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The night was so cold that Arthur’s every breath hung visible in the air. Even with his woolen tunic, fur-lined doublet and surcoat, he could feel the blood freezing in his veins. He longed for the warm, fire-lit halls of Camelot and the lively feast he had left only hours before. He could clearly imagine his friends and loyal subjects still merrily enjoying the best food and drink the castle's cook could provide. Guinevere would be gracefully entertaining their guests. Leon and the other knights would be joking and drinking, content to celebrate the peaceful times the kingdom had recently achieved. Gaius would have already bid farewell for the night and retired to his chambers, claiming to be “too old for so much excitement”.
Arthur marched purposefully, being careful not to trip on exposed roots or to have his clothes snag on hanging branches. The woods would be pitch-black and impossible to navigate were it not for Merlin’s magelight, which cast an ethereal blue pulsating light and illuminated their path enough for them to find their next step. It was a good thing they had left their horses on the edge of the dense forest, clustered with ancient oaks and pines, for the beasts seriously risked injuring themselves trying to traverse the maze that was these woods.
The king shivered. Merlin’s light kept the darkness of the moonless, overcast sky at bay, but it did nothing to combat the coldness of the winter wind burning in Arthur’s lungs. Still, he kept walking without complaint. He could feel there was something different about Merlin tonight. It was almost as if the forest eerily opened up to him – a courtesy only extended to the king’s court sorcerer and not to the king himself, Arthur drily thought, as he almost lost his footing sidestepping a fallen log.
Despite the adverse weather conditions, Arthur didn’t mind being out of the castle and in closer contact with nature. In the relative quietness of the forest he could be alone with his own thoughts, without the constant pressure and expectations the court dynamics put on his shoulders. He also enjoyed the exercise, the feeling of his muscles straining to keep him moving. It was simple and uncomplicated.
Moreover, he enjoyed being in Merlin’s company, away from everyone else. He knew Merlin also liked taking long hikes in the woods. For the warlock, it wasn’t simply because of the exercise or quietness, but for reasons more profound than Arthur could quite grasp.
Distractedly, Arthur worried if Merlin’s thick wool cloak was enough to protect him from the chill. He hoped the new boots he had been provided with ever since his recent appointment at court would stave off any frostbite. Gods. Had it really only been two seasons since Merlin had defeated Morgana and exposed himself in the process? So much had happened since that fateful day.
“We’re almost there,” Merlin suddenly said, without turning his head to look back at Arthur.
The king squinted, trying to see any sign that they were close to the stone circle the Druids would be gathering at. He imagined once they approached the stones they would be able to hear voices, see the light from the burning logs, smell the burning sage used for the Winter Solstice rituals. However, the woods remained quiet and peaceful, no sign of humans except for the two of them.
“Not to doubt the all-powerful ‘Emrys’ in any capacity, but are you certain about that?” Arthur half teased, half seriously wondered.
Merlin looked back and grinned. Suddenly they were ten years younger, two young men barely into adulthood joking and bickering, before so much heartache, betrayal and death.
“Trust me.”
The warlock’s glowing orb went out. At the same time, Arthur felt Merlin’s hand reaching out to him and pulling him forwards. In an instant, so quickly the king didn't have time to blink, they were standing before the sand-covered shores of a lake, its surface unnaturally still. Somehow, the sky here was clear and illuminated by a thousand stars, which reflected so clearly on the dark tranquil waters that for a moment Arthur could almost believe that were he to reach down he would actually touch the constellations.
Arthur squeezed Merlin’s fingers gently.
The king turned to look at his friend and found that the sorcerer’s gaze was already fixed on him, a soft smile playing on his lips. Arthur grinned back.
“You got us lost, didn’t you?”
Merlin glanced away, embarrassed for the first time that night. “Possibly,” he admitted.
As he looked around, Arthur felt a shiver run down his spine. There was something eerie about this place, which the king couldn’t put his finger on. It was like he could hear whispers coming from the water, calling to him, pulling him towards the waters. There was power here, Arthur realized, power more ancient than what mortals were able to grasp. It perturbed Arthur in a way he didn’t appreciate but didn’t dare to voice.
Merlin, however, seemed to be in his element, much like he had as they traversed the woods. His eyes were half-lidded as he took in the sights and his breath slowed in tandem with the rhythm of the mystical place. If Merlin felt the ancient power, which he certainly did, it didn’t bother him at all. On the contrary, he seemed to welcome it.
Suddenly, Arthur was afraid, not of the lake or the magic residing there — he knew his court sorcerer would never let anything happen to him — but of Merlin allowing himself to be pulled in by all the magic. Somehow, the raven-haired man fit here in a way he had never quite managed back in Camelot.
The king forced himself to dismiss these foolish thoughts. It was absurd. Merlin’s place was at his side back at the castle. Magic or no magic, Emrys or no Emrys, nothing would change that.
Arthur let go of his friend’s hand and started walking back towards the woods.
“Come on, magical clotpole,” he called. “Let’s find our way back. It’s rude to arrive late to a feast thrown in your honor.”
“The Druids are not throwing a feast, least of all in my honor,” Merlin argued, just like the king knew he would, and fell in step with him. “They have graciously invited the both of us to participate in their celebrations of the Winter Solstice – which are taking place in Camelot for the first time in thirty years! This is a moment of great historical and political significance."
Arthur hummed noncommittally.
The king was well aware of the importance of Iseldir’s invitation. Arthur wanted to understand more about magic and the Old Religion, not simply because he could use help in dealing with the complicated repercussions of repealing the ban on magic, but because he wanted to understand Merlin better. Since discovering there was so much he didn’t know about his best friend, Arthur looked for ways to reach the parts of himself Merlin kept hidden.
“Hold on,” the warlock whispered and grabbed the king’s arm. On their next step, the cold eerie atmosphere of the lake and the clear starlit sky faded away, revealing the warm colors of firelit wood and the lively sounds of music and laughter. Just around the next layer of trees, Arthur could glimpse stones, taller than any man, arranged in a circular shape atop a small hill, surrounded by sparse winter foliage. The sky was overcast once again, but they no longer needed Merlin's magelight to guide them. “We're here,” Merlin said unnecessarily.
The Druids gathered in small groups around fires distributed evenly inside the circle. Children were running around, playing. Adults were singing, dancing and sharing food. Arthur noticed everyone was wearing light, summer clothes. Many adults, both male and female, wore flowing, sleeveless robes. As soon as he and Merlin stepped inside the protection of the stone circle, the king realized why.
Inside, the air was warm and pleasant. Even the ground was covered with vibrant summer grass. Soon, Arthur could feel himself starting to sweat inside his thick winter fabrics. No amount of fires could explain the drastic change in temperature. Magic was clearly at play. Arthur was surprised to notice that the thought didn’t give him pause anymore.
“You arrived just in time,” a calm, deep voice intoned.
A couple of familiar faces approached them, smiling. It was Iseldir who had spoken. He was accompanied by Balin — a boy, not yet of age, who often assisted Iseldir in his tasks. Arthur was surprised to see that deep blue markings covered both Iseldir and Balin’s arms. Before Arthur could examine them in more detail, his attention was drawn to the bundles of cloth they carried in their arms. Looking closely, Arthur realized the bundles made up two long, sleeveless robes made of fine material, delicately embroidered at the collars, shoulders and hems.
“We’re so glad you managed to come, Emrys!” Balin said excitedly. As an afterthought, the boy bowed awkwardly to Arthur. “And you as well, uh, King Arthur.”
“Tonight it’s just Arthur, Balin,” he was quick to interject. He inclined his head towards the Druid leader. “I’m thankful and honored to have been invited to be here with your people on this meaningful occasion.”
“Balin spoke the truth,” said Iseldir. “We are gladdened by your presence.”
After the proper greetings, Merlin wasted no time taking off the outer layers of his clothing, exchanging them for the robes that were offered by the Druids. Arthur followed suit, not wanting to cause offense. Not used to the excess of fabric around his legs, the king trod carefully behind his court sorcerer towards the center of the gathering.
Though Merlin barely spoke during the whole exchange and subsequent walk, he freely grinned and waved at Druids they crossed paths with. He often seemed lost in his thoughts, which Arthur had learned was a good sign that the warlock was actually mind-speaking with the Druids. It used to unnerve him, witnessing these intense, silent conversations, which Arthur would never be privy to. Now it was only mildly annoying.
As they approached the center of the gathering, Arthur saw an old man bent over a younger one. The elder Druid held a thin brush of some kind, which he used to draw intricate blue lines on the young man’s arms. The ancient man looked frail and weak, but his grip on the brush was firm and his strokes sure and practiced. After he finished his delicate work, he turned towards the newly arrived guests.
“Welcome, Emrys, and you, King Arthur Pendragon. Will you come into our circle tonight and let us paint your skin with the blue of earth and sky, so you can share in our fire, our magic, and our joy?”
Merlin bowed deeply in acceptance and Arthur followed his example. The king had read about fierce tribes which used the deep blue dye extracted from woad as war paint before battles, but he had never heard about using such a technique in protection and celebration rituals. And, before Merlin, he would never have imagined himself being so willing to take part in such practices.
The elder Druid, who had introduced himself as Sinnán, turned his attention towards Merlin. They gazed into each other’s eyes, not speaking aloud. After a few moments, Merlin nodded his head respectfully, a movement copied by Sinnán. Arthur wondered what that had been about as the old man began painting on the court sorcerer’s skin.
Balin, who had followed them, began chatting to Arthur about the rituals and customs that were taking place that night, apparently having gotten over his initial awkwardness. That’s how the king learned the meaning of the blue paintings that were soon to cover his own skin.
During the Winter Solstice, when the nights are longest and the veil between magic and the mortal world thins, the Druids revive an ancient rite: the drawing of woad patterns upon the skin. The blue pigment, taken from the sacred plant and mixed with herbs of power, is used to paint intricate, flowing designs along the arms and hands of chosen celebrants.
This art has become a rarity known to only a few elders, passed in secrecy through the generations. Each pattern is unique, a weaving of lines meant to mirror the harmony of nature and the constellations above. This solstice marks the first time in a generation that the ceremony is performed in full, for the flow of magic has returned to the land. The woad marks serve not as decoration but as a living conduit, binding the bearer to the Old Religion and to the breath of earth and sky. For one night, those painted in blue stand as keepers of balance between light and dark, mortal and divine.
Balin’s words echoed in Arthur’s thoughts for the remainder of the evening: as Sinnán invited him to take Merlin’s place and have his arms adorned; as Iseldir returned to escort them to the thick crowd of celebrants to fully join in ritual dances and songs; as he watched his warlock be warmly embraced by the community around him; as Merlin seemed to radiate with all the happiness and magic in the air around them.
More than the solstice, they were celebrating life and freedom themselves. Arthur caught many people with tears in their eyes. Some were joyful, some were sorrowful tears. But in everyone’s eyes shone unmistakable hope.
After some time — Arthur couldn’t say if it had been hours or minutes, time seemed to pass strangely inside the stone circle — the king stepped away from the dancing crowds and sat by the edge to watch the proceedings. Although he talked to many people and shared food and drink with all the clan leaders, Arthur found he did not feel tired like he should, especially after already having taken part in the feast back at Camelot. He sang along with different songs (some of which were in a language he did not comprehend) and learned the steps to half a dozen dances. In fact, despite all the constant activity, no one seemed to tire, not even the young children or the frail-looking elders. It was as if something — or someone — was sustaining them all, beyond the usual limits of the mortal body.
His eyes were immediately drawn to Merlin who was now dancing with Balin and his friends, all of whom were clearly awed by the presence of ‘Emrys’ in their midst. As Arthur had noted before, his court sorcerer seemed to shine in all the joy and magic around him, laughing and moving without reservation, following the steps and gestures of the dance with no hesitation.
Suddenly, something made Arthur furrow his brow. As he looked closely at the woad patterns in Merlin’s arms, Arthur realized the drawings were actually shimmering; it was no trick of light or sheen of sweat reflecting the brightness of the fires, but an actual golden, magical glow. Merlin’s skin burned with a heatless fire, like the sun was contained under his skin and the light couldn’t help but try to escape. Like the ancient patterns had opened up a gate to some otherworldly power which resided, unseen, inside Merlin. Both the warlock and the Druids around him seemed oblivious to the strange phenomenon.
Arthur found it hard to breathe. He wondered if there was something he could do, something he should do. There was still so much about magic, about Merlin that he didn’t understand. The glowing lines were apparently harmless enough, but what if his warlock was consumed by it? What if the singing and dancing were to happen forever and ever in this strange pocket of time, with the Druids feverishly moving, indefinitely energized by the power which flowed through Merlin? Would Arthur even be able to intervene? To stop it? To escape it?
The king had never felt so powerless, not when he had lost his father, not even when he almost lost his kingdom.
For the first time, he began to comprehend the reason the Druids called his friend Emrys. It was much more than a title or a sign of honor and respect.
The name spoke of the vastness within him, the quiet power that threaded every breath and gesture. It spoke of something older than kingdoms and crowns, something that did not simply wield magic but was magic, woven into the fabric of the world itself.
Merlin bore it lightly, almost unaware, yet Arthur could feel it now: the pulse of creation and destruction alike, bound in mortal flesh and laughter. Emrys was not just a name; it was the echo of the divine wearing human skin.
Then, Merlin’s eyes met his across the crowd and the warlock smiled. Arthur watched as he said something to Balin and the other youngsters before he started to walk towards Arthur. With each step he took, the light inside his skin grew dimmer, until only the blue dye remained. As he stepped in front of the king, Merlin was just Merlin once again. Despite the airy, thin robes, the warlock was sweating with exertion and his hair was a mess. He no longer resembled some otherworldly, divine being, just an ordinary young man with too-big ears. He was no Emrys, just Arthur’s friend.
Merlin reached down with his painted hand and Arthur allowed himself to be pulled up to standing. The court sorcerer’s palm was solid and warm, tangible proof that Merlin was right there. Arthur could breathe again.
“Ready to go?” Merlin asked. “I already passed along our goodbyes to Iseldir and the others through Balin.”
Arthur was more than ready to return to Camelot; he had no idea how late it was, everyone who was not assigned guard duty would already be in their beds. However…
“Don’t you want to stay a while longer?” Arthur forced himself to ask. “You seemed to be enjoying yourself.”
“I was,” Merlin confirmed. “But I’m ready to go home now.”
Arthur did not argue. The pair collected their winter clothes and shed the thin robes they had been given, efficiently redressing for the biting cold they were sure to face on the trek back to the horses.
As they left the ceremonial grounds, only the patterns on their ungloved hands were visible to the naked eye. Soon, all the physical evidence of what had transpired in the stone circle would fade, as the paint washed away. Nevertheless, Arthur knew that something of the night would remain. The memory of what he had learned would cling to him like smoke, impossible to shake.
Merlin called forth his magelight once again and began leading the way back, a spring in his step.
“Thank you for coming with me,” Merlin said quietly. “I really needed you there.”
At first, Arthur didn’t understand. He had barely done anything, said hardly a word that mattered. Then he remembered the reverent, awed gazes of the Druids who approached Merlin—and it struck him. He might never grasp all that Emrys was: the power, the mystery, perhaps even the divine. But he knew what no Druid could. He saw Merlin—the man, the loyal friend, his closest companion—the person Arthur could not imagine living without.
“I’ll always come with you,” Arthur promised.