Athur's note: Thanks everyone who have read this far, faved/alerted or reviewed! I appreciate all support. Sorry for another late update.
On characters' use of magic and spells: I've tried to stay as correct as possible and tried to use spells from the actual series, without having to come up with new ones. In previous chapters I've never written any spells when Merlin (or others) use magic, but use some in this and possible later chapters. Spells are in Old English (I think: that's what the producers of the show says). Also sometimes I will make Merlin use magic without spells; I think he can do a lot more without words than what's shown on the show, as in the beginning he could do much instinctively, that sort of thing doesn't just fade away. Morgana, Morgause and others who aren't as powerful will always use words (exception is when Morgana has visions, of course...). (Mordred might be an exception. OH SPOILER!)
Some characters are very difficult to write. Arthur, Morgana and Uther mostly. They've got several sides that are very difficult to explore. I also try and mix elements from the old Arthurian Legends into this story (which may be noted later). Also, I know thiso is a slow update and yes, I am a bit distracted, but also able to multitask (am working on another decidedly more humorous Merlin fic, 'A Prince's best friend' wherein Merlin is turned into a feline...) More on that another time though. Now, back to the story. I'm trying to twine together the threads. (I often lose the ends and fumbles for them.)
All errors are mine. Still not betaread.
Long Live the King [7]
LXXI.
It's so easy to fool those stupid guards. She knows every way around the castle and no one notices her as she walks toward the royal chambers with a confident stride, the cloak casting long shadows in the torchlight. In her right hand she clenches to a mandrake root, black and dripping, wrapped in a piece of cloth to conceal it from view.
When reaching the king's chambers, her eyes gleam golden, the lock clicking open when she murmurs the ancient word. For a brief moment she pauses, but nothing moves or stirs, no footsteps are coming her way – so she slips inside the room, snarling in disgust at feeling such a presence embedded in the room, the presence of the man she hates.
They are all so stupid.
This time she will succeed.
This time, she won't let some stupid servant boy come in her way.
LXXII.
"Camelot is quite impressive, yeah?" the man with dark unruly hair remarks glancing at his companion. The latter isn't cloaked, but has dirt partially smeared over his face and hands (being covered by a cloak in these times would look too suspicious; he even, somehow, managed to convince the dark-haired man to also cover his hands with dirt and ash, to look as if they have travelled and worked for a long hard time before arriving at the city. Gwaine refuses to hide his too handsome face like his companion, though. It'd be "a shame".)
Lancelot doesn't want uncalled for attention.
"Indeed it is," he says quietly, remembering how he felt the first time he saw the city, years ago, when he was young and hopeful, unaware of the Knight's code, that he couldn't be knighted because he's a commoner.
Keeping a low profile can be difficult with Gwaine around. He really likes eyeing the young women who are running their errands, approaching them smiling and saying something that makes them a bit nervous, blushing at the attention. The third time it happens – the woman is pretty and has her dark hair tied in a knot – Lancelot rolls his eyes and forcibly drags Gwaine away. At this rate they'll never reach the court physician.
"But the ladies are so beautiful here," Gwaine complains when the other man grabs his arm and steers him away from the woman. "And I've heard the tavern is very good. Wonderful ale."
"Maybe another day."
"This just isn't fair. Explain to me one more time why I agreed to this?"
"You're mine, Merlin's and – dare I say it – even prince Arthur's friend and we value your help highly. And your life, by the way. Besides," Lancelot adds after carefully looking around, lowering his voice: "the Cup is very important and dangerous is the wrong hands...We need your help. All of us are involved in this now."
"Yes, yes, I know that. So we're to stay here and protect it and the princess from the bad guys?"
Lancelot sighs. It's not that Gwaine is stupid; the man definitely isn't, but he is so...so, Gwaine-ish. Laid back and taking it easy and womanizing and grinning slightly all the time, except when he's fighting; then he's ferocious. And his sense of humour ... had prince Arthur just heard what the man called him, he positively would react badly. This is such a Gwaine-ish way to handle a situation.
"Please, Gwaine, just keep a low profile until we reach Gaius."
"That lady sure was very beautiful. I didn't even manage to catch her name! What a pity."
LXXIII.
He's used to darkness, looming across the stony walls around him.
Before it had been his prison, the item of his loathing, much like the tyrannical king Uther (such a foolish man, so shortsighted and arrogant! - an ignorance, which shall be his doom, his undoing) - now however the cave-mouth is wide open, sunlight streaming through, landing at the tip of his tail: it is freedom.
It is freedom.
This taste.
After slumbering he can take a single leap and fly anywhere. The world has limits but they are wide and faraway; where one sky ends, the next begin, ocean upon ocean, land by land – he's free, his soul not confined to a space so small, so suffocating.
Camelot is out of reach, he can't disobey a Dragonlord – but he has no desire to go there. Oh yes, yes, he is so tempted to once and for all rid the world of Uther Pendragon and other men like him; unfortunately he cannot disrupt the working forces of the world. It is not his place.
He was sense it, deep tremors in the earth the air – a beckoning. The humans caught up in this play must be truly unaware what it means, the dragon muses, but he is not naïve or ignorant. He feels and he knows. It's only a matter of time before the Dragonlord and warlock (perhaps, hopefully, alongside the once and future king) knows as well and calls for him. And when the time comes, he shall answer.
It will not be long now.
LXXIV.
Her heart leaps of joy at the sight of the man. He's disheveled; hair matted and dusty, his face has just been quickly cleaned to be presentable before the king, but dirt are etched on his hands. His chainmail looks heavy, and he looks tired, but his shoulders are squared and Gwen hasn't seen a sight before which made her so happy.
He looks directly at her, Gwen's heart surges and she smiles shyly. He nods slightly in acknowledgement, before saying good night, and it takes a couple of seconds for her to gather her senses and courtesy.
LXXV.
"You weren't seen, were you?" Merlin asks as he opens the door to two very dirty, ragged-looking men.
Gaius isn't back yet from some errand. Were he present, he'd have a fit seeing the state of the strangers. Their shoes are all muddy. Merlin considers magicking the floors clean before Gaius comes back.
"I can fetch some water if you'd like to wash off," Merlin offers when Lancelot scratches his chin, his skin itchy.
The man shakes his head. "It's not necessary. We must be on our way soon anyway."
"Some food would be nice, though," Gwaine says while looking around the room, which it littered with bottles and books and other odd items everywhere, his eyes shining like a child's by a merchant's stall. He whistles low. "This place is quite impressive. Is there anything magical among these gadgets?"
"Not what I know of…" Merlin could sometimes faintly sense magic within objects, but Gaius kept few of those things here. Mostly books, though; which no one was feeling bored enough to open. Some volumes hadn't been read for years or decades, simply lying there gathering dust. (If Uther found out he'd have a fit. Magical books in his kingdom…!)
"There are some leftovers from dinner," the warlock says and searches a cupboard until he find two bowls and wooden spoons. The men take seat and eye the food suspiciously; understandable, since it's some grayish goo which Merlin calls Idontwannaknowwhatsinthis and Gaius calls porridge. "It's not much I'm afraid, I'll see if there's any bread. Arthur should come by any moment. Bet he's stuck in some boring meeting with the king."
LXXVI.
In the middle of the king's tirade, Arthur has to hold off a sudden sneeze.
His father regards the Cup of Life full of distrust, but there's something in his eyes, almost fascination. Arthur pretends to be oblivious, like he doesn't care or knows about the Cup's powers. His father most probably knows, or has a vague idea. Why else would he be so eager to claim a magical object?
On the left side of the king stands Morgana, hanging onto every word; the king only allows her presence, not guards, not servants, only the three of them standing in the middle f the large stone hall. Her face is pale and guarded. He avoids looking at her.
After the meeting, after the Cup has been taken down the vaults, Arthur goes to his chambers to change. When he bumps into Guinevere who is running an errand, arms full of fresh linen, his heart leaps, he hasn't seen her for days and just begun to realize how he's missed her.
"…Sire," she says, bowing, but he smiles gently: "Just Arthur."
"I—I'm glad you're back," Guinevere says. "Are you all right? You aren't injured, are you?"
"I'm glad to be back. No, do not worry, I'm fine."
For a moment, they stare at each other, but there are other people nearby, servants on errands and guards on duty, he cannot risk her hurt by displaying affection openly: he can imagine the wrath of his father were he to know. He can only settle for saying good evening, dipping his head, smiling in what he hoped as a way to tell her it was all right, that maybe they could meet again soon. He's missed her…
The handmaiden smiles and courtesies, before continuing down the hall. He can't take his eyes off her, gaze lingering until she's out of sight. Then he rubs a hand through his hair and continues to walk to his chambers, heart beating fast than earlier.
He orders a servant to prepare a bath and fetch a meal: he's hungry, tired and sweaty, and would rather just fall into the bed and sleep, but duty calls. Hopefully Lancelot and Gwaine would manage to get into the city without being discovered.
After bathing and eating in a hurry, he dresses (Yes, he quietly thinks toward Merlin who can't hear him: I am capable of dressing myself. He has this odd need to retort to the plaguing silence) and, as inconspicuously as possibly, makes his way toward the physician's chambers.
LXXVII.
"Mordred?" Arthur asks, looking at the warlock oddly when he mentions that name.
"Yes. Do you remember him?"
He frowned. The name rings a bell somewhere but it's been chaos the last few days and he hasn't gotten any proper sleep yet. "Enlighten me."
"That boy dark-haired we saved the first year I worked here. He was a druid boy. Morgana and I hid him, but you helped him escape."
"But… he cannot be more than a boy. And you're saying he has allied with Morgause and…Morgana?" It's difficult to say her name without choking on emotion.
Merlin looks for a flash sad and conflicted, a deep grief which fits more on an aged weary man, his eyes looks so different – old eyes on a young face – but then he nods, and looks normal again. "Yes. The riddle the druid gave me made things clearer. And Kilgarrah spoke from the beginning of his alliance with Morgana. Back then I was … I don't know; young, foolish, naïve, benevolent. I couldn't believe it, that the boy would be evil and that Morgana was a witch. Of course I wanted to help him."
Like the rest. Only wanted to help them. Then it got such a tangled mess. Maybe he should have begun to help Morgana right then and there, at soon as he understood she's a Seer. Should have told her it was all right and helped her, supported her.
Thinking about it makes his chest and neck burn in shame. The knowledge that he could have done things better earlier is painful, bitter, lingering for years to come.
"That bloody dragon again…!" Arthur mutters, pretending not to notice whenever Merlin spoke her name. "Are you absolutely certain?"
"Positive."
The dragon had said that the boy would be Arthur's downfall. He cannot tell Arthur Mordred is prophesized to kill you.
Merlin doesn't know if he should say it, or if keeping quiet will be something he'll regret later. How can he say it in Arthur's face when he's sitting there confused over late regrets and betrayals and truths, when they got enemies on their heels and are unsure of what to do? Is it fair to tell a man you know his murdrer?
Lancelot and Gwaine - who have been listening intently for the past hour, when they've discussed the Cup of Life and magic and evil vs. good among many other things concerning Camelot – joins conversation when Merlin falls quiet. "Who is this Mordred, sire?"
"A boy. Maybe ten summers old, at most, when I first met him. His father was a druid; he was caught and executed when the two came to Camelot. The druid boy escaped and later I found out that … Morgana and Merlin had been harbouring the boy, secretly planning to let him escape once his wounds had healed. I should have given them to my father for judge, but could not. She…Morgana…was close to me, and Merlin's well – he's Merlin. We had to find a way to smuggle the child out of Camelot."
"So you stepped in and saved the day," Gwaine summarized.
Arthur sighs. "Not quite. I nearly had in mind of killing Merlin for his foolishness… But it was just a child. I couldn't let a boy be executed for crimes he hadn't committed: even if he's magic, what evil can a child do? So yes, I took him out of Camelot with some (somewhat reluctant) help from Merlin, took him to the druids."
"But why would he want to harm you?" Lancelot asks with a frown. "You saved his life."
A heartbeat of pondering silence: the room is suddenly very dark, darker than the night around them, the candlelight dimmed like they're being watched and suspicious of everyone and Arthur glances at the warlock beside him, Merlin's face has darkened. Those blue, old eyes; haunted, lonely, thinking about pasts and futures. Arthur wonders what goes through Merlin's head, if he really knows the warlock or if another person altogether is emerging from the young shell, someone older and more powerful, someone dangerous.
"Uther killed his father and many others of his people. Grief, anger and lust for revenge are dangerous things," Merlin says quietly. "Sometimes it makes us do things we later regret."
LXXVIII.
The man is old, stern, and has been looking forward to going home once guard duty was over and the last thing he feels is shock as she whispers strange words he cannot understand. She leaves the body as it is, slumped and cold on the ground, eyes open beneath the helmet. The man's quick reflexes made him draw his sword and it clatters against the stone as it lands limply beside him, hand frozen around the handle. He was one of the best, having been a guard for years, but he had no shield against magic.
Finally she can use the spells her sister had taught her. She has been itching to do so, longer to prove her power.
The vault is well secure. So Arthur thinks. Those men – a dozen of them, motionless and pale on the floor – those heavy locks, unbreakable they look, those thick bars. She smirks. How can they stop her? How can anything stop her? She stretches out a hand toward the heavy lock, the last one to separate her from the item she's after.
"Tospringe."
The Cup is covered, hidden from sight, but she can sense its raw power. When she touches it, a spark of energy makes her shiver. This power in her hands, all hers to harness. Everything was going to plan.
From within a fold in her cloak, she pulls out a mirror. Muttering a spell over it, the glassy image of herself is replaced by that of another woman, blonde and beautiful.
"You have it?"
"Yes, sister."
"Good. I will meet you where we agreed."
LXXIX.
A bed. True, it's pretty hard, the mattress is thin and rats and other vicious little creatures have probably been at it, but it's many times more comfortable than the ground. He collapses on it.
Lancelot and Gwaine had planned to leave after their meeting, but decided to stay until next morning, there are no beds but pillows and blankets, and food waiting for them in the morning. Arthur had more or less insisted. Anyway, it feels good to have them near. To know they're safe and not in some dark, dangerous forest or the city dungeons.
For the first time Merlin feels just how tired he really is, his bones weary. After struggling to put on a nightshirt and pull off his boots, it's easy to fall asleep.
LXXX.
The last few days have been vacant, slow: training, eating, sleeping is most what sir Percival has done, half an ear listening to rumours again. The prince has just come back, the king is relieved, but no one knows whatever mission the prince had. The servants says he's gone to fetch some mysterious treasure or strange secrets, maybe find an ally, while some says he's just been on a hunting trip and do not really care. Percival tries not to listen to any rumours, his superiors have said it's bad form, but it's difficult when the king is absent and the prince is his, their, leader. Without oth him, the king and sir Leon, who is prince Arthur's right hand, it's easy to be unfocused, unsure of what to do. He guesses that all the knights always have depended on the prince's advice and presence and have been uneasy. The prince hasn't come to train with them yet: he is probably resting form his journey.
It's then the panic comes.
In the morning half a patrol rides back, rushing through the gates, distressed calls and broken bodies. Another ambush: two men are dead, a third severely wounded. Percival meets them in the courtyard, helping one off his horse.
"It's an army!" the leader of the patrol, Bors, exclaims. "We must alert the king!"
"An army?"
Percival shudders, horrified. The king has acted colder, more stoic than usual, the year's food has been scarce and resources waning, there are still many injured and grieving men from the last battle. He's young and called naïve, but he'd unsure if they can survive another battle. They have so few men left to fight!
"It was hard to determine their numbers, for we were discovered and had to flee, but they ride under Cenred's banner. We need a physician…and a priest."
With the help of some servants, the wounded men are transported from the courtyard, to the physician's attention while another burial has to be prepared. Percival runs off at his elder's orders. He has to alert the prince and the king.
