A/N: Thank you all for the absolutely lovely feedback. You all are so amazing. :D

This chapter is dedicated to my dear friend Heather over on the Heart of Camelot, who gave me a much-needed pep talk and who has kicked my ass into gear with an axe-wielding Christian Bale and threats of boardwork. She's been with me for all the long nights of writing and I couldn't have finished it without her. Here's to you, darling.

Once again, the translation of the Old English is located at the end.


Chapter 3

Merlin's memories of setting up camp were riddled with missing time. He found himself doing things with no recollection of how he got to that point; one moment he was pitching a tent; the next Leon was handing him some of the wood they had brought for fires; and in another he was kneeling on the ground with a spell on his lips, about to use magic to light the fire, because he had never felt so much like the sorcerer of legend with Emrys Emrys Emrys still echoing in his head, so why should he hide? But he quickly pushed away those thoughts and reached for the flint instead, and was glad that none of the knights had been looking his way to see his hand outstretched.

The only clear memory he had was of taking care of the horses, because once again their placid natures calmed him and grounded him and left him almost weak-kneed with relief. He stood with his head against the neck of Leon's gelding, breathing in its earthy scent and feeling more like himself than he had in ages. He wished he could just sleep in their midst — never mind the risk of trampling, never mind that Arthur would question and scoff and mock. He was losing his mind, his self, because while he was still terrified and panicked and frantic, leaving the circle had left him empty and so very, very lonely and he wanted nothing more than to go back, and for some reason the horses kept that feeling at bay. But it was impossible because the others would never understand, so Merlin finished the job and forced himself back to the fire.

And then he blinked, and he was handing out a dinner that he had no memory of making.

Then the ferocious wind was tearing at his blankets, and he looked around to see everyone asleep except Gwaine, who had taken first watch; he was sitting by the tiny fire looking nervous and uncomfortable and afraid. But while Merlin normally would have gotten out of his bedroll to give him company and reassurance, he knew that he would be of no help now, especially because he could think of nothing to say that would reassure him, and so he closed his eyes and tried to sleep, because if he was asleep then the stones couldn't get to him.

It wouldn't work — his heart refused to stop racing and he was trembling with the magic coursing through the air and through his veins, and he tried to use it to force himself into unconsciousness, even going so far as to whisper an incantation when his intention wasn't enough, but to no avail. He remained awake, and so he rolled over to stare at the sky and watch the storm-clouds boil, and remembered what it was like to see the wind.

He needed to go back. He felt it, he knew it, and his mind and his magic and even his bones itched with the desire to return. But he shouldn't. Terrible things would happen — awful, terrifying, amazing things that would tear him apart in ways he could never imagine, could never be brought back from. He shouldn't go. He needed to go. He needed to stay here, with Arthur, and protect him. But Arthur was king now — he had seen to that. Arthur was king now, Ætsamne ond Forþweard, and so he could go. Shouldn't. Needed to.

"No," he thought, and the wind howled through the camp. The magic roiled inside of him, and he felt ill, like his head was splitting open and his insides were being stirred together with a hot poker. The world tilted around him and he clutched at the grass to anchor himself because he was going to fall away into the sky; then his mind was left open as his defenses fell to pieces, and they whispered to him even from this distance. "Ætthwierf, Emrys. Ætthwierf. Ætthwierf." And he had never felt pain such as this, never felt so dizzy and lonely and afraid, and all he had to do was listen to them and go back and—

A pair of hands grabbed him and he nearly wept with the relief it gave him. "Merlin," Gwaine whispered urgently, shaking him; Merlin could hear the terror in his voice, coiled tight and trembling, and he blinked up at his friend and coughed until he couldn't breathe. "I'm alright," he croaked, the biggest lie he had ever told, and when Gwaine let go Merlin could feel the weight of his stare.

"You were—" Gwaine said fearfully, then stopped. "What's wrong, Merlin?" he finally asked, the wind nearly carrying his voice away. "You've been — for days, you've been acting strange, but today... gods above, Merlin, what was that?"

He could feel the first waves of chaos rolling over him again, but he squinted into his friend's face and held on to the thread of conversation. "Something's happening to me, Gwaine," he said lowly, and laughed. The hysteria from earlier today had never seemed closer, and for a minute, just for a minute he allowed it to wash over him, and the fear of it moved him to honesty. "I don't — I'm going mad, Gwaine, and I don't know how much longer—"

Then the dizziness was back, worse than ever, and Merlin breathed deep and tried to ignore the feeling of falling upwards. Gwaine's hand was on his arm again but this time there was no relief, because they were determined to get him, so determined, and how could he deny them when he wanted it so badly himself? "I need to go back," he confessed, cutting off Gwaine's frantic questions, and the last of his will crumbled; he forced himself to sit up, and the dizziness subsided because he was finally moving in the right direction.

"No," Gwaine said, real panic in his voice. "No, Merlin, you can't — I saw you there earlier, you can't—"

Anger exploded within him, because he was Emrys, and who was this mortal, with his tiny, shuttered perspective, to tell him what he couldn't do? "I can," he said, shoving Gwaine's restraining hand away; in his fury the magic came pouring out of him, and he didn't know if it was sleep or death that made Gwaine's eyes roll back into his head but he couldn't bring himself to care. He needed to go, and no one would stop him, not now that the last person standing in his way was silenced.

And as Merlin stepped over the body of his friend, he knew that he was lost.

- -o- -

The walk was long and dark, because Arthur had decided that it would be best to ride just a little bit further away. Merlin had been glad of it before, but all he wanted now was to be there, and irrational anger burned within him once more. "Leoht," he said, and a light burst into life in his palm. It shone like a miniature sun; with it he could see the stones just up ahead, and he broke into a run and didn't stop even though his breath was tearing a hole in his side. He didn't hesitate until he reached the edge of the ditch, where he stood teetering on the edge and asked himself one last time if this was wise. "No," he thought, and smiled even though no one could see him but the stones; then he stepped through into the circle, and his magic sang to be so free.

"Wilcumaþ, Emrys," they whispered again, and Merlin laughed, because it was beautiful, because it was terrible and terrifying and wonderful, and he could hardly believe that he had dreaded coming back. All his fears were drowned in relief, and he was happy, so blissfully happy that he sank to his knees and felt the earth humming beneath his hands. He could see again, and he drank in the sight of thunder forming and watched the rain threaten to overflow the clouds.

Then once more he was drawn into the center, where the altar took up its call again, "Emrys, Emrys, Emrys," and he couldn't remember why he had been afraid. "Álæte, Emrys, álæte," it said, but there was nothing to let go of, because he had never wanted anything so much, not even his freedom, and so he reached out a trembling hand and laid it flat against the stone.

A fork of lightning lit the circle, and Merlin wasn't sure whether it hit him or came from him – he had thought that he had been drowning in magic before, but now, now he could feel every cell bursting with it — he cried out in unison with the thunder because he was inundated with time, past and future and present all jumbled into one and yet each distinct and tragic.

He saw the beginning, when long-dead sorcerers first charmed the stones out of the earth with their words and carried them across the plains, pouring their magic into them with spells and rituals and death. He saw a time when magic was forgotten entirely, when the earth and air and water brimmed with it but there was no one who could see it, and the stones became a place where people stared and speculated but never understood, never felt a drop of the power they contained. And Merlin felt a void within him at the thought of such an empty world, a void that was so huge that he felt it could swallow the universe, and he wept at its inevitability, because it was beginning even now and there was no way to halt its progress.

And overhead the storm finally broke, and the world wept with him.

"Hwæt sy þes?" the stones asked him as the wind howled in despair, and Merlin thought, "Sárignes."

"Sárignes," they repeated, and he tasted the word as if for the very first time. "Sárignes. Gyse, sé sy hit. Wé hæfde genæfd reord for hit ær." And he knew a boundless joy that wasn't his at being able to feel, to express concepts that he hadn't known existed until this moment but which were overwhelmingly, dizzyingly true. He had never before appreciated what it was to feel, not until he knew what it was to be without it, and he couldn't lose that again. "Gebíde, Emrys," the stones begged, and they pressed their desperation through him. "Gebíde ond onfind for ús."

There was not enough of him left for him to refuse even if he wanted to because the line between him and them had become so blurred, so he gave a wordless yes, of course I'll stay that they understood all the same, and ceased to be himself.

- -o- -

And then suddenly he was torn away, raw and lonely, because Arthur was there, holding him up and hurling strange words in his face. Merlin knew he should answer but he didn't know how, didn't know anything, so he stared blankly at him before the agony of being alone in his mind became too much to bear.

Then the stones whispered one last time, "þence ús, Emrys. Remember us," and he gave himself over to the darkness.


A/N: As promised, here are the translations. Please let me know what you think!

Ætsamne ond Forþweard - Once and Future
Ætthwierf - Come back.
Leoht - Light
Wilcumaþ - Welcome.
Álæte - Let go.
Hwæt sy þes? - What is this?
Sárignes - Sadness.
Sárignes. Gyse, sé sy hit. Wé hæfde genæfd reord for hit ær. - Sadness. Yes, that is it. We have not had the word for it before.
Gebíde, Emrys. Gebíde ond onfind for ús. - Stay, Emrys. Stay and feel/experience for us.
þence ús - Remember us.