy edges that had been slowly encroaching on their hearts over the past months; and the words would take root and grow, spreading like the very foulest things of the earth, feeding on distrust and paranoia and terror until they obliterated all kindness and mercy and left only what Uther had planted.

But for now there was panic, panic for brothers and mothers and friends, because though whispers had abounded in recent months, the threat had only recently been sown in their minds and there was not enough time for it to truly take hold. Watching the crowd's reaction was almost enough to give Gaius hope that this would not really come to pass, that it would fail because of the lack of support from the people, but it was only a matter of time before their minds were poisoned, and already he pitied them in his heart for their weakness.

And when the people returned to their houses some found soldiers in front of their doors, and thus was the great purge begun.

- -o- -

The register proved to be an invaluable resource, and those who had responded first — those who had obeyed the law without delay, without suspicion — were the first to be rounded up, until the cells were full to bursting. Uther had had the bars warded against magic use long ago, but recently the enchantments had been reinforced so that none of those who had been arrested could escape, even if they worked together.

And though their families gathered outside in the courtyard, pleading for their release, the guards were quick to disperse them, promising on Uther's orders that their relatives were only being kept for questioning, that nothing was definite, that of course a fair trial would be given. Then no word was given for days until rumors of torture began to circulate, and that was when people began to get angry.

It was the hotheads amongst the crowd, with and without magic, that proved to be their downfall. They banded together one grey afternoon and marched on the castle, demanding that the prisoners be released, that the law be repealed because it was unjust — couldn't the king see that it was unjust? — but all that did was confirm the lords' suspicions, especially when the youngest of the group, a pale lad with hair like thatch and fire in his eyes, grew so upset that his control slipped and his magic blew out the first row of windows overlooking the courtyard. Then soldiers emerged to arrest him, and the protest dissolved into panic, until the fight spilled over into the market and those involved were either arrested or killed or chased away.

Standing over a courtyard riddled with scorch marks and holes, with smoke drifting up from the lower town where fires still burnt, Uther once again proclaimed the evils of sorcery, and this time the crowd listened. "Look around," he said, and through their tears the people did. "Look at the result of their insurrection. Look at the blood on the flagstones, the blood of those who were only trying to protect you." And slowly, he wove a picture of what had happened, yet still he twisted, twisted, twisted their perceptions, to the point that when the pale-faced youth was led out, bound and miserable, there was a collective hiss as though Nimueh's name had been mentioned.

From his position by Uther's side, Gaius watched as the boy was brought forward to a makeshift platform, where he was forced to kneel. And as the executioner's drum thrummed out its first beats, Gaius saw Uther smile as the axe fell to the roar of the crowd, because the seed that had been planted had finally begun to grow.

- -o- -

And slowly, slowly, the executions began.

Uther was careful in who he selected, at first. He chose those who had dealt in dark magic in the past — a surprisingly common occurrence, because the line between light and dark magic, while usually quite definite, sometimes blurred together until not even the greatest scholars could tell wrong from right. Gaius had dabbled, at one point, in his early days as a student; even Alice had experimented in order to further her knowledge of the healing arts — and, of course, out of curiosity, because there existed some theoretically fascinating magic that was just a touch shadier than was comfortable for most people.

But she had told him, even way back then when it was safe, that the experiences had left her with a bad taste in her mouth and with her magic feeling unsettled and wrong. He suspected that this was true also of those who stood trembling on the raised dais as their charges were read, some angrily shouting their innocence, some pleading with their executioners, with the king on high, with their gods to keep them safe. But most wept silently as one by one they were forced to dance at the end of a rope, like puppets hung from strings dangling from Uther's fingers, and the hostile, muttering crowd stood by and did nothing.

For those who had magic and those who supported them had begun to stay at home, with locked doors and shuttered windows, until only those who had fallen under Uther's spell ever emerged when the executioner's drum beat out an announcement. And soon the people did not even need Uther's voice in their ears to view others with suspicion because while the magic users had retreated as a measure of protection for themselves, their neighbors soon began to whisper and speculate about what was going on in those darkened houses, what plots were being hatched behind those secretive doors, when they should expect the next attack from within.

Not even the lords and ladies were safe, because court gossip was even more ferocious than its common counterpart. Lord Kenric retreated to his own lands the day after the first execution, taking his son, Aurelius' apprentice, so that the lad didn't have to watch his master die. Several other noble families left for home as well, but everyone knew that it was nothing more than a futile effort at protection, because when the time came for their loved ones to die, they would not be strong enough to sustain the rebellion that would be necessary for their safety.

And everywhere the Lady Vivienne went, whispers trailed behind her.

It was no secret that she was a powerful sorceress — the most powerful in Camelot, now that Nimueh had left. She had outstripped even Aurelius, before his beheading, and even though she had once been revered for her talent, the servants now feared to go into her rooms, and the lords and ladies deigned to speak to her only when it was unavoidable. Yet still she walked through the corridors with her head held high, little Morgana tripping along in her wake like a pale shadow.

And one night Gaius returned from dinner at Alice's to find the two of them in his chambers. Morgana sat quietly on the floor, playing with a yellow-haired doll, while Vivienne hunched over a book on his workbench, absorbed in whatever remedy Julius had been studying before he left for the evening. "Can I help you, milady?" he asked nervously, his heart sinking. Vivienne started with a barely-stifled shriek, and when she whirled around he could see all the fear that she kept so carefully hidden; out of courtesy he pretended not to see it, pretended that he didn't know that she had thought it was the guards come to arrest her, and continued cordially, "Do you need that sleeping potion after all?"

Vivienne schooled herself back to her usual haughty aloofness, though he could see that her hands still shook. "I do not dream anymore," she said, smoothing her skirts as Gaius came to sit across from her. "And as I said before, your potions would do nothing. You cannot help me, Gaius, unless you would give me something that would bring a quicker end than Uther's executioner." For a moment she stared at him, her eyes frank and vulnerable, but quickly she lowered them to look at her hands, folded in her lap. "But I did not come for that," she resumed calmly, and then she stood, tall and proud and every inch a High Priestess. "I came to tell you that I forgive you."

So Gorlois had found out — or perhaps she had dreamt it, but it did not matter; Gaius' heart thundered and his insides twisted and burned with shame, yet he swallowed hard and feigned ignorance. "Have... have I caused some offense, milady? If so, I offer my—"

"Do not play these coy games with me, Gaius," Vivienne said sharply, and though she spoke quietly her voice seemed loud as thunder. "You know perfectly well what you have done."

"Yes," Gaius whispered after a pause. "Yes, I do. And I do not deserve forgiveness."

"No, you don't," she agreed, her green eyes cold as a winter storm. "You are a traitor and a coward, Gaius, and I only hope that our deaths lay heavy on your craven heart. Yet you are human, and weak in the face of inevitability, and the king is cunning." She laughed bitterly. "Oh, he has not yet started on me, but that time is fast approaching; and he has long since found your weakness. And for that I forgive you, because gods know that I have mine."

Her eyes fell on her daughter as Gaius stuttered out an uncertain 'thank you,' and her face softened as she listened to the child sing a nonsense song to her doll. "You see both my daughters there," she said wistfully, so quietly that Gaius almost didn't hear her. "I made — Nimueh told me about Morgause when she first arrived. We went riding one afternoon, and she filled my heart with stories of her... her training, her magic, her stubbornness. What she looks like — if she takes after her father or after me. And — and I could not help but make Morgana's doll in her image, so that they could play together even if they will never meet."

Though her eyes were wet, her voice remained calm, and Gaius craned his neck to get another look at the little yellow-haired doll. "There was a time when you were brave," Vivienne continued huskily. "Brave enough to protect a child from the king, at great risk to yourself. And now I'm asking you — in the memory of the man you once were, when the time comes... do the same for Morgana."

Gaius felt his mouth go dry. "Milady — it is not—" he started, terror making his tongue clumsy. "It is... much different now, I could not—"

"Stop wittering, Gaius. I know what it is that I ask," Vivienne snapped. "And I do not wish you to smuggle her from the city. That would be folly. No, all I ask is that you watch over her. Keep an eye on her. Make sure she does not come to harm. She has not yet shown signs of possessing any magic, but Nimueh told me that her sister is powerful, and I fear that Morgana may yet inherit my gifts. Gorlois will do his best — no matter his loss of faith in me, he will not allow the child to be harmed. But you are Uther's expert on magic now, and you can dispel his suspicions." And the hard glint in her eye told Gaius that she knew more than just where he had signed his name on the parchment — she knew where Uther had gotten his information, from whose words he had concluded that sorcerers were inhuman, and his shame burned anew.

"I will do all I can," he swore. "I will protect her from Uther in every way I know how, and I will not allow her to come to harm at his hand, or by any he commands."

Vivienne looked long at him, and Gaius felt as though he were being dissected by her eyes, as though she was trying to use her gift to see into his mind and soul. "Very well," she said finally. "I am trusting your word in this, Gaius, although I don't understand why. Perhaps the gods have spared you for a reason; I do not claim to know their plans. But you seem to have a part to play in this still, before the end. Do not waste it." Then she turned away to her daughter and said, "Come, Morgana. It's past your bedtime now, and this is not a time to be out late in the halls."

And as she left, carrying Morgana and leaving Gaius foundering in her wake, she met Uther in the doorway. She dropped into a smooth curtsy with a murmured, "Sire," and then she swept past him, the very picture of dignity. Uther watched her go with narrowed eyes until the last clicks of her heels had faded around the corner. "What was she doing here?" he asked suspiciously.

"She... she came to get a potion to help her sleep," Gaius lied, choked by guilt as he stared at the doorway. "She has been dreaming of the days to come."

"And it frightens her, does it?" Uther asked; his voice sounded pleased. "What she has seen that frightens her so, I wonder?"

"She did not say," Gaius murmured, still looking at the place she had disappeared. "She just..."

"She frightens you." And Gaius turned to see that the king had been watching him sympathetically. "I can see it in your face. But you will not have to fear for too much longer. She has reason to be afraid. Soon we will be rid of her influence, and we will be much safer for it."

And despite the resentment flaring within him because she had cut him deeply with her truths, despite the hot shame that had bled from those wounds — still the thought of her destruction brought a wave of devastation over him, and he turned away so that the king could not see. "Can I help you, my lord?" he asked, his voice thick with the unshed tears that burnt at the corners of his eyes.

"I came to speak with you," said the king, soft and urgent, and Gaius' shoulders fell because he had been expecting this conversation, expecting it with a heavy dread that turned all fleeting moments of happiness to ashes. "Gaius. Look at me," Uther requested after a long silence, and Gaius reluctantly did as he asked. "I... I never thanked you for your support. It means — it means more than I can say."

"You do not need to thank me," Gaius said heavily, and the king continued because he had no idea how true those words were.

"But I want to. I know how difficult it must have been for you to do so, when it meant turning against your friends. Against — against those like you." And Gaius froze, because it had all been for naught; he had become a traitor to magic for nothing, because Uther would not let him live after all — but Uther's face was open and his tone beseeching as he said, "Gaius. I cannot protect you unless — how long has it been since you practiced magic?"

"Since the ban," Gaius croaked as feeling pricked its way back into his limbs. In reality it had been longer than that — he had been too terrified ever since the register had been put in place, though Alice had remained undaunted.

"Good," Uther said, but his encouraging smile flickered and died as he continued, "But I'm afraid that won't be enough."

"Enough?" repeated Gaius blankly. "Enough for what?"

"For the council," Uther stated, sounding surprised that Gaius needed an explanation. "They trust you now, especially after the last session. But how long do you think that trust will last, when they remember that you have magic, and when you do nothing to convince them that you are a loyal ally in the fight against it? They will turn on you, unless you act first. If you want to gain their absolute trust, you need to go before the council and swear that you will never use your magic again."

And it seemed as though his heart had stopped in his chest. "Give up magic?" he breathed, eyes wide.

"Well, of course. I will not tolerate a sorcerer in my court, no matter who it is. Not even you."

"What — what about Alice?" he stammered. "Can she swear an oath, in order to live?"

Uther drew back, his expression shuttered. "Alice... Alice would never swear. She is too far down the path; magic has already consumed her fully. I do not trust her, Gaius, and I will not try to, even for your sake. No, I trust only you with this oath, because I know that you will not betray me."

Perhaps it was unwise to question any further; perhaps it was better to leave this stone unturned, to let Uther's trust in him remain an unexamined assumption, but all this trust was too much. Alice trusted him implicitly; Vivienne trusted him despite herself; and Uther... Uther trusted him for reasons unknown, for reasons that he believed to be such fundamental truths that they could not be shaken even by this storm, for reasons that meant that he alone was to be allowed to live.

But he could not understand how he could be considered above reproach when he was replaceable, utterly replaceable — there were other physicians in the kingdom, and all he knew was contained in the books on his shelves and in his library, easily accessible to others who might fill his shoes. And there were others who were far more worthy, others who were innocent and honest and far braver than he ever could be, because they were facing down death with their heads held high while he couldn't find the strength to do so, and so it was not curiosity but despair that made him plead, "_Why?_"

"Because..." Uther started slowly. "Because you have proven yourself loyal to me in the past, when I won this kingdom back from those who had taken it in the years of my father's negligence, and — and you were more than a father to me than he was before that. Because you have always given me wise council, when I was first starting out as king, and still do to this day. I do not know where I would be without your knowledge, Gaius, especially now. And because — because Ygraine loved you, and she trusted you. As do I."

_But Ygraine loved Nimueh too_, Gaius thought. _She loved Vivienne like a sister, and she loved the performers in the markets, and she thought Aurelius was funny, with his tricks and illusions. Ygraine_ loved _magic,_ he wanted to say, _and yet this is how you choose to honor her memory._ But as always his reason won out over his heart, so he swallowed his words, and though he choked on them as he stammered out his thanks, he knew that Uther believed his voice was tight with affection rather than heartbreak. And he was touched, in spite of himself, because if Uther trusted him this much, despite his magic — well, maybe there was hope still.

"Besides," Uther said, his smile earnest and gentle. "You are only a novice, are you not? Not nearly enough time for magic to take root in you."

Gaius closed his eyes and bowed his head in despair, though Uther took it as a gesture of assent. It was _this_ — Uther's lack of understanding of the fundamentals of magic — that was their ultimate downfall. If he truly believed that magic was some sort of — of invading force... well, small wonder that he turned on it so easily. If he did not understand that magic dwelt at the core of every living thing, of every tree and rock and stream, of every bird and beast and every _human_... perhaps that was the true tragedy of this, that he had never experienced the thrill of finding the spark of golden fire at the center of his being, and the joy of slowly fanning it into a flame that burned within. He had never seen the interconnectedness of the world, and so he did not understand the true scope of the horror that he was inflicting by snuffing out those flames one by one, and he did not understand what he was asking Gaius to give up.

But in return he was giving Gaius life, and trust, and friendship. And so when Uther asked again if Gaius would take the oath, Gaius looked at his king that he loved so much, that he pitied more than anything, and said yes.

- -o- -

_"You."_

There was such venom in the voice that Gaius hardly recognized it, but after a moment he did, and paused in the hallway outside the council chambers to allow Gorlois to catch up.

"Can I help you, my lord?" he asked politely, clasping his hands in front of him to stop their trembling. He had been shaking ever since the session had begun, and even more so while swearing his oath, out of fear of their rejection; but Uther had looked on with pride, and the rest of the council had accepted it with indulgent smiles — everyone except Gorlois.

"I had thought so," Gorlois hissed. "I had thought that I could rely on you, of all people. But I had not realized what a coward you are. You are a traitor to your kind, Gaius."

"So your wife has told me," Gaius said shortly, turning away. He did not need a repeat of this conversation.

"Vivienne has always been insightful," snapped Gorlois. "Even without her visions, she is perceptive. But even she did not foresee this — this _cowardice_. Is your own life so precious to you, that you would forsake all those that you love to save it?"

"I have not forsaken the king."

"The king — Uther is _lost_, Gaius," said Gorlois heatedly. "His grief has blinded him, and he does not see what he is doing. I only wish to show him that what he is doing is _folly_. He is my friend, my brother, my _king_ — and you are only enabling him. This can only end in his destruction, Gaius."

And Gaius finally stopped trying to walk away. "I know," he said softly. "And I am trying to help him see that."

"_How?_ All you have done is agree and give in—"

"I am trying to show him that there are those with magic out there who are loyal to him," Gaius interrupted sharply. "If I turn against him then all his suspicions will be confirmed, and there will be no one left to convince him otherwise."

Gorlois snorted. "Is that how you justify it?" he said scornfully. "Is that what you tell yourself so that you can sleep at night? You will never convince him in that way, because all that shows him is that you are easy to bend to his will. He looks to _us_ to show him the way, Gaius, you and me — and if you let him think that what he is doing is right... he already has a council full of sycophants, and now you have only added to their voices."

"I am showing him that he has nothing to fear from sorcerers," Gaius protested weakly. "I am showing him that you can have magic and still be a friend to Camelot."

Gorlois leaned in close, his expression a mask of disgust. "You _gave up_ magic, Gaius," he said forcefully. "So you keep telling yourself that that's what you're doing. You keep lying to yourself, and when the day finally comes when Uther turns on you, you will find that there is no one who will stand for you — just as you did not stand for anyone else."

Gaius stood stock-still as Gorlois strode away, before shaking himself and hurrying after him. "My lord!" he called, and reluctantly Gorlois paused, watching him through narrowed eyes. "My lord. Do not turn on the Lady Vivienne," he pled when he drew closer. "I have — I have great respect for her, and you are her last defense."

"Turn on — I would _never_," Gorlois snarled, face twisted with fury. "I am not like you, Gaius. I do not turn on those I love, even if it is dangerous for me. I would never abandon my wife to this fate."

_But you will_, Gaius thought sadly as Gorlois turned away. _You will, because Vivienne has said so, and the king is cunning. He will twist you to suit his will, just as he has twisted the rest of the lords, and then where will all your indignation be?_

- -o- -

Gaius was applying a paste to Julius' eye — the lad had gotten into a fight at the tavern the previous night — when Geoffrey appeared in the doorway, flushed and breathless. "Gaius," he gasped out. "Come quick. You will want to see this."

Gaius exchanged a glance with Alice, who pursed her lips and held out her hands to take over for him. He murmured his thanks and brushed his hand across her shoulders before he left, but she tensed at his touch and stoutly ignored him, as she had ever since he had confessed his recent actions. He swallowed hard but did not press before following Geoffrey out the door.

"What's going on?" he asked as they hurried down the hall.

"A representative from the Isle showed up at the weekly hearings," puffed Geoffrey, rounding a corner at a near run. "I left when there were still people ahead of her, but I expect it's her turn by now — Uther made her wait, I don't think she's too pleased..."

Gaius' breath hitched in his throat and he unconsciously sped up, nearly leaving Geoffrey behind in his haste. Not another word was spoken on the way, and they entered through the back door so as not to cause a scene — a stroke of fortune, because there was already one unfolding at the center of the room.

The representative was easily the ugliest woman Gaius had ever seen, with wild grey hair and a mouth that was far too large for her face. Her sparse teeth were bared in anger, and her black eyes were narrowed so thinly that they almost disappeared into her wrinkles as she hissed, "I am a High Priestess of the Old Religion, servant of the Triple Goddess, and emissary of the Isle of the Blessed. You will address me with _respect_."

"I will show you the respect you deserve," Uther said coldly. "Now speak your piece and be gone."

The crone drew herself up at that, eyes flashing, and declared, "I have been sent to issue you a warning, Uther Pendragon."

"A warning," Uther repeated evenly, leaning back in his throne. "Very well. A warning against what?"

"Nimueh has told us what you asked, and the payment she received in return," the priestess continued, and raised her voice so that she could be heard above the resulting furor. "And we have been watching what has unfolded since."

"Spying, you mean," Uther said, matching her volume.

"Call it what you will. It makes no difference," she retorted. "But we know what you have been doing here, and _it will stop_."

"_It will not_," Uther boomed as the small crowd continued to whisper feverishly. "I am protecting my people from the evils of your kind, witch, and—"

"The only evils that exist are the ones that you make out of shadows," she thundered, cutting him off. "You see enemies where there are none, Uther Pendragon, but if you continue in this vein then they will surely come. We on the Isle will not stand idly by while you slaughter our kin. They are under our protection, and if you do not cease these actions and repeal your laws, then we swear by the Triple Goddess that Camelot will pay dearly."

Then her expression softened as she searched his face. "Please, sire," she implored, the first hint of deference she had shown. "We have no wish for bloodshed. We wish only to live in peace. Please, do not continue down this foolish path."

Uther smiled thinly. "This path was of your own making," he said. "One of your kind murdered my wife, and others have—"

"Nimueh did only what you asked of her," the crone hissed. "She—"

_"Do not speak that name in front of me!"_

"—did not want to, but you forced her hand," she continued, shouting now. "And then you forced her to betray her values, the night your queen died, and now she is tainted, because you asked her to—"

"_SEIZE HER!_" Uther bellowed, and the rest of her words were drowned in the resulting clamor. Knights drew their swords as guards swarmed around her, stepping over the bodies of their comrades as she blasted them back — and for a moment Gaius thought that she would escape, but there were too many men, too many weapons for her to fend off all at once.

Once subdued, it was only a short time before she was brought outside to stand on the platform before the people. From his place in the courtyard Gaius could see Vivienne in the window, a pale shadow, and he wondered if she knew the crone from her days on the Isle, if she had foreseen her death and was standing there now as a solemn salute to one of her sisters. Overhead the sky was colored like bruises, and the blood-red banners cracked like whips as they snapped in the stiff wind.

"Cundrie of the Isle," Uther announced from the balcony. "You have been found guilty of the crime of sorcery—"

"Do not do this, Uther Pendragon," she called. Her face was crusted with blood, and though she listed to one side where a knight had struck a blow on her leg, she still stood tall and proud and undaunted.

"—and of the slaughter of the men sent to apprehend you," he continued. "And, pursuant to the laws of Camelot, I, Uther Pendragon, do sentence you to die." The wind whistled through the crowd as he looked down at her. "Do you have any last words?"

"We offered you a chance for peace," she proclaimed, staring back at him. "You have brought this on yourself." And as she was dragged forward to the block, Cundrie began to incant, softly at first, but then louder and louder until it seemed as if the very roots of the earth shook with her voice.

"_Stop her!_" Uther ordered, steadying himself on the railing.

But it was too late.

The heavy axe rose and fell, and the old crone's head was removed in a rush of crimson blood, but no one saw. Instead they stared, horrified and breathless, at the guard who had been holding her as he clawed at his face, leaving deep red furrows on the skin that was growing over his mouth, over his nose, over his wide, panicked eyes. He fell to his knees on the platform, then to his side, soaking himself in her blood as he flailed and spasmed and died. Finally his struggles grew weaker as his fingers, slicked with red, found no purchase on his suffocating blank mask, until finally he stilled, without even one last exhale to announce it.

Then the people screamed and screamed, and Gaius stood still amidst the chaos, because he had read about this terrible punishment and he knew what it truly meant: _ragaid_, the ultimate warning from the priestesses to their enemies. And looking around him he could see what the crone's spell had prompted: the end to the indifference of the people as paranoia turned to panic turned to hate, and the beginning of Uther's legacy.

The war had truly begun.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

Cundrie's body was burnt, the first of many and the only one who was dead before the fires were lit. Uther had not dared to build pyres before, when the peoples' eyes were still open to the horror and cruelty of his campaign, but now that they rallied behind him in ravenous support, babes were rocked to sleep to the music of screams, and they called it the sound of justice.

The ashes were scattered in the fields of Camelot, and for a time their crops thrived as though they had been fertilized with the magic of sorcerers instead of their remains; but when the ashes thickened in the soil and the crops choked in the ground, the people spoke of a curse from beyond the grave, and their hatred intensified. From then on the ashes were buried in the mass graves outside the fortress, alongside those who had been hanged or beheaded, those who tried to run, those who had killed themselves in the cells rather than die at the hand of an indifferent stranger while those who they considered friends looked on and smiled.

Those same smiling folk soon coughed and coughed as the ashes caught in their throats, clogging their lungs until there was hardly any room for breath, and again they whispered, "It is the sorcerers. Look at how their magic hates us, even after they are dead." And so the fires burned day and night, until there were days when Gaius would rather sit in the dark rather than see the flame of a candle.

The one bright spot in his life was that Alice had started talking to him again. She had stood next to him at every execution, her face set as she watched them die, resolutely ignoring him. She had remained strong and unblinking through every one until one morning when her friend from Bharata was led out to the pyre, small and harmless between two huge armored guards, and when the herald called him a foreign invader as he was tied to the pole, weeping with fear, Alice reached out and took Gaius' hand. She crushed it in hers while the fire was lit, until her nails dug so deeply that he bled, until he was sure that his bones would break, but still he did not pull away because her eyes were wide and her face was pale and that was her friend on the pyre, skin blistering from the heat as he cried out in his strange language until finally giving way to screams of utter agony as the fires took hold. Alice stood frozen until he was silent, until all that remained of him was a charred black skeleton and ashes that fell like snow in the summer wind; and still she stood, unmoving, unblinking, breathing quick and shallow as the crowd muttered its satisfaction all around her.

"Come," Gaius said gently, because it was dangerous to weep in public these days, and he led her back to his chambers, where she collapsed into his arms the moment the door was closed.

"I thought he'd gone home," she sobbed. "I hadn't seen him for days, and I'd hoped — I'd hoped he'd gone home to his — oh gods, his _family_—" And then she was crying too violently to speak, and all he could do was hold her tight.

"I'm sorry," he whispered into her hair. "I'm sorry."

"What had he done?" she choked out. "He sold herbs and spices, he told the most wonderful stories — he had four daughters, who will — who will never see him again, and — what had he _done?_ What have _any_ of us done?"

"Nothing," Gaius answered softly. "We've done nothing. It's Uther who is to blame for this."

"I hate him," she said venomously. "I hate him, I—" But then she was sobbing again, and Gaius stroked her hair and was glad that Julius had skived off today so that he had not hear her, because even if he had trusted Julius fully it would be dangerous to overhear such talk.

"I understand now," she murmured after she calmed once more, her voice muffled. "I — I was so angry, for a time, but — I think I understand why — why you did what you did. Because I don't want to die either, Gaius, not like that, and if I was offered a chance—"

"You wouldn't take it," he said. She was too resolute, too _noble_ to spare herself when others where dying. She was no craven, not like him, and as always her strength made the tatters of his remaining courage wither away in shame.

"You don't know that," Alice replied fiercely, unshed tears bright in her eyes. "You don't know that. I want to _live_, Gaius. I want to live _with_ you, to marry you, to have your children, and if Uther gave me the chance to do it..."

"I tried," he said, heartbroken, choked.

"I know."

"I asked if you could take the oath too, but he... he doesn't trust you, Alice. I don't know why. I don't know why he trusts me and not you. You're—"

"The two of you have a history," Alice said softly. "He barely knows me. It was Ygraine who — who was my friend. And you must not forget, Gaius, that I failed to save her."

"No," Gaius said, horrified. "No, Alice, you must not think that. You know that we tried everything, it was just — and he blames Nimueh, not you, he's never even mentioned that you were there—"

"Nonetheless, it is true," she replied calmly, though her voice wavered. "And even if he has not mentioned it, that does not mean that the notion is not in his head."

"Alice—"

"Don't, Gaius," she said sharply. "I've made my peace with it. And — and it doesn't matter, in the end. I'm going to die anyway, even if what you say is true. I'm — I'm only glad that I will not have to see you up there."

Then Gaius held her tight, and wished that he could say the same.

- -o- -

The vendor may have been the first of their friends to die, but he was certainly not the last. The Fosters were beheaded, one right after the other, though Almund seemed to lose all will to live after his wife was gone. Alice woke up one morning to find that her next-door neighbor had been arrested overnight, and did not linger in the courtyard to see her hanged. Edric Hawkins, the stable master whom Gaius had once cured of a fever, was burned for using magic to knock one of his boys out of the way of a frightened horse.

There were faces missing in the castle now — the cook's son, whom Alice had been considering as another apprentice; Lord Edrick's daughter, who had the most lovely singing voice Gaius had ever heard; the laundry maid, who had once scraped her fingers so badly on the washing board that she would have ruined a week's worth of laundry had she not magicked the blood out of the clothes before coming to see him; and others, many others, some of them familiar and some of whom Gaius had never met, whose absence was seen in the empty spaces and heard in the silence of the halls. Those who remained did not linger or laugh, but hurried from place to place, faces turned to the ground, viewing strangers with open suspicion and friends with an edge of distrust.

The whispers that followed the Lady Vivienne rose like the swell of the sea, threatening to drown her, yet even as she struggled to keep her head aloft, Gorlois held her afloat. "See how she's enchanted her lord husband," the people whispered, because the concept of love had disappeared with their mercy. "She studied on the Isle and came back with the knowledge of how to twist the minds of men and bend them to her will." But if Gorlois heard them he gave no sign, and though Gaius could see the strain etching itself on his face, the little cracks in his brittle smile, he did not show signs of breaking entirely, and so for now his wife was safe. Yet Gaius did not know how long Gorlois' trust in her would last, just as he did not know how long Uther's trust in Gorlois would survive, because the king's patience with his friend grew thin as Gorlois continued to protest and try to change the king's mind.

And Gaius found that Uther's patience and trust in him did not remain untested either.

Because of his many and varied connections and the knowledge it brought him, Uther often had him look over the lists of those who were to be rounded up. The register, while useful in the beginning, was dwindling now, and so the names of suspects were beginning to be drawn from reports and hearsay rather than definitive truth. Gaius checked them for accuracy, to ensure that no one's name appeared on the list without cause, but he suspected that soon it would no longer matter — soon it wouldn't matter whether the person actually practiced magic or not, so long as the suspicion existed. For now, though, he was able to save a few, and he would take the chance while it lasted.

But usually there was nothing to be done. He came across the names of many of his friends on the lists, names of those whom he'd treated and cared for and cherished, but most of them had condemned themselves, and if they weren't arrested now then they would be later because the evidence of their magic could not be hidden. And so he would say nothing, do nothing, and let them be taken, because at least it would be quick, at least they would not suffer for long.

And then came the day he had been dreading, a day on which he could not stand idly by: the day Alice's name surfaced on the list.

Uther was dressing for training behind his partition, telling Gaius of the matters they would discuss in council later on in the day, and so the king did not notice how his breath left him all at once, how his knees went so weak that he had to clutch at the table for stability. "_No_," he whispered.

"—the reports I've been getting from the border have been increasingly disturbing, I think Caerleon's thinking of starting a war," Uther was saying, his voice coming back into focus through the waves of panic and forcibly reminding Gaius of exactly where he was.

He had been expecting this. Of course he had — Uther had made no secret of his distrust of Alice, and frankly Gaius was somewhat surprised that she had not simply been arrested overnight without his knowledge. But still — there was a difference between the knowledge of an upcoming event and the reality of it, and now that that reality was staring him in the face, Gaius could see how inadequately he had prepared himself for it.

What could he do? _What could he do?_ Uther knew of Alice's magic, so he could not plead her innocence. He could not simply draw a line through it — it might still be legible, and even if it weren't then it would beg the question of whose name he was trying to hide. And Uther was right on the other side of the partition, so he would hear if he tried to tear it off, but — but this was _Alice_. He had to do something, he had to do _something_, or she would die in front of him, and he couldn't, he _couldn't_—

There was only one thing to be done, then.

"_Gedrysne fram þissum bócfel_," he hissed, and for the first time in weeks — in _months_ — he felt the thrill of magic coursing through his veins, felt the white-hot sensation that somehow still burned so cold, saw the ribbons of light and beauty that spread out through the world like roots and branches. And though it faded as quickly as Alice's name on the page, oh, he could _weep_ for how he had missed this feeling, this euphoria of connection, and for the first time since swearing his oath Gaius felt the terrible loss of what he had given up in exchange for life.

"Did you say something, Gaius?" Uther asked, jarring Gaius back into the here-and-now as he came out from behind his screen.

For a moment Gaius' bowels turned to water because Uther had heard, Uther had heard and so he _knew_, but a breath later he realized that if Uther had really heard then he would be drawing his sword, not strapping it on, and so he forced his voice into normalcy and lied, "No, sire — merely noting that the list is all in order."

"Good, good," Uther said absently. "I'll send that off to the guards..." And though he continued to talk for several minutes, Gaius heard not a word; all he could think of was Alice's name on the list, of guards bursting through her door and dragging her away before he could get a chance to warn her, and so when he and the king finally parted ways Gaius was sure that the king could have announced the end to all this madness and the warm welcome he planned to give to Nimueh upon her return to court and he wouldn't have registered it at all.

He had rounds to perform, medicines to make, tasks that were expected of him as a physician and a member of the king's council. But Alice—

But Alice.

And so he hurried to her little house, trying to run without looking like he was running so as not to raise suspicions, and he didn't even knock before charging into her house like the very soldiers he was trying to save her from. "You need to go," he said breathlessly by way of greeting, even as she screamed, and let the door fall shut behind him. He bolted it quickly and hurried to her side as the explanation poured out. "Your name was on the list today," he said, cutting off her protests. "I struck it off, but it won't be long — Uther _knows_ you, Alice, it's a miracle that we've had this long—"

"It's _friendship_," Alice said sadly. "Not for me, but for you. The king does have some kindness in his heart still, it seems. Although I'm not sure if that makes it better or worse, that he could still do this."

"Alice, we don't have_ time_ to discuss the king, except for how you need to get away from him. Please, start packing, I'll help you now—"

"I'm not leaving."

"You _must_," Gaius said urgently. "You must or you'll _die_."

"So I die," Alice said calmly. "I die because it's my time. I've made my peace with it, Gaius. I will not run, not while others face their executions—"

"Others face their executions because they _didn't_ run. And some did run, they got away, and you can too, _please_—"

"I will not leave you!"

_"And I will not see you executed!"_

His outburst moved them both to silence, and they stared at one another as the sounds of the bustling marketplace outside her door filtered through. And then suddenly her arms were around him, holding him close and comforting, and only then did he notice how hard he was shaking, how the tears that had been building since he saw her name on the list had finally burst forth like a dam breaking, because he couldn't handle the thought of losing her to the pyre but the only way to save her was to make her go.

"Please, Alice," he begged. "Please go. I couldn't bear to see you die, I couldn't bear it, not you. Not you. I've tried so hard to save you, and this—"

"Shh," she said, stroking his hair. "Shh."

"—this is the only way for you to be safe. I don't want to lose you, I don't want to see you go, but — but—"

"I'll go," she whispered. "I'll go, I'll go."

"I'll go with you," he promised. "We can leave in an hour—"

"Gaius."

"—we don't need much, we should take only what we can carry anyway, it'll be less suspicious—"

"Gaius. No."

"Uther can find another physician, there are so many in Camelot—"

"Gaius," Alice said gently, insistently, cupping her hand to his cheek. "Gaius, you can't come."

And finally he broke off, pulling away in confusion. "_Why?_" he demanded. "We could both get away from all this, start a new life together somewhere far away, we could — don't you _want_ me to come?"

"Of course I do!" Alice said sharply. "Of course I do. That's _all_ I want, Gaius, is for us to be together. But — but we can't. We — we can't."

Gaius stood, numb to his core, as she dropped heavily into a chair. "But — why?" he asked again, weakly this time.

"There's — only two ways that it could go," Alice said, her voice tired in a way that took long nights of crying until the reservoirs were empty, and Gaius could see in her eyes a sadness so complete that it cried out for the peace of numbness. "Either I stay, and I die, or... or we both go, and we both die."

"No, that's not—"

"It is," Alice insisted. "It is. Uther would not let you go. Not after all he's done to keep you here with him. If you come with me then he will track you down with all he has for abandoning him."

And Gaius could say nothing to that, because he knew that it was true. If he left then Uther would never stop hunting him, no matter where he went, and his wrath would be unfathomable. And it went beyond even him — if he betrayed the king, after all the king had done for him, then his last shred of trust in those who had even a hint of magic would be destroyed, and then this nightmare would never end. There would be no one who would be able to convince him that magic was good, who could maybe, possibly change his mind one day, and — and was the love that he and Alice had really worth all that?

Looking at her here, now, in the darkness of her shuttered home, with her laugh lines and the touch of grey in her long brown braid, he was honestly tempted to say yes.

"Don't," Alice said softly, as if she knew what he was thinking. "Gaius, you must stay. You _must_. I'll be fine on my own. I'll go — I'll go—"

"You can go to Hunith," Gaius said hoarsely when she faltered. "She'll take you in, of course she will, and — and it can't have spread that far yet. She might not even have heard about it, Ealdor is so remote..."

"Can you imagine?" Alice whispered, and then, absurdly, they were laughing like they hadn't since Ygraine had died. They laughed until tears poured down their cheeks, and they clung to one another and wept and wept until both their shoulders were soaked with the other's tears.

Then he kissed her, or she kissed him, desperate and full of all the things they'd never have, and though it deepened it lost none of its sorrow, and as they slowly undressed in the dark he tried to savor every sensation — every sigh, every shudder, every precious brush of skin on skin — but despite all his efforts, he could not silence the voice that told him, _This is the last time you will ever see her, the last time you will ever hold her_, and so he stopped trying to think and simply let it be.

"I don't want to go," Alice sobbed afterwards, when they lay curled together. "I don't want to leave you."

"I don't want you to," he answered, the words catching in his throat. "I don't. I don't. But you must."

And soon enough — far too soon — she did. She took only a small pack, filled with clothes and food and one small book that he had given her on their last anniversary. They said their goodbyes within the house where no one could see, and when she finally closed the door behind her for the last time, Gaius sat immobile in the darkness, breathing in the scent of her until he knew he couldn't stay.

And as he finally moved about his daily business, trying to fathom how he would live, he wondered if this was how Uther had felt after Ygraine had died, and suddenly understood how grief could drive a man mad.

However, Uther may have been mad but he wasn't stupid, and dinnertime found him in Gaius' doorway, pale and tight-lipped with rage. "Alice is gone," he gritted out, coming to a halt beside the bench where Gaius sat staring into the fire.

"Yes," Gaius said simply, too weary to deny it, too numb to care what Uther did with the confirmation of his suspicions.

"Need I remind you," Uther seethed, "what happens to those who run. And any who would dare help them."

Anyone who tried to run was tracked down by the patrols that went on routine checks, and were dragged back to be executed, beaten and chained and despairing; sometimes the patrols did not even bother, and simply killed them where they found them, bringing back their bodies in carts or slung over their horses like animals they'd caught in a hunt. Some were not even dead when they did that, and were dumped in the mass grave to live out their final moments with their fallen kin. Anyone suspected of helping them — giving food, water, shelter, even an encouraging look — was executed as well, denounced as traitors before losing their heads.

But the hole Alice had left behind had absorbed his fear, the fear of execution and the fear of offense, and so he said nothing for a long while, listening to the crackling of his fire and Uther's angry breaths. And finally, he said softly, "Sire. Would you not have done the same, for Ygraine?"

There was a sudden strangled noise, and then silence, but still Gaius did not move. He expected fury, he expected retribution, he expected soldiers through his door and a long, slow death, but instead Uther regarded him solemnly for a long moment before saying, "I will let her go, Gaius. But if we catch her then she will not be spared."

And as he turned to leave Gaius lowered his head into his hands and wept once more, because what Alice had said was true — Uther really did have a spark of compassion left in his heart, enough to spare him and allow him this escape, and it made his campaign and the mercy he would not give to others like him all the more horrendous.

- -o- -

But time did not slow down for his sadness, for how could it? There was far too much grief in the world these days for him to claim it all for himself. There was a hole in him where his heart had been because she had taken all his compassion with her; so long as she was out of danger it was no longer personal, because he did not know the strangers who burnt and so he could convince himself that they were guilty of monstrous acts. He could forget that magic could be used for good and see only the evil it produced, because it was easier, so much easier than facing the truth now that his conscience was gone.

And it was easier still, because the dark side of magic was all there was to see anymore.

The priestesses had not forgotten their promise of protection, nor their declaration of war, and fought with every ounce of magic and will they possessed, with every obscure incantation and creature they could think of. They created lamias and called upon griffins and wyverns to set upon the soldiers sent after them, lashed out with spells that crippled and maimed and killed, but in their desperation they did not see that they were doing far more damage than good. Every action they took to protect their people only deepened the fear and loathing that their people faced, especially because some sorcerers took to their example and acted in kind.

And soon the fear was such that not even the children were safe.

For a time it seemed as though they would be spared, that they could at least live until adulthood until they had to fear. But slowly, the age of prisoners began to decrease as the hatred of magic grew, until one day Gaius found himself watching the hanging of a seven-year-old boy who had only been trying to keep his little sister entertained while his parents worked, and didn't know that making butterflies out of smoke was no longer allowed. He had to stand on a chair to reach the rope, and he looked out over the crowd in terror until the world was dropped out from underneath him.

And unfortunately children with magic were easy to find, even more so than adults, because they had no control over their powers and so accidents happened — usually harmless, such as the boy who sneezed one morning and turned his neighbor's beard yellow, or the girl who had gotten so angry at her sister that she'd accidentally turned all her thread to worms. But some of them were terrible, involving injuries and deaths, because such power in the hands of an untrained, terrified child was a wild, dangerous thing; but instead of a teacher those children received death, and no one saw the folly in that.

Soon it did not even matter if the children had magic or not, so long as their parents did — their guilt was as good as a conviction for their children, and then whole families were being executed at once, tied together and burnt or lined up and used as crossbow practice; the young ones were drowned, and the orphans, and the beggar children in the street, because with their parents gone and magic sparking in their veins no one cared that they died, but everyone cared if they lived.

He heard reports now of the executions and the fear spreading beyond the walls of the city and into the villages beyond, villages where close-knit communities could be instantly torn apart by the hint of something different, something other, and that was what magic-users had become. Most were executed within their own village squares, but some were brought back to Camelot to die at the hands of strangers, and Gaius wasn't sure which one was kinder.

And slowly he forgot what life was like without the constant drumming of the executioner; the sound of it was as familiar as his own heartbeat now, and if he went into the courtyard he could feel it thrumming in his bones. He forgot what it was to see smiles on the faces of passersby as he went on his rounds, to walk in the market and smell burnt bread instead of flesh, to live without guilt and shame and terror.

But there were some things that he would never forget.

He would never forget those who would call out to him, to anyone they had once known to save them, because there were some who clung to the hope that there was mercy in the hearts of a few. And with his name on their lips, screaming and screaming and keeping him from sleep at night, the Lady Vivienne's hopes came true: their deaths lay heavy on his heart, so heavy he could hardly bear it, but he had to because he had made his choice to condemn them and there was no turning back now.

He would never forget the execution of the Brysons, a family he had known for years, who had warded their house with dark magic inflicting pain and disfigurement on those who entered in an attempt to keep themselves safe. The sight of their desperate son tearing himself from his aunt's side and flinging himself into the flames to rescue them as they screamed and burned and died would play in his mind whenever he closed his eyes until it seemed he had not slept in weeks. As Gaius treated the horrific burns on his face he swore on his life that the lad had no magic, even though he knew that though the boy had shown no signs yet, his parents were too powerful for him to have not inherited any of their talent; and the only thing that kept him from the pyre, just in case, was that he disappeared overnight without a word to anyone.

And he would never forget the baker's wife telling everyone down at the tavern that she had always known that magic users were pure evil, not two weeks after she had watched her brother-in-law burn for curing her son's fever. Leaving a few coins on the table, he left quietly, returned to the privacy of his chambers, and finally, finally wept, because the king's hatred and fear that had spread and taken root in the minds of the people had finally grown to fruition, and he could see no end to this great purge now that they had begun to rewrite history to fit this new present.

- -o- -

When the little prince grew ill, Gaius knew that there were those in court who questioned that the king would allow a former sorcerer, no matter how trusted, to treat his precious child, but the boy was brought to him all the same. Gaius had hardly seen him since his birth — his wet-nurse, a skilled healer in her own right, had handled all minor illnesses — but now Uther hovered anxiously in the background while Gaius examined the boy.

"What is it?" Uther demanded after several minutes, when Gaius finally straightened up.

It was an answer he dreaded to give. "The sorcerer's disease, sire," he finally said, turning away and busying himself so that he would not have to look.

"The _what_." Uther's tone was so low, so dangerous, that Gaius had to stifle a shudder. "Are you saying that some sorcerer has cursed my son? That this disease is some sort of revenge, on a _child_—"

"No sire," Gaius responded hastily, and said nothing of the children that Uther had slain. "No, it is — I've seen this disease before. It's quite common now, caused by the ashes in the air." Gaius wiped his trembling hands on a cloth, found his courage, and faced his king once more. "People breathe them in and get them stuck in their lungs, and then they sicken. The common folk have taken to calling it 'the sorcerer's disease,' because they believe it's a curse from beyond the grave. That is all. There is no magic involved, I swear it, sire."

Uther looked sharply at him at that. "You swear it," he repeated, soft as velvet.

Gaius' throat was dry. "Yes. I swear."

Uther's smile was as thin as the ice upon which Gaius trod. "Very well. How do you cure this... sorcerer's disease?"

"A draught of coltsfoot and thyme, and then this ointment must be rubbed on his chest," Gaius said, holding up a small jar. "Hyssop and peppermint," he added before Uther could ask. The names meant nothing to the king, but perhaps his honesty would earn him favor.

"And that will cure him?"

"It will start to."

"Start to?"

"In order for your son to heal — and the rest of your people afflicted with this disease — the ashes will need to clear from the air," Gaius explained hesitantly, eyes averted.

There was a long silence, broken at last by words hard as steel clad in soft velvet tones. "You'd like that, wouldn't you." The thin smile was back again, with a dangerous glittering in the king's eyes. "You'd like to see this put to an end, to be a hero to your kind—"

"They are not _my kind_," Gaius snapped, surprising even himself with his vehemence, feeling his shame curdling in his chest even as fear made his heart race. He took a breath to calm himself before continuing, "I did not mean _stop_. I just meant — by some other method, perhaps. Long enough for the ashes to settle and be swept away, to allow people to become healthy again." The silence reigned long once again, and when Gaius could no longer bear it he added hoarsely, "Or at least close the prince's window to keep them out. He should not be subjected to such things anyway, he is too young."

Uther's face remained hard and unyielding for a moment longer before he smiled suddenly. "Oh, Gaius, how could I ever have doubted you?" he said, laughing. "I have missed your council in these suspicious days. I feel I haven't seen you much of late."

"No, sire," Gaius said; now that the danger had passed, he bent over the king's son once more to administer his medicine. "I've been... busy recently. But you have Gorlois, do you not?"

"Ah," the king said slowly. "Gorlois. I'm afraid that he is bewitched by that wife of his. He will hear no slight against her."

"I do not think that it is bewitchment that makes him act thusly," Gaius stated, his tone carefully neutral as he spread the ointment on the little prince's chest.

"He is entirely without reason when it comes to her. A sorceress of that power, and he claims that she is no enemy of ours. Hah! He is blind to her faults—"

"Blinded by love, perhaps," Gaius said softly, and then his prior success made him bold. "As some say you have been blinded by grief."

Uther gave a harsh chuckle. "Blinded by grief?" he repeated, his smile grim. "No, my eyes were _opened_ by it. Would that love serve the same purpose, for Gorlois' sake, but alas, I fear that only grief is sharp enough to cut through the veil of lies that covers every man's eyes."

Gaius was at a loss for what to say to that, and Uther did not continue, so there was quiet while Gaius finished working. It did not last long, though — Uther seemed stuck on the subject of Gorlois, now that Gaius had brought him up. "He is a good friend to me," Uther said after a time. "He has been — most frustrating, recently, but still — a good friend, nevertheless. I know he speaks only out of concern for me; all his treason can be traced back to his wife, and it is time he is rid of her."

"Sire, _no_," Gaius burst out before he could stop himself. "She is not enchanting him, I know she isn't. She would never do such a thing. She's only—"

"Quiet, physician," Uther said, eyes flashing.

"But sire—"

"I will hear no more of this!" Uther thundered. "The witch is _dangerous_. She incites treason in Gorlois, and _I will have her removed_."

And though it took another week for the signs to show, Uther was as good as his word. The gossip that constantly surrounded the Lady Vivienne changed its tone: although they still spoke of how she was enchanting her husband, now they whispered of how she enchanted him to blindness. "How can he not see how false she is?" they said. "She has cast a veil over his eyes so that he cannot see her flirtations." And soon men were stepping forward — noble men and serving men, single men and married men and those who were already engaged — all claiming that Vivienne had ensorcelled them, made them powerless to resist as she took them to bed and then bound them in secrecy with blood and magic.

Soon Gaius rarely saw her in the hallways and never saw Morgana, but Gorlois stalked about the castle with an expression that darkened like a thundercloud, and Gaius could only watch with dread as Vivienne's final prophecy came true. Gorlois could forgive his wife the sin of magic, it seemed, but could not bear to be cuckolded, even if in hearsay only. He wished he could approach Gorlois and beg him to be strong, to hold out against the rumors, but the man had not spoken to him since the confrontation after he had sworn his oath, and Gaius knew that he disgusted him too much to even try to make amends. He could only hope and pray to whatever gods may be listening that Gorlois would remember his final plea.

But one night, passing by their chambers on his way to deliver a late-night remedy, he could hear raised voices — too indistinct to hear the words being spoken, but the rage in Gorlois' voice was still clear. He could hear sobbing, too, desperate and heartbroken, and he hurried on until the sound faded into the echo of his footsteps.

When he returned to his chambers he found a letter waiting on his bench, unaddressed and unsealed, and unexpected pain blossomed in his heart because he knew it meant that Vivienne had fled. With trembling fingers and blurring eyes, he sank onto the bench as he unfolded the yellowed parchment, and found only three words inside.

_Remember your promise._

And though no on came to his door, down in the courtyard below he could hear dogs and horses and soldiers gathering to go after her, and so all the long night he sat a vigil by the fire, holding her note in his hand.


End file.

Merlin, Angst