Long live the king
(a Merlin fanfiction)
the sequel to Trust
by elfling (Itar94)
Rating: T
Warnings: angst, violence, question of motives, AU/what if-story
Pairings: Gwen/Arthur, Gwen/Lancelot, possible Merthur
Disclaimer: 'Merlin' is property of BBC and I make no claims, profits or money by doing this. I've written this as a work of fan-fiction, to be read freely for entertainment. By writing this I don't gain anything, but the pleasure to write. When I'm finished I'll return all the characters safe and sound…
Author's note: This is a sequel to my first Merlin story, Trust, and you must read that story to understand this one. (Trust story id: 6396144.) It's also an AU of season 3, so there might be/are some spoilers. I've had trouble watching season 3 and haven't seen it all yet (what I know, it's not televised in Sweden). I'll improvise. Of course, it's also AU begin with. This only makes sense if you read Trust first, it's not a stand-alone.
Sorry if my interpretation of Morgana (or at least other characters' thoughts of her) are a bit ...overdue. Like evil-overdue. But I try to kind of analyze the characters as I go, make their choices somewhat comprehensible, or … something. I don't know. It might make sense in the end. Hopefully.
NOTE 09/07/11: Still no beta, but I have re-read this and following chapters (up to chapter 6) and corrected what errors I could find and what readers have pointed out to me. Thanks for helping me improve!
I.
Silent sunlight falls through the window and lands awkwardly at his feet.
He has slept poorly tonight and yester-night and the night before that. Every time he closes his eyes all he sees is fire and steel and he can still hear a hundred questions pounding in his head. He can't forget. Well, who can, after such an idiotic and rash display of flight, magic, escape – whatever – who can forget?
Everything is such a mess.
Uther still won't look him in the eye or listen to him. Arthur knows that it may take weeks, months even, before his father will take anything he says into consideration. Because he's disappointed with his son, who so easily has missed that a sorcerer was his own manservant – right under his nose, using magic…Sorcerer. Arthur has this urge to strangle himself in sarcasm. Right under your nose, he thinks as he looks as his father and king, definitely.
Sometimes he wish it's all over, that it's fine, the way it was before: before he got to know things, before he started to ponder the ways of the world. Before when he was certain that magic was evil and Merlin was a simple idiot manservant and no way he could be magic. Nothing is simple anymore.
It's been one and a half weeks. Eleven days. Two hundred-and-seventy hours (it feels as if he's counted them all, one by one, fingers and toes). Endless pacing; he's beginning to wear a path through the chamber floors.
He hasn't faced Gaius yet because he's doubtful what to expect - anger or pity or silence; it's easy to keep away from him if he can avoid getting hurt while training with his knights. But he's seen Gwen's stricken face sometimes. She would say hello quietly, but not say much else, occupied by deep thoughts and her duties as a servant. Usually, she'd leave before he can speak. It bothers him that he can't take her into his arms without second thought.
He can't: everything is fragile now, and were he to break another rule, his world would shatter. His father…Uther, his father, what would he do if he found that his only son is in love with a maidservant?
Morgana is like a shadow taunting his mind. It's not easy to punish a noble. Especially not a female noble and the king's ward at that. So it's not really surprising that no one believes it when Arthur tries to convince them otherwise, he's pushed away, because why would sweet caring brave lady Morgana ever betray Camelot?
No one listens to him. It's doubtlessly annoying and angers him to know end – how on earth can they ignore the words of the Prince? Just stand there with blank, careful faces before steering him away? Why?
Arthur has lived his whole life by being listened to.
Uther still won't see sense, listen, anything at all; he throws him out of the room when Arthur speaks. Not that the prince of Camelot would allow himself to be tossed or thrown anywhere. The guards, when forced to lead him away, never restrain him and he looks tall and proud between them.
Sometimes Arthur leaves his chambers when the sun is a hot red disk touching the edge of the horizon, taking some of his knights with him. They train hard as dusk creeps upon them. At those times he can forget everything, names and times and statuses and Merlin – and instead focus entirely on his sword and his shield. Slashing up and down and meeting an opponent's steel with his own, an extension of his arm. He feels not the same surge of happiness or accomplishment when he's got victory, he doesn't smile smugly or comment the knights' sluggishness, just barks a new order and his men scrambles to obey.
A little out of character. He's heard mutterings about it behind his back. For some reason, his knights are rather … pleased about it. Relieved to be rid of his mocking, even if their muscles are sore. Sometimes - they wish that he'd break up in a smirk, just once, to know that he still got his haughty honourable self buried somewhere underneath.
It's strange and unfamiliar not to have goofy grin or a comment nearby, no well-known still a bit clumsy hands putting on his armour or scrubbing his floors or making his bed while chattering endlessly about some nonsense. To just have rid of this echoing loneliness that makes his heart go numb, accompanying him as he walks through the castle ... He's never missed anyone this much before. It's frightening and somewhat wrong, but he knows he has to be strong and adapt quickly, maybe even forget. If he looses his guard, he'll be pushed down, he'll loose stance. Arthur cannot let that happen.
No one asks about him. Don't they care or wonder or do they, do they but hide, are they afraid or fascinated or both? Do they think the prince is enchanted, that the warlock left traces on them all, by speaking and smiling and laughing with them? The knights are silent; the servants only whispering in the corners like gossiping ladies because, well, that's what servants do when their masters aren't looking.
Where could Merlin have gone? Is he safe? Arthur thinks at night, when leaning against the window-frame, watching city-life go by, lights lit in windows below. Is he even alive?
It's impossible to forget.
Sometimes when she has no other duties, Gwen comes by and watch with him, shyly, or talks a little, but her heart is heavy and there's still disbelief in her eyes. It's been a long while now since they exchanged soft careful words or an embrace and Arthur is too preoccupied to think about love.
Hopefully the idiot can take care of himself long enough. Maybe leave somewhere safe, outside the range of the king's forces.
Arthur wants him to come back. At least be nearby, so he can know he's alive. So badly, Arthur needs him to return,. But then, how stupid can he be? He's silly, to think that. If Merlin ever has any sense in his head (after all, he might be a warlock, but no way the size of his brain matches that his ears!) he should be far, far away from Camelot, Uther's reign, probably this part of Earth. And never return.
II.
Two months. Fifty-eights days. More than a thousand hours. No scrubbing of his chamber floors can erase the signs of his pacing. Back-forth-back-forth tapping on the stone, time should get tired and throw itself into a wall, frustrated with how he abuses it. …It doesn't.
Arthur still cannot sleep well. He's had Gaius – who has begun returning to his old unruffled self – giving him sleeping remedies, just for single empty nights without dreams. After such nights his head is a bit clearer, he can focus. He's back at his father's side but always on his guard, glancing at Morgana's side of the table. He has an ill feeling about her. But something, maybe in the way Merlin had – ages ago – spoken her name, makes him hesitate about confronting her directly.
It is amazing, really, that he's kept alive for this long. There's been no outland threats, no witches or ill-wishers, no poisoned wines or kidnappings or bandits by the boarders or even the occasional beast. There's been no move, from outside or inside. A period strange peace and quiet. After years with chaos, the stillness is uncomfortable. Everything is so routine. So predictable.
Except now and then Morgana would slip out of her chambers and Arthur feels uneasy when he cannot see her for hours. It's like letting his guard down; it can mean nothing but trouble.
She's begun looking at him with dangerously glinting eyes.
The feeling that something was about to happen itches in his neck, makes him shiver when he's alone, makes him glance over his shoulder whenever he passes by certain rooms along the corridors.
Arthur sleeps with a knife under the pillow.
III.
"You have to let go, Arthur. Let go!"
No! He won't. Refuse to. He keeps tugging at the red-stained tunic, not really able to see. Everything's blurry and wet and covered with salty tears, and he wants to scream - this can't be real. The sky is dark and milky white above him, colours mismatched, but it looks to close and solid to be a sky.
Are those tears? Are they real?
"No! No!"
He's crying but he shouldn't. He – the prince – a warrior – a man - he doesn't cry! Never, not even if the world ends. Yet there he's sitting with tears in his lap, his body betraying him.
"Let go. You must. Arthur. Arthur. You're going to be king. A great king."
"Stay with me, fight damnit! Don't you dare, you stupid blighter. I'm going to kill you!"
God, he prays, though he's unsure to which god he's praying. Please. This can't be happening. He can't determine if the sky breaks up to reveal a sparkling sun or a cold moon, it's a mixture of both. Then the world is filled with pain. He screams. Maybe of anger. "No, no, no," he chants, a prayer, a choir with only one voice, his hands are red, and the sky smirks down at him before it leaves. No sky... no sky...
He looses grasp of the tunic and the body falls heavily to the ground, a thud, his heart aches with pure grief and hot, white blazing anger.
"NO!"
When he wakes up he cannot breathe. The scream torn out his throat is somewhere in-between dream and reality, he cannot discern if he really screams at all. There's no dark, milky sky and the room is utterly silent and cold. All candles have burned out and night resides in the city outside. Arthur has to sit with his head in his hands, bathing in sweat, for a long time, trying to breathe. His chest contracts painfully; he can remember every panicked second of blood and pain and golden-blue eyes staring up at him, familiar eyes so sad-and-happy at the same time. Blood. Blood-blue-golden eyes… God! No! It cannot be.
Dream. Just a dream, damn it.
Uncertainly, he wipes his burning brow with a trembling hand, before lying back down and staring at the ceiling of the four-poster bed. It's red, reminding too much about … Arthur turns to the side, but the sheets are crimson, as are the pillows, everything around him is covered with red – he forces his eyes shut and wraps himself into the blankets.
… He should forget it in the morning.
IV.
Next dawn comes bleakly. Arthur stretches and takes time to wake, mutters at the servant who brought breakfast – punctual and quiet, the bowl still warm – and the servant blushes wondering what she did wrong when in fact she was behaving all too perfectly well and servant-like - "Sire, here's your breakfast, sire", "Please call if you need any help, sire", "Shall I take care of the laundry, sire?" - when all Arthur wants to hear is "Up already? I can't believe you managed to drag your supercilious backside out of bed." – because Merlin should be late as usual.
He dismisses the servant, she walks out curtseying and blank, and the moment she's out of the door he's forgotten her.
Right. Morgana's birthday is today. He should give her something as a gift, but refuses to think of it. She's a traitor. (Heart-pounding-blood through his veins as he feels the word on his tongue: traitor – Merlin was on the verge of being one, maybe he was one for a time or forever but Arthur has decided to trust the fool; Morgana, Morgana isn't trustable, predicable, doesn't falter at the thought of destroying Camelot).
It hurts too, because Morgana has always been close to him, like a sister… His hearts burns by betrayal. (Tears brimming his eyes: Merlin, Merlin betrayed him too, forgiven but betrayed, almost simultaneously, because the idiot has a very stupid, pure, loveable, selfless heart. Who could not like him? Who could not-?)
There's going to be a feast tonight, sparkling and warm and spectacular in the lady's honour. Arthur has duty to go, as a prince, but doubts it'll make any difference if he's actually there or not. Not now. No one will pay heed to his words and the king will only glance at him; the elders may not look at him at all, shunning him because they trust their king more than his son. He's the king, after all. His judgement surpasses all. Arthur is a mere prince, crowned or not. The servants are distant as usual; only the knights still respect him but he knows not yet which ones of them are invited to the banquet.
He dresses without any help, just like he's done from the day Merlin left, not wanting anyone else near him. Not now. The room's a mess (he couldn't bear them so he dismissed the servant hours ago), and he only nibbles at the food waiting on the table. But when he comes back later, he knows he'll find a spot-free clean chamber, maybe another servant with a nameless face and a goblet of wine along with his dinner.
It's a lot trickier than he'd thought to get all clasps set right; he has to bend awkwardly to reach some of them. For some reason, his hands trembles, the belt is a tangle in his hands.
Practicing with his knights. He's never looked forward to it, as seeing the subjects are so slow to learn, too easy to beat. Today though, it's a relief.
Still no one asks him about Merlin, or anything really, not even sir Kay or sir Leon speaks with him in any other manner than strictly formal. Kay and Leon might not be very close to him, they are still knights and prince, and always are formal with each other – but not so distant, cold, their voices flat. They discuss a sword technique and sir Leon glances at him worriedly as Arthur replies shortly and out of character, but then goes back to the fighting, concentrating on their weapons.
The ground is turned upside-down by their steel-heeled shoes. Arthur dances – not that he'd ever call it a dance, it makes it sound like he's at some kind of girly ball– with deadly accuracy back and forth while dealing harsh blows, and yet another knight loses his ground. He's steaming with sweat and the weak sunlight beating down on the field is like torture.
"Sire," a voice rings out, just as Arthur begins to dismiss his knights, seeing they have improved a little. "The king requests your presence in his chambers."
V.
"Father, you asked for me."
So there's been another witch or wizard spotted again. Plaguing a village a few miles south of Camelot. It's a bit odd, it usually takes awhile before Uther bothers with a place outside the city; then again, this is sorcery they're talking about. Arthur frowns. He understands his father's worry, but his heart clenches, what if … No.
No.
But he doesn't want to leave Camelot. Morgana out of sight for many days. If he does, who knows what will happen? "I will send some knights immediately," he says but Uther interrupts him.
"You will lead them." The ultimatum: it says, written on the king's forehead, do this and regain my trust.
"Father, I believe sir Leon will be an excellent leader," Arthur says firmly, tries to stay as Uther's ally and still disobey him. It's hard since his father has been giving him the cold shoulder for weeks. He's not lying; sir Leon has both strength and courage and has led several missions in the past. It doesn't even occur to Arthur that he's praising someone who isn't even present, he rarely does such things, at least that's how the old Arthur would've acted. He's alien to this new Arthur: himself. Especially since Merlin's left and isn't there to insult him and constantly point out his flaws un-begrudgingly.
"Arthur, I'm not talking to you as a father," the king says and the words streaks a painful chord in Arthur's heart – he realizes how weak he is; "I'm talking to you as a king."
Damn it. While I'm gone, don't dare do anything, Morgana…
"When will I leave?"
"At dawn tomorrow." When he's probably a bit groggy from sweet foreign wine and stuck with false laughter hitching in his throat.
VI.
It's a beautiful day. The sunlight is soft and smooth against his skin. Birds are chirping in the nearby trees and the air is comfortable crispy. Easy to breathe in and out. Cooling his lungs. Soon autumn will fall into winter but right now he's neither cold or even unhappy. He's got food in his stomach and a cloak on his shoulders and knows that he will probably live to see another day.
What death-condemned exiled man wouldn't be happier?
Except he truly could be.
Merlin is still clumsy and bad at navigating smoothly through a forest, but he keeps away from the roads and cities, unless when he truly has to. Food and money are scarce, he had absolutely nothing when he left and he yet is very empty-handed. He still feels bad about stealing that loaf from the unsuspecting, friendly baker. Or that piece of cloth hanging to dry. It's happened more than once, but he has to, to survive. However it doesn't make up for his conscience. Stealing is for the desperate and the cold-hearted, and he rather categorizes himself with the former.
… He often wishes things were different. That he was back home. Home.
He's realized he can't go to Ealdor. He'd too easily get caught. The king must be searching the kingdom for him, and it would be no surprise if some loyal knight is waiting in his home village for his appearance. It hurts to abandon Ealdor like that, and he hopes that no one there gets harmed because of him. God, his mother. Does she miss him as he misses her?
She must surely know by now, about the mess he's caught himself in. She'd not scowl him. She's not like that. Instead she'd try convincing him to go far away to someplace safe, far away from Camelot, Uther, Arthur, Arthur. Always so caring and protective and putting others before herself.
But he can't bring himself to step too far away from the Kingdom That Bans Magic, land that breaths of ancient powers suppressed and anger and doubt and Future Albion.
Usually he sleeps under the shadow of a tree, but last night he managed to find place in the corner of a stranger's heart. They allowed him to rest and eat under their roof. They do not know who he really is and would never suspect him either, he hopes – he's helped them with yesterday's work at the fields, earning his brief stay. He's got not the heart to sneak into the night and steal. It'd certainly be easy for him, with his gift. But he doesn't.
He's too selfless to do that, he suppose.
This is also as far away from Camelot he dares go, many miles between the city and the village; thus they will unlikely connect him with the sorcerer who escaped the executor's axe about a month ago. He's just a traveller, a peasant, a nobody seeking a living, and right now it suits him fine.
Despite that, he does hear rumours. It makes him stay hidden for days after hearing it, afraid and truly alone, before moving on to the next place. An abandoned cottage, a tiny village happy to have his help, a clearing in the middle of nowhere. Sometimes when he finds an isolated safe spot, he feels a bit of freedom, and dares to use magic to warm himself or shield himself from the rain. To be reminded of whom he is. Of purposes, destiny, the dragon Kilgarrah's long-ago words. Of Arthur.
His heart burns.
Though he dislikes admitting it, Merlin misses Arthur (his insults, his prattiness, his wonderful valour sometimes peeking through the foliage, even polishing those dirty boots of his– hang on, no, he can't be missing that!) maybe even more than he misses his own mother.
VII.
He's distracted. Keeps glancing at the large wooden doors, ready to bolt, but his face is impassively calm as usual. Tinted with a tiny smile. When he grips the goblet, his arms are tense and knuckles white. "To Lady Morgana!" fills the air. "Happy birthday! Happy birthday!" roars the people in the hall, and Arthur murmurs along with them. The words continues to bounce happily up and down at the table, across colourful tapestries, over people's faces. Happy Birthday, cheers, milady.
Morgana is surrounded by smiles and gifts and suitors' voices. There are always one or two knights trying to woo her, and tonight is no difference. Some gifts are tiny, others are magnificent, each one taking place in the soft candlelight. Silken dresses, a decorated hand-held mirror, exotic fabrics from far and wide. Arthur wants to avoid trouble of any kind and gives her a whole set of jewellery, beautiful and golden and rarely expensive.
Nothing scarlet - crimson like blood or sharing the colour of the drapery hanging behind her or the ruby jewellery plastered to her dress.
Nothing sharp against her skin.
Before, he might have given her something bolder, a fine horse or a knife perhaps, but now all he can think of is how dangerous it would be to present Morgana with any kind of weapon. Anything she might use to her advantage. (But you forget, Arthur, he tells himself, she's got magic. What does a weapon of iron mean when she can wield such a power?)
His heart still burns for her, though, even if he no longer trusts her. Arthur wants to love her, to be able to spill secrets for her, to trust her alone with his father. But he cannot. Who knows what she will do once she has the chance of harming Camelot or the king?
Uther smiles, proud that his son finally seems to be coming to his senses and getting along with his beloved Morgana again. Lastly he presents his gift to the lady, as music bounces with laughter around the room, tinkling on the walls. The hall doesn't fall silent, but every man or woman, seated or standing, leans closer in anticipation. They all want to see what the king is giving the lady on her day.
Arthur's blood freezes in his veins. He has nothing to grip tightly in his hand to calm his nerves, so he ends up digging his nails into his palm.
The wooden box is opened to reveal a knife. The blade is finely crafted, looking like ice in Morgana's hands, and Arthur feels his heart beat like a drum against his ribcage. An overwhelming sense of danger presenting itself and bowing at the lady's feet makes him grip the edges of the table firmly, thinking Where's my sword? and When will she strike? Will she at all?
VIII.
It's a long, hard day's work at the fields. He's bathing in sweat, and his hands feels dulled. He tries not to be clumsy, to earn his tiny fee, and somehow when he's not a servant – not lower than anybody else, not having any master – it's a little easier. There's no one to impress but himself, and that works fine with him. His employer, an old man without any living family, calls out for him; the old man never gets his name right ("Mervin, Martin!") but Merlin cannot care. Better let the man be a bit confused.
"Boy, c'mon in, there's food on the table. Ye've worked enough for today."
The field seems vast when Merlin looks over it. He's almost finished.
"Thank you," he says to the old man as he walks inside the small house, taking seat in front of a bowl. It's filled with some steaming, mushy...something. God, he's worse a cook than Gaius ever was! he can't help thinking, regretting it at once; his face clouded.
This is the fifth day Merlin has spent here. He has to move on soon again, but he feels bad about leaving the man on his own - he's weak and old, and it's uncertain if he will survive the upcoming winter. Hopefully, the villagers will help him once the raven-haired boy has gone...far, far away again.
The sun is melting into the horizon, scarlet mixed with amethyst.
"What's on yer mind, boy? Old I might be, but I haven't lost all of my senses."
"N-nothing, nothing..." Merlin feels ashamed and stirs the stew, nibbling at it. "I was just lost in thoughts. That's all."
"Missing someone?"
"Yes, I…" The words tumble out of his mouth before he realizes his mistake, catching it and blushing. "Uh, never mind. I'll go back to the field, there's still work to be done. Thank you for the meal." He's barely tasted it.
The old man regards him with sharp eyes, but lets it slip and Merlin walks back out into the dying sunlight.
IX.
The next day, maybe after mere hours, it's hard to tell - he's roughly awoken by shouting voices and fire. Smoke fills his lungs and he cries out in panic before opening his eyes, greeted by red and yellow. His eyes sting painfully, watered, his hands are hot and his skin burns. The fire is bare inches away from him. He can't even begin to comprehend the situation, before he's reaching out with his magic. Pure instinct fills his veins and the flames are pushed away from him, like he's wearing a shield.
Where's the old man? What's going on? An accident? Did someone put the house on fire? Did lightning strike overnight?
The roof collapses in front of him. Merlin shouts, again, seeing a hunched over figure cowering on the other side of the room. Without touching anything, he lifts the wood and the fire away, grabs the man's arm and flees the building. His face is covered with soot.
"…What's going on!" he gasps and swallows several mouthfuls of crisp air. The sun has just risen. There is no smoke coming from down the road where the village is, but the old man's house and crops are ruined and the forest around it set ablaze.
A large group of people are gathered by the edge of the field, shouting accusations and Merlin's heart skips a beat – How do they know? - When he steps forward, hands raised as to signal peace, the villagers angrily raises their torches.
"Why are you doing this?" Merlin shouts, and the man behind him wails and cries, having lost his home, the one thing he owned.
"Foul sorcerer!" is the answer. "You tricked us! Tricked us to believe you, when you just were here to save your own skin! Leave now, sorcerer, or we'll kill you!"
Would they really do that? fleets through his mind. Can they do such a thing? Or will they turn me over to Uther's men? At the thoughts, his eyes widen. There must be knights nearby! "Let me explain, please," he tries, but is cut off. The old man…he's innocent-
"Don't throw your poor excuses at us!"
A man whose face he doesn't recognize swings an axe at him, and Merlin stumbles backwards to avoid being harmed. He doesn't want to hurt anyone. He has to flee now before it's too late. But what would happen then to the villagers? Would Uther have sense and mercy? Would he punish them? Merlin feels hopelessly at loss of what to do.
He is truly selfish. Taking advantage of other people's kindness. What else could he do? He looks at the poor old man, heart aching knowing that he might die because of him. Because of his damned magic. The old man looks back at him in pity, wrinkled and shadowed.
"Go, boy," he says, like he understands.
Merlin runs - helpless in the face of fate – hating himself, because he's afraid he's just condemned a man to his death.
X.
The night is cold and uneasy. Arthur isn't asleep, but walking back and forth like in a haze. The thought of sending a servant or a knight to check on his father every now and then nags at his mind, but he cannot do that without raising suspicion and worry.
Do you really believe that Morgana would harm a soul, a voice keeps muttering in his mind, trying to defy what he already knows, in his heart: Merlin was a traitor too for goodness sake!
I let him go, didn't I? He's still free and out there, somewhere, alive. At least I hope he's alive. I trust him to get into trouble but ... Arthur bites his lower lip and pauses on his fifty-sixth step. Maybe fifty-seventh, he's unsure. Do I really trust him that much? Do I really want to believe that Morgana is going to harm father?... Maybe they're right! Maybe father is right. I've been brainwashed. I'm brainwashed, paranoid, deluded, crazy, enchanted, mad.
Frustrated, he attacks a pillow with balled fists and really wishes it's someone's big head, and he wants to have a tongue-lashing with the big idiot Merlin again to let off steam – maybe throw a tantrum and a shoe at the boy and hear that he's acting like a prat. A relieving confirmation. But he's alone now and doesn't know how to deal. Usually if there was an enemy threatening Camelot and Uther, he'd hunt down and kill them. But Morgana... he can't...
She's family! Childhood friends since always and in the past, a sister to him. And he doesn't understand why on earth she would want to harm Camelot. even if she has magic – it doesn't need to be used to hurt!...Merlin said that once. Or twice. Magic's a weapon…what decides whether it's good or evil is the wielder: like a sword and its fighter …Unless she wants some kind of revenge he doesn't understand or know about, unless she hates Uther with a passion...wants to overthrow him... Is that it? Does she think him as an unjust king? A faulty guardian? Slayer of so many of her kind, and many others who were innocent, forced into flames, face-to-face with an axe? Is that it? Is that it? ("Of course it is, of course.")
The reasons feel so bleak (maybe, maybe not bleak at all, no, but strange and alien) because he cannot comprehend how it is to have magic, flowing in your veins and sharing your breath.