#spell gone wrong

The Council of the Roundtable was Arthur's first and most enduring decision - aside from the repeal of the magic ban - once he became King. A weekly forum where the Knights, the Court Sorcerer, Crown Princess, and Lady Guinevere gathered to be heard on the minutiae of keeping Camelot running.

Arthur still had the older council, full of the stuffy advisors that had so excellently sucked up to Uther for at least two decades, but this was to ensure that the future of Camelot moved forward and wasn't dragged back with the shackles of the past.

The meeting progressed as they usually did. Leon had led them all in the important matters, Gwen had been heard on behalf of the Lower Town. Percival and Lancelot offered reports on the borders. Even Gwaine offered sensible suggestions for trade treaties with other kingdoms.

Merlin himself had even reported on the progress of building and staffing the very first magical school in Camelot.

Unfortunately, there was only so much sitting around and being responsible that they all could manage. They were young still, full of energy, used to letting off steam.

Arthur and Morgana were (bickering) debating their current issue, namely whether to make the sorcerers of Camelot separate to or part of the Knights of Camelot (they were both against and for at the same time, but had very different reasons for being so). Leon and Elyan waded in, each with their own peacekeeping tactic.

Merlin technically should have offered his own opinion - downsides of being the Court Sorcerer, intervening between two equally stubborn Pendragons - but he and Arthur had already talked themselves round in circles about this last night. And that headache wasn't one Merlin was inclined to revisit.

Gwaine sidled his chair closer to Merlin, an air of mischief about him Merlin ought to have been wary of. “Say, Merlin,” he began, his tone carefully casual. “Can you actually magic someone into a frog?”

Merlin's face scrunched up. “A frog?” He wished this was one of the weirder conversations about magic he'd had, but it really wasn't. “Why?”

Gwaine shook his hair out of his face. “Well, I was at the tavern last night. With Perce and Elyan. And Lancelot going on about poetry and Lady Gwen and we were drinking to make that lovesick babble bearable and-”

“One of the patrons minding their own business threatened to turn you into a frog if you didn't shut up?” Merlin hadn't been there, yet he could see that happening.

Gwaine inclined his head. “More or less.”

Merlin rolled his eyes. “No, Gwaine,” he sighed, almost wishing it were actually so. “I can't just magic someone into a frog.”

As he spoke, Merlin waved his hand towards the other side of the table, dismissing Gwaine's question by word and action.

Unfortunately, no one told Merlin's magic that. As he waved his hand, his eyes flared gold, and there was a puff of smoke out of the corner of his eye.

“Arthur!” Morgana's cry shocked them all. Loud and scared, with all the emotion the repressed siblings usually pretended they didn't feel.

Always at the ready, Leon drew his sword. Guarded and eager to defend against whatever threat had vanished Arthur.

Merlin sprang to his feet, staring at the still faintly smoky pile of clothing Arthur had been wearing moments before.

“Arthur!”

Merlin scanned the room as fast as he could, his magic flaring out to sense Arthur's presence. He was still there, Merlin could feel that.

“Arthur, you prat,” Merlin scowled, trying to pinpoint the King. “This isn't funny! Where are you?’

From the midst of Arthur's clothes, beneath the supple fabric of his cloak, came a faint sound. Like a very cross ribbit.

Oh no.

Please let Merlin not have changed the once and future King into a cross frog.

Merlin scrabbled through the clothes, dread coiling like ice in his stomach. Perched regally on Arthur's scabbard was a small, green amphibian giving Merlin the most reproachful stare he'd ever seen.

Gwen gasped, her dress swishing as she turned to the sorcerer more prone to unintentional outbursts of magic. “Morgana!”

Morgana blanched, staring down at Arthur. “It wasn't me, was it?”

Gwaine's voice was full of his slow smirk. “Actually, I think it was Merlin.”

Eternally unfazed Leon turned wide-eyed to him. “Merlin!”

Merlin rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly. “I didn't mean to. It's Gwaine's fault.”

“I don't doubt that,” Elyan muttered, sending a fond scowl at Gwaine.

“It’s going to be okay,” Lancelot reassured them, Merlin relaxing at the confidence Lancelot exuded. “Merlin can just,” Lancelot waved his hand, “magic him back.”

Morgana scooped up her little brother, ignored his offended noise, and raised an eyebrow at Merlin. “Can you change him back?”

The worry in her eyes was well founded. Camelot was prospering, true, but the repeal on magic was so new compared to Uther's campaign of hatred and terror. Their King being turned - even accidentally - into a frog might cause some to fall back on old prejudices.

“Of course he can,” Gwaine replied, clapping Merlin forcefully on the shoulder. “He's Emrys. The most powerful sorcerer in the land. If anyone can do it, he can.”

Morgana shared a look with Leon and nodded, every bit as regal as her brother. “I agree,” she said softly. “But until Arthur is restored, no one can know of his condition.”

Leon stood straighter. “Perhaps an impromptu hunting trip. Just the King and - is Mordred still visiting the Druids?”

Morgana hummed a yes.

“Then we'll say Mordred is with him,” Leon decided, his tone carrying the weight of authority.

“No one outside of this room and Gaius will know,” Morgana finished, meeting their eyes deliberately.

It wasn't the first time Arthur had left Morgana in charge while he recreated, but it was the first time Morgana didn't know how long her unofficial regency would last.

Morgana raised Frog Arthur to her eyes. “Merlin will make you yourself again. We'll take care of everything until then.” Her blue eyes roved to Merlin. “You'll have him striding about the castle again in no time. Won't you, Merlin?“

Merlin could do nothing but nod, accepting the very displeased, kingly frog deposited in his hand.

“Right,” he said to Arthur, calling on his magic. “Here goes nothing.”

Merlin tried. Goddess, did he try. Incantations, intent, offhand comments and hand waving. Everything he could think of. All the while Frog Arthur sat in the palm of Merlin's hand, silently judging him for his inability to change him back.

He took Arthur up to his own tower in the Castle, the dedicated library of Court Sorcerer tomes and scrolls. Arthur made himself at home on the same chair he always claimed - the softest one, the prat, but Merlin supposed he couldn't begrudge him since it was technically his fault Arthur was in his current predicament - and watched as Merlin flipped frantically through them all.

He even used his magic to find the relevant pages with transformations or amphibians of any kinds.

There was nothing.

It was as if no sorcerer had ever turned anyone into a frog before.

… Or if they had, that person never became human again.

But that was defeatist thinking. Merlin never stopped to think if things were possible, he made them possible. So did Arthur.

And if Merlin didn't make this possible, Morgana was going to be very displeased. Instead of being changed into a frog, Merlin had the feeling he was going to be changed into a leech or a cockroach or something equally unpleasant.

With a final, defeated sigh, Merlin closed the last promising tome. Frog Arthur, from his comfy seat, let out a slow, deliberate ribbit that sounded suspiciously like a sigh of profound disappointment.

“Alright, alright,” Merlin muttered, scooping the froggy king up gently. “Don’t get your… well, don’t get anything in a twist. I haven't given up, you know. We're just moving onto plan B.”

This time, Arthur's ribbit sounded like a mocking laugh.

“Fine,” Merlin scowled. “Plan sodding G. Happy?”

Arthur tilted his froggy head, slapping his hand down on Merlin's palm.

Taking that as a no.

He knew Arthur wasn't happy. Gaius, however, might, might, be sympathetic enough not to second Morgana's unspoken desire to turn Merlin into a dung beetle.

“Merlin!” Gaius greeted brightly, looking up from his preparations for Lady Aelwyn's latest tonic.

Merlin spared a moment to soak in the unspoken pride Gaius exuded around him since magic had been legalised again and Camelot was thriving again. “Hullo, Gaius.”

Gaius either didn't pick up on or think to note the glumness in Merlin's voice. “What brings you here, my boy? I thought you were in Council until evening.”

On the long trudge to Gaius' chambers, Merlin had practiced the right words to ease Gaius into the situation. Unfortunately, the frog prat had other ideas. He loudly ribbeted, leaping from Merlin's hand onto the top of his head.

Gaius’ eyebrows twitched. “Why do you have a frog, Merlin?”

Merlin's mouth moved, no helpful explanation coming to him. “It's not a frog-frog, Gaius,” he heard himself say, high pitched and suspicious even to his own ears.

“It's not a frog?” Gaius repeated, staring at the very frog-like frog on Merlin's head.

Merlin shook his head slightly “Nope.”

“If it's not a frog, then what is it?”

“…'rthur.”

“What was that, Merlin?” Gaius frowned. “You'll have to speak up. My hearing isn't what it used to be.”

“It's Arthur.”

Gaius' eyes had never been that wide. “The King?!”

Frog Arthur gave a depressed ribbit of agreement.

Gaius staggered back a pace, sinking into his usual bench. “How did this happen?”

Merlin gave the abridged version of events. Starting with Gwaine's offhand comment and Merlin's unintentional magic that changed Arthur from Arthur to an adorable green froggy.

Gaius stared at Merlin for a long moment, centuries of disappointment passing over his face. “You must change him back.”

“I tried!” Merlin cried, dropping on to the bench. “Magic got us into this mess, but nothing I could do changed him back. I've been through all the books, the scrolls, all the magical knowledge Uther didn't destroy. But nothing worked. He stayed,” Merlin lifted the King from the top of his head, setting him down on the table, “all green and amphibian.”

Frog Arthur sent a very baleful glare up at Merlin. It was astonishing how clearly a nonverbal frog could communicate that Merlin was a useless idiot. And how it was incredible that someone as clearly useless as Merlin had managed to make it to Camelot, let alone to the prestigious position of Court Sorcerer.

Frog Arthur was very expressive. Strangely moreso than actual Arthur.

Gaius raised an eyebrow.

The nonverbal communication was strong in this room.

“I see,” Gaius intoned gravely. “Well, if your magic cannot change him back, perhaps there is some potion or tincture that will.”

Gaius did not sound hopeful.

“Arthur is the King, and Camelot needs her King,” Merlin reminded Gaius, all those lectures about destiny and fate and whatnot coming back to him. Fond as the people were of Morgana, some of the older councillors were wary of having a sorceress in charge. “What are we going to do about His Royal Frogginess?”

Gaius frowned in concern at frog Arthur. “Since magic cannot help, I am afraid the only thing we can do is wait. And consult our books. Arthur has assembled a wise council, Camelot will not fall in the meantime.”

Frog Arthur ribbeted mournfully.

Merlin nodded in commiseration. Gaius really wasn't any help at all.

Kilgharrah, when Merlin summoned him, was no more helpful.

His draconic laughter rumbled around the clearing. “Your King has been transformed into a frog?”

“Yes!” Merlin cried, a bit fed up of having to explain this fact. “He's a bloody frog! Now can you help me or not?”

“Not,” Kilgharrah said, and he did sound almost apologetic about that. “You shall find the answers you seek within your heart, Young Warlock. In time.”

No matter how Merlin cajoled, ordered, pleaded, Kilgharrah would say no more on the subject. Merlin regretted his father's death a lot, but never moreso than when he had to deal with the Great Dragon.

Fed up and cold, Merlin returned to the castle and his warm chambers, where he'd left Arthur with his sister for company.

Morgana was, indeed, waiting for Merlin when he entered his chambers. She looked less frazzled and irritated than when she'd come storming in on a wave of purple fabric and fury, demanding an update on her brother.

“Ah, Merlin,” Morgana called, perched regally on the edge of Merlin's best chair. “How was the Great Dragon? Did he offer any wisdom?”

“None,” Merlin grouched, throwing himself into the other chair. “Only that I would find the answers I seek within my heart. In time.” He mimicked Kilgharrah's cadence, scowling at Morgana's laughter. “What does that even mean?”

“That he already believes you possess the knowledge to turn Arthur back.”

Merlin threw his hands into the air. “But I don't!” What good was it being Emrys if he couldn't change Arthur back? “If I knew how to turn him back, he'd be calling me a useless bumpkin with all the magical control of a slug and dragging the knights out for excessive training after they made one frog joke. But he's not. He's sitting there, eating my lettuce and silently judging the Druids for thinking I'm Emrys!“

Morgana, strangely, smiled. “The Druids know what they are doing, Merlin,” she reminded him, as if Merlin didn't know that. “And in the time that I stayed with them, I learned many things myself.” Morgana sipped on tea summoned from thin air. “Did you know that wisdom and knowledge preserve themselves, Merlin? If one form dies, another is born. What we believe to be forgotten is remembered, if only you know where to look.”

“Have you been taking lessons in cryptic speaking from Kilgharrah?” Merlin snarked, too mentally exhausted to unpack what Morgana was hinting at.

Morgana shook her head. “Aithusa is the only dragon I speak to, Merlin,” she sighed, tsking reprovingly at him. “Speaking in riddles is something I was born with.”

Arthur abandoned his lettuce to ribbit an agreement.

Morgana shot the frog a scathing look. “I will remember that,” she warned, narrowing her eyes at him. “I'm trying to change you back. I can stop if you like.”

Arthur ribbeted something that sounded vaguely apologetic.

Morgana nodded, satisfied. From the depths of her gown, she drew a simple book. It didn't look like it had come from the Camelot library, the binding simple leather, no extravagant decoration on the cover.

“A book?” Merlin frowned, Arthur looking as confused as Merlin felt. “Why?”

Morgana simply smirked, rising to her feet gracefully. She picked Arthur up, kissing the top of his froggy head. Arthur swatted at Morgana with a webbed foot but didn't hop away. She set Arthur back on the table, winked at Merlin and wafted to the door.

“Goodnight, little brother. Try not to spend all night studying, Merlin,” she waved, winked again, and left.

Arthur hopped onto Merlin's hand, giving him a look Merlin could read well. “I know,” Merlin sighed, frowning at the door. “I'll get Gwaine to schedule her a meeting with that Lord who spits all the time.”

Arthur croaked disparagingly.

“Fine,” Merlin conceded. “Not Lord Spits-a-lot. What about Baron Mumble Monotone? The grain mutterer.”

Arthur nodded, hopping tiredly in place.

Merlin sympathised. It had been a long day. Bed sounded very good.

Such was the length of his day - and the oddness of his life - that Merlin didn't even bat an eyelid at setting his froggy king on the bed. Arthur turned his back as Merlin changed, something Merlin appreciated, but claimed Merlin's favorite pillow, which he did not.

Tired as he was, though, Merlin didn't feel sleepy. Bones deep exhaustion yes, but also kind of like he could power through all night.

And Morgana's knowing smirk was niggling at him.

He reached for Morgana's book, which he'd set on the table by his bed.

“Would you like me to read to you, Arthur?”

Arthur gave Merlin the most disgusted look he'd ever seen on a frog's face. He settled more comfortably on Merlin's favorite pillow, closed his eyes, and for all the world seemed to have dropped right off to sleep.

Muttering about idle Kings and their suspiciously smug sisters, Merlin settled into the other side of the bed.

It was a book of old fables. Nothing Merlin hadn't heard of before, told around the village when he was a child, spoken in the lower Town to children at festivals and such. The Golden Goose. The Boy Who Cried Wolf. The Ugly Duckling.

Merlin had resonated a lot with the Ugly Duckling as a child. Waiting for the day when everyone would realise he was a swan and not just an ugly duckling.

But none of the tales accounted for Morgana's smugness. Her air of superior knowledge.

Then Merlin turned the page, and there it was. A simple, crude illustration of a frog. The Frog Prince. The Frog Prat would be more accurate for Arthur.

Still, Merlin settled in to read the tale. Morgana wouldn't have given him this if she didn't think it would help. She was irritated with Arthur most days, but that didn't mean that she wanted him stuck as an amphibian with no way to change back.

He'd never much liked this story as a child. The spoiled princess annoyed him, a ball made of gold was pointless, and honestly the frog was irritating. But he read it anyway. If it might help Arthur, who was also ensorcelled into frogginess, then Merlin would read on.

The tale was largely as he remembered it - same spoiled princess, same Golden ball - but the ending. He'd never paid attention to it before.

“…One night, as the frog lay on her pillow, the princess leaned down and gave him a gentle kiss. In an instant, the frog changed into a handsome prince.”

“So all I've got to do is find a princess to kiss you,” Merlin informed his probably sleeping king. He read on. “Or someone who feels true love and friendship for you.” He frowned severely at the frog. “You're not making it easy on me, are you?”

How was he supposed to do this?

Wandering the halls of Camelot asking people to kiss his frog wasn't something Merlin could get away with doing. Gwaine, perhaps, if he was very drunk. But Merlin? It would set back the image of sorcerers decades. Or make everyone think Merlin was dottier than he was.

Which left Merlin with his conundrum. How was he supposed to find True Love's kiss for Arthur, when Arthur didn't seem to be in love with anyone.

“Gwen!”

Quick as his triumph came, it went. Gwen was in love with Lancelot and everyone could see it. Arthur hadn't seemed that disappointed when they'd begun courting.

Or there was, um, and maybe, um.

“You have no romantic life, do you?” Merlin scolded Arthur, the frog king cracking one eye open.

The look he shot Merlin was absolutely resigned. He hopped onto Merlin's chest, ribbeted mournfully and sighed.

Merlin froze, recognising the tone. That mournful resignation was the same Arthur always had when they discussed matters of the heart. With just a hint of the fond exasperation when he called Merlin an idiot.

Wait. What? … No.

It couldn't be. Morgana wouldn't arrange the pieces that easily, knowing Merlin would read the story and come to the conclusion and- no. Right? It couldn't be. Could it?

“Arthur, why did Morgana give me this book?”

Arthur ribbeted disgustedly. I'm a frog, you idiot. 

“Arthur.”

Arthur hopped onto Merlin's pillow, closing his eyes pointedly.

“This conversation is not over, Arthur Pendragon,” Merlin insisted, turning to face Arthur. “Do you-? Am I-? Are we-?”

Arthur opened one eye, glaring balefully.

“Shut up, Arthur,” Merlin scowled. “I'm better with my words now than you.”

Considering Arthur was a frog, that wasn't saying much, but Merlin would take the victory.

Arthur flicked his tongue out at Merlin, a quick, wet sound that communicated his derision.

Merlin sniffed, extinguishing the candles with a burst of magic.

Minutes seemed to pass like hours. Each second an interminable lifetime. Merlin stared at the ceiling, thoughts circling around his brain. Why Morgana had given him the book. What Arthur had or hadn't been meaning with that sound.

Every conversation they'd ever had played in the background. Every touch. Every look. Every act of sacrifice or nobility. Every shared smile and laugh. Every time they'd sought each other out over everyone else.

How Arthur looked so soft sometimes when he looked at Merlin. How that made Merlin feel, all sort of warm and gooey in his chest.

But this was ridiculous! Arthur was a king! A man of Royal blood and arrogant prattishness. And Merlin was just Merlin. Clumsy and gangly and awkward and magic.

Maybe. Maybe he could have all those things he'd never thought he could. The momentary daydreams of something more than what they shared.

Maybe, just this once, he could dare to hope.

But if he tried and failed, what then? Could a man live with shattered dreams? Could he endure eternity knowing his feelings were never to be reciprocated?

If he didn't try, Arthur would be condemned to his froggy fate forever. Never to unite Albion, or to be the greatest king ever to live.

And that was a fate worse than eternity with regret.

He had to try. For Camelot and the future of Albion.

Merlin rolled onto his side, watching Arthur sleep in the moonlight.

Such a small thing, to bestow a kiss. Easy, familiar, happened every day. Yet Merlin felt daunted.

He'd faced life as a hidden sorcerer in Uther Pendragon's Camelot. Fought undead armies, high priestesses, and the cryptic advice of dragons. He'd had to do horrible things he'd repeat in a heartbeat.

Surely this was nothing in the face of all that.

One more service to Camelot.

One more duty to the man who was so much more than just his king.

“Alright, you prat,” Merlin whispered fondly. “For Camelot.”

Merlin's lips landed on the crown of Arthur's cool head, a tingle spreading through them.

Before he had a chance to feel disappointment or worry that he'd just made the biggest mistake of his life, golden light surrounded him. A faint humming filling Merlin's bones.

When the light cleared, Arthur was laying atop the covers, real and warm and human.

It worked. It really, actually worked.

Arthur had changed back.

Merlin laughed, throwing himself at his king. They sort of collided at the lips, laughing breathlessly, kissing messily but with wild abandon.

Arthur's lips curled into a smirk as they parted, satisfaction emanating from him. “Took you long enough, Merlin.”

They'll ride well before noon, seven men on seven horses, at a brutal pace. Their horses will tire slowly, and they will make good time. Two days ride, but they'll be done that evening, and facing the reported threat by dawn.

That threat, of course, will be more deadly than reported, and will inevitably fall into a messy, frenzied skirmish. This will happen because the King will offer the man his life in return for surrender. He will receive a mouthful of curses and an enchanted dagger wound for his trouble. Merlin will retaliate, the man will turn to ash in moments, and the King will sigh and complain about overreactions as he is tended to buy his sniping warlock.

While he is doing so, another magic user will sling a sickening enchantment at Him which has him momentarily occupied trying to focus his own magic on untying it. With Merlin unable to solve their predicament instantly, the Knights five shall descend upon the man cautiously, but with rage. And while they do so, and the King stands with sword and shield to protect Merlin, a third man will try to curse him.

This will not go well for all involved. Merlin will relinquish focus for instinct, and unleash a great wave of power that sends all but six men from their feet. He will be scolded later, but at the time, the King will just be grateful to have Merlin freed of his invisible, frozen prison.

All in all, two knights will be wounded, three sorcerers slain, and two villagers rescued from death by the King's right hand man and the herbs from his pack. A young sorceress will curtsey to them, and ply the pair with sweet cakes her mother has made for the village celebrations planned for that night. She will give each of the Knights a different prize, but they will pocket them just as gratefully. The men from Camelot will offer their apologies for not staying to celebrate with them, on account of the many things they are needed for elsewhere.

When they are back on their horses and on their way again, the King will begin scolding Merlin for his haste to cremate the first man.

"You could have given me a minute to talk to him, y'know."

Merlin will splutter, and throw him a glare that nobody would believe meant anything but fondness.

"Talk to him? Did you miss the big cursed dagger he chucked at you?"

King Arthur will raise an eyebrow mockingly.

"Do I, or do I not, have the greatest sorcerer to ever live, now even half competent in healing magic, at my side?"

Merlin will grouse, and throw his ridiculous, dragon-embroidered blue cape at him, but his ears will pinken at the scarcely-veiled praise. The men behind them will trade grins, and make comments about children, and the two most powerful men in Albion will turn in unison to spit back their retorts.

All in all, it won't seem as if anything is amiss, and they will make the journey back to Camelot without further issue. That will continue to be the case until, of course, the King eats the gifted sweet he was given, and falls violently ill.

Of course, he won't realise he is, in fact, violently ill, until he's saying words he would never say, and pressing against the stone wall of the armoury a man very much spoken for by someone else.

"Sire! I don't think you're well."

"Nonsense, Lancelot, I am perfectly well. Let me show you just how well I am."

Caught between obedient decorum and the desperate need to stop anything from happening that would later being embarrassment, Lancelot begins easing to one side in the hopes of escape. He almost makes it, too, before the King's mouth captures his, and Lancelot will shove him off as gently as is effective.

"Arthur?"

Lancelot will close his eyes in guilty misery, for the man who speaks will be standing in the doorway with a crestfallen expression upon his elfin features.

"There's something wrong," he will plead, looking pitifully at the envy in Merlin's eyes, "he is not himself."

Arthur, for his part, will make another attempt to prevent Lancelot from leaving the confines of the corner.

"Merlin, please. Do you really think I'd-"

That's what does it, for if nothing else, Lancelot knows Merlin is very much aware of his devotion to Gwen. Merlin's expression will change, jealousy giving way to a panicked concern, and when Arthur grabs roughly at Lancelot's chin and tries again, Merlin will thrust out a hand, and the stunned King will slump, and Lancelot will just barely catch him in time.

The King will be lain upon his bed, and a feverishly concerned warlock will strew book upon book across the bedroom in an attempt to find a solution. Each time Arthur wakes, Merlin will give him water, feed him something easy on the stomach, and ply him with a sleeping draught before he gets back the strength to leave the bed and search for the Knights.

Besides Lancelot, at this point Percival will have been scarred for life too, and not upon his skin.

Merlin will sit in an armchair by the bedside, his fingers ingrained with old ink and dust, and try his best not to envy. It's difficult, to reason with his own heart, but he will do his best, unsuccessfully, to not feel slighted by the fact that Arthur's attentions, even while clearly enchanted, seem intended for anyone but him.

The council, convinced by the Knights, will confine Merlin to Arthur's chamber with him until an answer can be found. Merlin will grumble occasionally to himself, whenever his meals are delivered or a change of guards are posted, that really, where else would he be when his King is incapacitated by an unknown Magic?

Arthur will begin to fade. Over the span of two days, his waking periods will shorten to the point where Merlin feeds him no draught and he is still fairly swiftly unconscious again.

He will send word, expecting no answer, to the woman who baked the cakes the King consumed. He will plead with her for answers, against the wishes of the council. He will, despite their apprehension to let any word out of their King's condition, beg for the knowledge of what spellwork she used.

He will be surprised, when he receives a response, sent on furious horseback with the pageboy. The letter begins with an apology, and an explanation that the King's strange new interest in his Knights was not the intended outcome. She supplies him with the spellwork, an old favourite of her long dead Grandmother, and an embarrassed admission that she has not herself received any training in the world of Magic, what with Uther killing her parents and Grandmother both, during his purge.

Merlin will laugh in relief, and redden in the face as he reads her letter.

A love spell, of a variety. Designed as a gentle nudge, not at all as the queer personality change that will be the reality of her work.

I can only send my sincerest apologies, Lord Merlin. It had been my hope to help the two of you discover any love between you, as a thanks for your protection of our homes. The stories I have heard of my Grandmother's spell are sweet tales of hesitant lovers too afraid to confess, not the coercion you have written of. I hope that in your immense power, you will find a way to undo my foolishness. I will never forgive myself.

With that new information on hand, Merlin will of course save our beloved King Arthur from his slow demise, and upon waking, and realising the horrors he has put upon two of his most loyal friends, King Arthur will beg, as he so very rarely allows himself to, for their forgiveness.

All will, in the end, be forgiven. The baker will receive a letter on regal parchment and sealed with the Pendragon stamp, offering her tutelage from one of Merlin's most promising students.

A month later, she will receive a brief note, hastily scribbled in the warlock's handwriting, thanking her for her incorrect spellwork anyway.

And not two months after that, she will receive a much tidier letter, requesting her attendance at the upcoming royal wedding.

nsfw-not fully explicit but still a bit (I think ?🤔)

Agatha gets pounced on by Rio as she steps out of the shower into the bedroom wearing only a towel

During naky time Rio carves her name into Agatha rib side then heals it and does it again

Agatha always tops Rio

Damian, as a human or cat, was very reserved. He wanted his own space, isolated from everyone, peace. Unfortunately for Damian you were a very affectionate person. You would cuddle with Gar, comfort Jaime when he was homesick, reminding Raven she’s cared for.

Damian was the only person you couldn’t show affection. It was almost like he was allergic to it. But you were going to fix that.

As cats, if Damian was somewhere, you were right there with him. You loved it. He hated it.

Throughout the day he would try to avoid you, but you didn’t accept the hint and stayed near him anyways.

One would think Damian hated the affection you gave him, but that wasn’t the case. He kind of liked it, but he just didn’t know how to react to it. In the League of Assassins his mother never hugged him, his grandfather never asked him how he was, or ask how his day was going. But you did. You always checked up on him. Even though he acted like it annoyed him, deep down he really appreciated it.

Damian would never admit this but he got jealous when Gar would transformed into a cat play with you.

As previously mentioned, you were attached to Damian at the hips. Even when he tried hiding on top of the fridge, poof, there you were. He actually got startled by you and fell. Luckily for him, he still had his ninja agility even as a cat.

You and Damian were playing with yarn, well Damian was. No body knows what you we’re doing. Damian pushed his black yarn ball left and right between his paws. When he look over at you, that’s when he saw. You were completely entangled in purple yarn. He couldn’t help but snicker. Thankfully Raven was there to set you free. Sadly for you, she took the yarn away from you. When Damian noticed you pout he kind of felt bad. In no way was he going to give you his yarn to get tangled in, but he just his paw on you and you immediately felt better.

At one point during the day you thought it would be fun to pounce on Damian and tackle him. He just let you.

Damian was on the couch just sitting there, watching everyone. Even as a cat Damian was still intimidating. You could tell he was tense.

You sat on the opposite end of the couch. Damian didn’t know why considering how you’ve been all up on him since you two got turned into cats. He wanted you near him. As if on cue, you made your way towards Damian and rubbed your head against him. You could feel him relax from your touch. And you laid by his foot until you fell asleep.

That night Damian went to his room. Of course, you followed him. You laid on the bed just watching him. He was on his desk just looking at his thinks. He leaped down by his easel. He knows what his next painting is going to be. Being a cat for a day has really given him some inspiration.

When he was done looking around he saw you fast asleep by his pillow. He decided to join you. He laid there, cuddling with you, slowly drifting off to sleep. And that's how you two were in the morning, as humans. Starfire was sure to take a picture to send to Dick.