Chapter 3

Fabulous

Merriam Webster informs us that the earliest known meaning of 'fabulous' is 'characteristic of fables'.

This story is set in the immediate aftermath of the episode "The Crystal Cave".

Merlin tried to sleep but his thoughts roiled like smoke. As soon as he thought about one thing, another thought pushed the first out, until it was simply a montage of images, of nightmares. There was Arthur's pale face, his lips bloodless and his heart faltering. Morgana's cry pierced his heart as she fell. He felt again the hot breath of the dragon spilling over him like a tide of anger and the cold certainty in Kilgarrah's dire warning. Gwen and Arthur clung together, consumed with grief. Blood dripped from the knife and spilled onto the floor. The cave was heavy with magic; it echoed in the ringing images and dreams that sang within the crystals. Taliesin's eyes were an abyss of secrets. Death. Arthur. Morgana. Betrayal. Uther. And all of the images hung like some kind of strange fulcrum on the results of his decisions.

Merlin sat bolt upright, He abandoned the idea of sleep. There was danger in recrimination and he was all too familiar with the dark place that these thoughts would lead him. What had been done, could not been changed. Merlin feared Morgana's hate, as he had never feared her magic. It was a battle in the dark, and only he fully understood the consequences.

He rose and dressed, intent on losing himself in some mindless chore, working himself through this latest barrage of events and finding some peace. He retrieved Arthur's clothing from the saddle bag where he had left them before taking them to wash. The rent in Arthur's mail from the arrow would require more specialized attention no doubt.

He separated the fluid weight of the mail, draped it over his arm and, holding the soiled remnants of clothing he went down to the wash room, on the lower level of the castle. None of the servants had yet arisen to begin the daily chores of washing. There was only the girl who tended the fire in the main kitchen, and she was drowsing contentedly.

It wasn't until he slid the clothing into the warm soapy water to soak, that he glanced at the chainmail where he had laid it aside. He saw the stain of blood that coated the mail on the inside. If he thought the outside of the mail had looked bad, it wasn't much compared to the inside. Arthur's blood. He had almost died. The reality of that horror overcame Merlin once more. The coppery smell of blood rose from the wet clothing and clung to his hands. He had almost failed. Maybe he had failed. Maybe Morgana should have died, but he could not bear to think of it.

The weight of the lies that lay at the root of Camelot crushed him. Morgana, beautiful, deadly Morgana, was Uther's own child. Arthur's sister. The secret of Arthur's birth and the devastation that followed, swam thick as fog in the darkness. Merlin's own secret was wreathed round in so many lies that he lost track of them. So many lies, and so many of them, that he suspected he still did not know, would never know. And any one of the lies, might reach out and destroy Arthur. This time there was no Taliesin to soothe his thoughts. Now, there was no Gaius to ease his sense of failure.

He felt anger. He was consumed by anger at his own helplessness and fear. He was angry that Arthur's life had hung by a thread and he had been unable to do anything, other than weep. He was angry that Morgana should have died. The solution had been within his grasp, but the price had been too high. Now, her hatred would gather in strength and power, and it was he, who had not been strong enough to stop her. Would Arthur die some day in the future because of what he had done this day? There was nowhere to hide from this pain that eroded his strength. Blinking back tears, he took a wet rag and started to sponge the blood off the mail. It wouldn't do to take it to the armorer like that.

He berated himself for the thought. No blacksmith would be horrified by blood; he was acting like a girl. His fingers touched the ragged edges where the intertwined rings had been pierced by the heavy arrow. And then before he knew it, the pain of the last few days flew down on him, enveloping him in guilty futility, and fear and remorse, until his very soul convulsed with horror. His magic spilled out of him as he bit back the cry that burned in his throat.

Blue and clear, the light of his magic surged gold at the edges, as it poured over the rent in Arthur's mail. Trembling with power, Merlin's hand rested on the very place where Arthur's life had very nearly bled out. Never again. Never again, would these rings fail to protect Arthur. He swore, by all he held dear, that he would never fail Arthur again.

Merlin opened his eyes, fatigue echoed through him. He trembled with the effort of standing up, until he gave way to reason and sank down to his knees. The mail shone perfect and whole. To his eyes, the area that had been torn apart by the arrow glinted with subtle magic, almost invisibly. To human eyes, it would be indiscernible. Changing those few rings had cost Merlin dear, and the thought of reinforcing the whole hauberk was clearly impossible. But there was at least this surety. That small part of the mail would never fail again. Never.

Merlin struggled to his feet. While he had fought his battle of recrimination, the day had come, filling the chamber with light. Still holding the mail, he turned and sighed, as he left for the kitchen. Who knew what would come of this magic? He decided that Arthur would probably want breakfast very soon.

It was a few days before he slipped that same coat of mail over Arthur's head. Merlin felt his magic suddenly awaken as the armor made contact with the Prince, and his servant closed his eyes in automatic convulsive fear. But the moment passed and Arthur stood quietly as Merlin expertly fit his spaulder and pauldron to his shoulder. Arthur lifted and bent his arms, letting Merlin tweak the straps to give him the most flexibility.

"Fabulous," the servant whispered under his breath, as he felt the one place in Arthur's armor that would never fail, slip into place. It lightened his heart.

"What," asked Arthur. "Did you say something, Merlin?"

The secret warlock did not answer, but smiled as his friend slipped the crimson cape of a knight of Camelot over his armor. He had to admit that Arthur looked the part of a King out of legend, as the cape unfurled in a dramatic sweep around his boots. He even had enchanted armor, like any hero in a tale. The intertwined rings were replete with the pledge that had convulsed the warlock's heart only days ago. The fate of the Once and Future King was in his hands. It was enough to bring a slightly, sad smile to Merlin's lips.

"You look fabulous," he said at last.

Arthur smiled in return and strode out to meet the new day.