Chapter 7: The Second Vision

Finna used to be their mother's best friend. She was a sweet and uncomplicated middle-aged lady with gray-streaked dark hair, wrinkles from worrying about her patients around her mouth and between her eyebrows, and a habitually childlike wide-eyed expression.

She greeted their arrival, late as it was, in her nightgown and a dark blue shawl, candle in hand, surprise turning into awe at the introduction of the sorcerer.

"Emrys," she said, her eyebrows drawing upward into points. "Merlin of Dinas Emrys? It is an honor to meet you!" She dropped a curtsy that Merlin interrupted in hasty embarrassment.

"Please, it's just Merlin," he said, and she led him to the chair where her visitors usually sat to discuss their ills and wait for her to concoct a solution. She sat opposite him, their knees touching; the light of the candle placed on the table at their elbows flickered over the shelves on her wall, reflecting from the round sides of the glass jars, creating shadows for those made of clay.

"A curse, you said?" Finna reached forward with her plump palm toward his heart, but not touching him. Her eyes glowed, and she made a thoughtful noise, before positioning both hands to either side of his head, just brushing the unkempt ends of his black hair. Once again her eyes gleamed gold. "Oh, there it is," she murmured. Merlin's expression held nothing but calm interest. "Mm, that's a nasty one, that is."

"What is it?" Gwaine said, hanging over the back of Merlin's chair.

Finna dropped her hands, but didn't break the connection of her gaze to Merlin's. "But you already know what it is, don't you," she said to him gently. "Who laid the curse, if I may ask?"

"Mary Collins," Freya said. That surprised the older woman into looking up, thoughtful, then considering. "Can you do anything for him?"

"Not I," Finna said. Freya's heart dropped; Merlin's shoulders slumped fractionally with a small sigh, as though he'd allowed a hope in spite of himself. "But Alator might."

Gwaine exchanged a glance with Freya. "We should take him there tonight?" he said.

"Oh, immediately," Finna said composedly. "How long do you have, Master Emrys?"

"Just Merlin," he sighed. "Midnight."

The older woman put her hand up again, and this time touched Merlin's face, cupping his cheek as a mother does her child. "He doesn't know, does he?" she said to him kindly.

"Who?" Gwaine said. "Me? Know what?"

"He can't," Merlin said, his voice breaking slightly though his expression remained resolute.

"He will have to," Finna advised. "Sooner or later." She looked up at Gwaine. "To Alator, then, as quickly as possible. And before midnight, unless you don't mind killing him yourself." Gwaine looked more startled than Merlin; Freya thought he hadn't taken the sorcerer at his word, before. "I will come to see you in the morning," she added, patting Merlin's cheek before withdrawing her hand.

His blue eyes were bright with unfallen tears; he nodded only, and stumbled as he pushed himself up from the chair.

"What's this curse, then?" Gwaine said conversationally, taking Merlin's sleeve as the younger man tripped over the threshold, Freya following behind.

"Can't just wait and see for yourself?" Merlin returned. Freya looked back to see Finna framed in her doorway, watching them out of sight, until they turned into another alley.

"Let's just say I'd like to know the preliminary symptoms," Gwaine said amiably. "So I have some warning before I have to run you through."

Merlin snorted, bumping into him and then the wall of the alley before Gwaine caught and steadied him. "Trust me, if the curse starts to take hold, you will know." Walking behind them, Freya shivered at the grim tone of his voice. He had to be all right. He had to.

It was even later when they reached Alator's home on the outskirts of the East Half of the city, but he was still fully dressed as he answered the door, lamplight spilling out around him. A bald man with a heavy jaw, hard eyes, and a slight foreign burr in his speech, he wore a light blue tunic, hooded, long-sleeved, and knee-length, over darker trousers and high polished boots.

"Emrys," he said, after Gwaine had introduced and explained the reason for their visit for the second time that evening. The runes tattooed around his neck were so old they looked faded, visible above the folds of the lowered hood as he turned his piercing scrutiny on the young sorcerer. "An unfortunate reason for our meeting. What sort of curse was it?"

"Transformation," Merlin said. "Daily, and permanent."

The bald man crooked his finger, and they followed him into his house. It was not unlike Finna's, Freya was interested to note, but instead of jars and pots of clay and glass upon his shelves, Alator had books, tomes and pamphlets and scrolls. Through a doorway at the back of the room only partially concealed by a curtain, she saw the more pragmatic furnishings of a living area.

"What creature was the focus of the spell?" Alator threw over his shoulder, striding toward his wall of books.

"A bastet," Merlin said.

The older man spun round. "You're sure?" he demanded, looking Merlin over as though he could see physical evidence of the curse on him. Merlin nodded.

Gwaine said, "What's a bastet?"

"It's a winged cat," Alator said, returning more slowly. "An instinctive and bloodthirsty killer, preferring human victims." Freya's knees buckled, dropping her into the seat luckily behind her; she felt suddenly as though she were trapped in a nightmare. "When was the curse laid?" the older sorcerer asked.

"Today," Merlin answered.

"More specifically?"

"Noon?"

Alator scowled. "Why did you not come to me immediately?"

Merlin met the older man's glare without flinching. "Because there is no cure."

Freya said to Alator, desperately, "Is that true?"

Gwaine turned a thunderous expression on Merlin, hands on his hips. "What was your plan, then, just leave the city?"

"I was going to call a friend to meet me," Merlin said evasively.

"A friend that can heal you?" Freya asked him, but he didn't turn around or answer.

Alator studied Merlin's eyes. "No. Someone he trusted to perform the service he could not ask his friends inside the city to undertake."

"Service," Gwaine said. His jaw was set and his hand was on the hilt of his sword. Freya knew he was upset that their young guest had intended to leave them without speaking of his condition.

"To end his life." The corner of Alator's mouth turned upward. "Youth may excuse rash judgments, Emrys, but you ought to have known better."

"So there is something you can do for him," Freya said, sliding to the edge of her chair. Hope warred with despair in her heart and made it hard for her to breathe. She could not forget that she had been the intended victim of Mary's curse.

"Something," Alator agreed, giving her a sympathetic look. "We shall see. I can make no guarantees, much depends on him." He turned back to Merlin. "Make no mistake, it is hell you will fight through with no assurance of victory. Are you willing to try?"

"Life is never easy," Merlin said with fatalistic calm.

Alator grunted. "No, and especially not yours, eh, Emrys?"

"What do we have to do?" Gwaine said.

"Bring that candle, and come with me." Gwaine retrieved a thick white candle set in a small wooden bowl, and Alator led them through the curtained doorway and out a back entrance, turning sharply to a slanted cellar door. He pulled it up to open, and revealed a set of pale stone stairs as narrow and steep as that which led to Freya's roof, but descending almost twice the distance, into the dark earth. He nodded to indicate that they should proceed, and when both Gwaine and Merlin hesitated, Freya took the little wooden bowl from her brother's hand and began to move carefully down the steps, lighting the way for the men behind her. Gwaine followed her, and then Merlin, and Alator waited to close the slanted door behind them.

Her attention was so focused on not falling that she didn't notice anything of the chamber at the bottom of the stairway until she reached level ground, and the earth wall to either side of the steps opened outward. The floor was of sand, and she moved to the side, lifting the candle to provide illumination for the men to descend. Gwaine let out a low whistle and stepped to the other side of the doorway.

Merlin reached the bottom and stopped dead between them. "Oh, hell," he said blankly.

Freya was startled into taking a proper look around. It was quite a large area – room? Chamber? Cave? – roughly circular, and maybe thirty feet across.

Alator pushed past Merlin to take the candle from her hand and ignite a torch from a wall sconce. Then he blew the candle out, set it on a bench and continued around the room, lighting more torches at intervals. There were more benches set against the wall between the torches, a small closed cabinet, and a barrel she supposed held water. But in the middle of the room was the fixture that had caught Merlin's attention.

It was an upright stone slab flanked by two shorter stone pillars. The slab was seven feet high by maybe four wide, held off the ground by great iron pins inserted through holes drilled through the columns into the slab. There were manacles on short chains also bolted into the rock – two sets of two, at the base and again about halfway to the top - and a small ledge protruded about a foot from the surface, a couple of inches from the bottom. At the top were more bolts with ropes tied to them, which connected to a pulley system behind the slab and a wide winch-wheel with a double handle.

"It does look a bit like a torture chamber, doesn't it?" Alator barked a laugh. "My expertise is in treating curses and diseases of the mind and heart, and the use of this arrangement is often necessary in the course of effective treatment." He had come full circle around the room, lighting the last torch, and stopped in front of Merlin to block the younger sorcerer's view of the slab. "This ensures our protection, Emrys, from you." He turned away to the slab.

Merlin tore his eyes from it and met hers with a little wildness in his expression. "Do you trust him?" he asked, in a low voice. Gwaine met her glance over their friend's shoulder; he looked uneasy as well.

"Yes," she said. "Finna does, too. Alator treated our father when he fell and hit his head."

Merlin blurted, "But your father –"

"Died, yes, I know." She took his hand; it was ice-cold and unresisting. "But Alator did everything he could, and didn't give up hope."

"You have a little time, yet, Emrys," Alator said. "Please feel free to familiarize yourself with the apparatus, if it makes you feel more comfortable."

For an awkward moment they all looked at Merlin, then Gwaine made a little bow. "And here on the left is your bedchamber, Master Emrys," he said lightly. "Only the best of accommodations for a friend of mine." With a grin that was only slightly forced, Gwaine headed across the sandy floor to examine the slab and the cuffs, even going so far as to step up onto the ledge with his back to the stone.

"Merlin," Freya said, and he looked down at her, the blue of his eyes shadowy in the dim flickering torchlight, his emotion high but unreadable to her – fear or hope or regret or determination. Or maybe all of them at once. "I'm so, so sorry. This is my fault, if I hadn't –"

"Stop," he told her. "Someone once told me, never believe that another man's decision to kill or spare brings any fault to you. It is not your fault that Mary cast that curse, nor that I got between you."

"Yes, but, if you…" She took a deep breath, and tears sprang to her eyes. "I would never forgive myself, Merlin."

His smile was beautiful and sweet, all the more so for what he was facing. "If Alator thinks I've got a fighting chance," he said, "then I suppose I'll have to fight." His face blurred briefly, then cleared as her tears dropped down onto her cheeks. He reached to brush them away, then turned to approach the slab with determined cheerfulness. She trailed behind him.

"It's not bad," Gwaine said to him, putting his hands sideways through the open cuffs, testing the links of the short chains, "but perhaps a change of linen is in order?"

Alator snorted. Merlin touched one, turning it to the light, and Freya noticed a series of runes etched onto the metal.

"What's that, then?" Gwaine asked, stepping down to the sand as Alator came around the slab.

"It contains the magic of the one bound on the slab," Alator explained.

"Contains?" Freya asked.

"It will neither draw nor diminish the magic inside you, Emrys, merely absorb the external expression. Again, for our protection. You will not be able to escape the restraints, nor cast an effective spell."

"Oh, good," Merlin said, his voice relieved. Gwaine raised his eyebrows in obvious puzzlement, and Merlin added with the air of an instructor, "There is a reason spells which affect people – sleeping spells, love spells, those sorts of enchantments – are different from the magic used on animals. But when a person who has magic begins to lose their humanity – from a curse or a disease or even a blow to the head – control of the magic can be lost as well, resulting in – well, you can imagine the chaos." He quirked one eyebrow at them in sardonic self-deprecation. "A bloodthirsty winged cat with the power of magic as well?" Gwaine shuddered theatrically.

Freya reached to touch the cuff. It was worn smooth, no rough or sharp edges to hurt the one who was chained. "I don't understand how this will help him," she said slowly.

"Emrys was quite right to say that this curse has no cure," Alator said to her kindly. "However, curses can be broken."

Merlin said, in relieved chagrin, "If the patient can be treated within hours, if the transformation can be prevented, and if the patient does not kill while in the beast's form. I had forgotten."

"You've dealt with this before?" Gwaine asked.

Merlin grimaced, but when Alator said, "Eilura," he turned on the older sorcerer in shock.

"You knew her?"

"Her parents brought her to me," Alator said. "The minutes pass, Emrys. Perhaps you would like to remove your coat and shirt – it will get very warm." Merlin began to obey, Gwaine reaching to help him as Alator continued. "I worked with her for several weeks, but it was after the transformation had occurred several times, after she'd killed."

Merlin handed Gwaine his belt and reached to pull his shirt off by the back of the collar. "Why was she sent to me, if you could not help her?"

"Emrys," Alator said, mildly reproachful. "Your magic is legend already. Flexible, agile, intuitive, instinctive, innovative. It was reasonable to hope that a solution might be created, though none had existed before."

"That'll give him an edge here, will it?" Gwaine asked.

Alator gestured for Merlin to step up onto the ledge, and Freya could not help noticing smooth paleness of his skin, the lean but satisfactory musculature of his shoulders and chest, the beauty of the dark swirls on the inside of his arms, the curiosity of the black cord and pendant that decorated his neck and breastbone. She dropped her eyes before she identified the small silver charm.

"It is not a thoroughly-researched nor well-documented curse," Alator stated. "The theory is, that such a thing would affect each person differently, according to existing personality traits."

He reached to seal the cuffs around Merlin's wrists with a gleam of golden magic rather than the click of a locking mechanism. Gwaine knelt to position the second set, slightly larger, around Merlin's ankles above the tops of his boots. Alator glanced down to seal them, and Merlin turned and stretched his arms experimentally, the few links of chain knocking against the stone of the slab. Then the older sorcerer straightened, and his hard gray eyes fell upon the charm that hung on Merlin's chest.

"Ah, so that one is true, too," Alator said, inexplicably. "The friend you mentioned earlier?" Merlin held his gaze but gave no hint of a reply. The older man stared at the charm a moment before grunting to himself, then reaching to lift the cord over Merlin's head. "Do not call them here," the older man said, softly but firmly, and Merlin nodded once.

Freya took the cord and charm from Alator, and the discarded clothing and belt from Gwaine, stepping back. Gwaine went to operate the wheel, drawing the rope fastened to the ring bolted into the top of the slab so that it tipped ponderously backwards. "Let me know when it's comfortable, mate," he said.

"Here." Merlin's voice was husky, his head now just below Freya's shoulder-height and the foot of the slab several feet in the air. He closed his eyes and a shudder ran through him; he moved his arms as if he couldn't help testing the restraints. "If I change, will this hold me?" he asked.

"Yes," Alator answered. He retrieved a tall jar with a narrow neck and a wide rim from one of the benches, and proceeded to pour whatever liquid was inside it in a generous circle around the slab. Freya smelled juniper.

"Gwaine, maybe you should take Freya out of here," Merlin suggested. It seemed to her that his breathing was slightly quicker, rougher, though still he seemed calm.

"No," Alator said, closing his circle. "If she feels herself strong enough, she should stay. Anything that provides you incentive to remain as you are. To fight the change."

Gwaine moved to Freya's side, gave her a serious, questioning glance. She found she was unable to speak, but nodded determinedly. He put his hand on her shoulder, and gestured for her to sit with him on one of the benches, to the side, where they would be a support, but not an audience.

"Alator," Merlin said warningly; there was a catch in his voice that was not quite a gasp. "Midnight."

Alator spoke, and a line of flames leaped up from the circle of liquid spilled on the sand; the bald sorcerer was inside it, with Merlin. "My voice will provide a focus for your attention in opposition to the curse, but you must choose and choose and choose again what you listen to."

Merlin nodded, his head rubbing on the block. He still had not opened his eyes; Freya could see the tension in his muscles, his jaw clenched.

Gwaine whispered in her ear, "How long is this supposed to –"

Merlin grunted as though he'd been punched in the gut, straining to tip his head upward. Alator began to speak, a spell or an enchantment or a charm, in a monotonous drone that lifted goosebumps on Freya's arms under the sleeves of her dress.

On the slab, Merlin's head turned side to side, as though seeking something with increasing desperation, his arms twisted against the pull of the cuffs.

Gwaine wordlessly reached for Freya's hand.

Perhaps the underground room was not meant to be a torture chamber, but it certainly felt like it to Freya before too long. Whatever it was that Merlin was battling inside his mind seemed to crest and ebb like a relentless series of waves. When it was bad, it was very bad, and when it wasn't, it wasn't much better.

Sometimes he'd arch his back right off the slab and a grunt would become a rising growl culminating in a scream ripped from the seams of his soul. Tendons stood out on his neck and forearms, his hands and fingers like rigid curved claws.

And Freya would cram her fingers in her ears – and sometimes even turn her eyes away – and shake her head violently at Gwaine's muffled offers, commands, pleas for her to leave this frightful cave, to return to the surface of the earth.

Sometimes Merlin would pant and yank at the chains and his eyes would dart to each of them like a captured wild thing, writhing as if in the greatest agony. Sometimes he'd collapse gasping, his skin glistening with sweat, the shadows pooling in the hollows of his eyes, only the next moment to tighten every muscle and shake with silent strain.

Mostly Alator kept up his mumbling litany of magic, though he reacted to Merlin's state, letting the whispers fade when the pull of the curse ebbed, or raising his voice commandingly when the cries of pain and resistance wrung from the young man threatened to drown him out. He had another jar - of water Freya assumed, since he took an occasional swallow himself – that he lifted to the younger man's lips without once pausing in his droning chant.

At one point Merlin drew in a great breath, his chest expanding, and threw back his head to let out a rising roar that filled the underground room and made Freya press back against Gwaine in sudden nameless fear.

Alator fairly leaped to smother the sound with his hand and barked out, "Do not call either of them! If you do we will never get you back!"

Merlin stared up at him, then twisted again to either side, and it was not clear if it was Alator's hand that he sought to evade. Tears ran down his temples into sweat-soaked hair.

Freya had not thought it possible, but she reached a point where she had no tears left, no strength to cling to her brother. Her body ached from cringing and her eyes burned from weeping and she merely slid to the sand and curled up, with Gwaine's body bent around hers, to provide protection and comfort for both of them from the horror of their new friend's seemingly endless ordeal.

Hours passed, though it felt more like days.

She shivered against Gwaine's shoulder, her own clothing damp with perspiration, shaking from strain and reaction, not from any drop in the temperature. Merlin's screams had hoarsened and weakened to an occasional muffled moan; she realized he had not opened his eyes for quite some time. The chains clinked faintly, and Alator's gravelly intonation faltered.

Gwaine tensed, and Freya lifted her head.

The bald sorcerer moved to the far side of the slab, alert suspicion tightening his haggard face. Merlin's eyes had opened, watching him, and his body heaved with quick panting breaths, though he raised off the stone to follow the older man's movement, leaning to the far side of the block. And when Alator drew even with his head, Merlin made a sound that struck terror into Freya's heart as none other had, that night.

He hissed.

Twisting his body toward Alator, heedless of the tug of the cuff on his arm, he bared his teeth in a feral snarl.

"Freya!" Alator commanded. "To me, at once!" She scrambled up, slapping away Gwaine's restraining hands, fairly leaped the ring of flames still rising from the sand, and took a position opposite the bald man. Alator glared down into Merlin's face and growled out more of his indecipherable chant.

Merlin shrank back, whimpering in the back of his throat, turning away to Freya's side. The blue of his eyes was so dark it was almost black, and blended eerily with the iris. They rolled back before his lids closed over them.

"What do I do?" she whispered hoarsely. This close she could see that the stone of the block was darkened beneath Merlin's body, by sweat, she thought. He writhed, but not with any great energy.

"He is retreating past the ability of speech to recall him," Alator said, quickly and bluntly. "If you would keep him human – kiss him."

"What?" Gwaine said incredulously from behind her.

"All dumb animals mate," Alator snapped. "But a kiss is uniquely human and reaches farther into the heart of a man than words. So, my lady…"

She looked down at Merlin; he'd quieted, but cracked, parched lips parted on a low moan of agony. His skin was white even in the golden torchlight, as though sweat had washed him clear of all color. Perspiration slicked his skin, and gathered his hair in wet spikes…

And it was all for her.

Freya stood on her tiptoes and leaned over him, coaxing him to turn his face to her with one hand gentle on his cheek. She laid her lips on his and kissed him, and though he did not respond, she could feel an easing of tautness in his muscles, and his involuntary movement stilled. He tasted like salt, and smoke, and juniper.

She kissed his bottom lip and his top lip separately, and combed her fingers through the damp snarls of his black hair, pushing it away from his face and his ear, noticing that there was a tiny dent in the outer curl of it.

"Merlin," she whispered, laying her cheek alongside his, to whisper into his ear. "Please come back to us. Please stay. You are so close, my love, it is nearly over." She pulled back slightly to see that his eyes were open, and clear.

"Freya," he rasped, his voice broken by earlier screams and throaty cries. The chains rattled as though he'd tried to raise his hands. His gaze dropped to her mouth, and she answered the look by kissing him again, a kiss he participated in almost desperately.

His head shifted slightly and she retreated again. Two tears trickled out of the corners of his eyes as he squeezed them shut once more, and he gasped once.

"Dawn," Alator said, his voice a mix of relief and exhaustion and pride. He put his hand flat on the young man's chest, over Merlin's heart. "Well done, boy," he breathed. "Bravely fought."

The flaming circle died away into a greasy smear on the sand, and Gwaine moved to the winch-wheel. The older sorcerer stopped him with a brief shake of the head, wordlessly indicating that they should switch positions. Gwaine came around to the front of the block as Alator released the gear, and then Freya saw the reason for it.

As the slab tipped back toward upright, Merlin's body slumped bonelessly down, putting all his weight on his bound arms. Gwaine stepped closer to hold him in place, Merlin's head sagging down onto his shoulder, Freya backing another step to give them space. Alator released the spell sealing the manacles, and Gwaine eased the young man forward, positioning himself to fully support Merlin's weight.

"Oh, hells!" Freya choked, jumping forward as Merlin's back separated from the stone of the block. Bright crimson rivulets ran down his skin, over the ridges of his ribs from an open wound on his shoulder-blade, scraped raw and staining the stone.

A secondary realization had her pulling up short. Down the middle of his back, from nape to waist lay a wide strip of thick hair, hiding the knobs of his spine. She couldn't help running her fingers down the back of his neck as Gwaine shifted his weight; it wasn't quite hair and it wasn't quite fur, but… a second bloody scrape marred his other shoulder blade and stole her attention.

"Gwaine, lay him down – he's bleeding," she commanded. "Alator – water and bandages."

Gwaine pulled Merlin's body forward, away from the block, dragging him gently several feet before lowering him by degrees to the sand. Freya knelt to support his head and keep his face off the sand. Gwaine rasped a startling curse himself, rubbing at the stripe of thick black hair on the younger man's backbone.

"Get his shirt and jacket," Freya ordered. She was more concerned that his body showed the rise and fall of regular breathing and that the wound be tended without delay, than anything else.

Gwaine smoothed the faded red fabric out on the sand, and Freya lifted Merlin as much as she could so her brother could slip the shirt under his head. Alator knelt on Merlin's other side, rotating a small bowl of water in the sand to stabilize it, before handing her one of the cloths floating in it, and squeezing the excess water from the other himself. Freya gently cleaned the skin around the scrape, noting with relief that the blood welled slowly from the glistening raw flesh, rather than trickling from a deeper injury. The second mark on his other shoulder blade was the same. Once cleaned, they would eventually form a scab, if he lay still long enough, but…

"Finna said she'd come this morning," Freya said to the other two. "She'll be able to tend him, then."

"Those scrapes, maybe," Gwaine said, and reached to run his fingers through the wide line of hair on Merlin's back, upwards against the lay of it, to test and show its thickness. "But what the hell does this mean? Isn't the curse broken?"

Alator shuffled back, moving Merlin's right arm away from the side of his body. In the torchlight, the green-black complexity of his druidic tattoos glittered.

"Someone needs to go for his prince," Alator stated.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

"Lancelot looks fine this morning," Enid remarked, nudged Gwen slightly with her shoulder. Gwen merely hummed in distracted agreement.

They were seated on a bench in the shade of the palace wall, at the edge of Lionys' training field. Breakfast over and done, Lancelot had invited their guests to take part in the exercises that morning, which Arthur had accepted on behalf of the four of them.

Gwen and Enid had followed, the maid with her smaller mending basket. No matter that she often served in the capacity of companion only, she didn't feel fully comfortable without something to occupy her time and her hands, and needlework was a part of her job that Gwen knew the older girl enjoyed.

Sir Leon, Arthur's senior knight, was sparring with Elyan. Gwen couldn't help a genuine smile at the pair, seeing at once why Elyan preferred pursuing other solutions to problems of governmental administration that arose, rather than relying on force or threat of violence, and why Leon was Arthur's captain. Clearly superior to her brother in skill, Sir Leon was nonetheless drawing Elyan out while calling words of encouragement and advice, without giving the younger knight any offense. The other two visiting knights, Vidor and Caridoc – she thought Vidor was the one with the shorter, darker hair – stood at a further distance practicing with the target-weapons with a half-dozen of the Lionys men.

Lancelot and Arthur, in the meantime, faced each other.

It wasn't a furiously intense competition, but rather a testing of each other's character. Gwen thought them evenly matched, on the whole, as they met to exchange a series of blows, then stepped back to catch their breath and make a comment or two. Gwen wished the bench was set closer, even if it meant enduring the sun's direct rays, in order to hear what they said.

She had a suspicion that Arthur was distracted by the continued absence of his friend and sorcerer. A place had been laid for Merlin Emrys at breakfast, just in case, though no one had expressed surprise that it remained empty. And even now, it was earlier in the day than when he'd joined the hunting party in the forest yesterday. But Arthur, Gwen thought, was losing patience. Slowly, and almost unnoticed, but still.

"But then again," Enid continued placidly, "Lancelot always looks fine."

"Prince Arthur looks fine," Gwen said. It was true, even next to Lancelot who was clearly the most beautiful man ever made. Beautiful and completely dispassionate, while the memory of Arthur's kiss and his reaction to her still brought a fluttery feeling to her stomach.

"And arrogant and self-centered and vain?" Enid teased, and Gwen bumped her back with her shoulder.

"Where's Percival?" she asked, to distract them both. "I'd like to see Prince Arthur face off against him."

Percival was her father's biggest knight; he was also one of the quietest and gentlest. Even in tournaments, though his strength was unmatched and his skill – according to Lancelot – was solid, he rarely placed in the finals, as though he was waiting for a true enemy to unleash his full potential upon.

Enid craned her neck, searching the whole of the field for Percival's unmistakable figure. "I don't know…"

"One minute," Arthur said, his voice loud enough to carry to them, and to stop Leon and Elyan in their match. Lancelot gave the prince a small smile and inclined his head, agreeing to whatever challenge they'd set. Arthur pointed toward his senior knight. "You two keep count."

He faced Lancelot again, spinning his sword in an arc to his right side before settling into a fighting stance, using a double-handed grip on his hilt, as Lancelot was. They didn't use shields, they wore no armor but for hardened leather breastplates. The weapons they used were blunted, leaving bruises perhaps but would not pierce the skin – and neither of them were clumsy enough to cause damage with the points.

Arthur drew his sword level, and Lancelot attacked first with a cross-body slash. Arthur parried, then again, then attacked; Lancelot defended, preventing a hit, but was forced into a retreat.

"There's Percival," Enid said, pointing across the field. Gwen spared a glance; Enid was right. Percival was one of the few fighting men identifiable at that distance but she didn't know who his companion was.

Lancelot went on the offensive, then, slashing at Arthur's head, then chest – brave of him, Gwen thought, Arthur was a prince and if the blows had connected he might have been seriously injured, and Lancelot in trouble. But Arthur's blade met Lancelot's both high and low, and when Lancelot slashed again at the golden-haired head, Arthur ducked and danced past him… then waited for Lancelot to regain his balance.

For a moment Gwen turned her attention back to Percival and his companion. He was dressed in the plain drab shades of a commoner, though she was familiar enough with the gait and bearing of a fighting man to know a swordsman when she saw him. She wondered who he was; the two were definitely heading toward them. The stranger's hair was almost rakishly long, and as dark brown as his eyes and the unshaven scruff on his chin – not a guard, then, either, though she'd recognize all of them. But he was grim and weary – a messenger of sorts, since Percival had escorted him onto palace grounds. And the news he brought wasn't good news.

She stood and stepped forward, leaving Enid seated alone with her mending.

Percival and his companion joined Elyan and Leon at the sidelines of Arthur's match with Lancelot – Percival acknowledging Elyan's superior rank as the son of his lord briefly, before turning his eyes back to the fighting pair. He leaned closer to the commoner, pointing – Gwen thought at Arthur – and speaking. The dark-haired stranger simply nodded.

Lancelot attacked again, Arthur parried and knocked the other's sword away. He aimed a blow at Lancelot's legs, which he jumped as Arthur allowed his momentum to spin him around. Lancelot hammered another series of blows, and for a moment Arthur's blade plunged into the ground and stuck. Gwen's breath caught in her throat at the seeming inevitability of the prince's conceded defeat, but Arthur came up with an unexpected backhanded blow to Lancelot's jaw, either hard or surprising enough to knock the other knight to his back.

"Is he allowed to do that?" Enid demanded in a whisper.

"He's the prince…" Gwen murmured back, biting back an inappropriate smile.

Panting, Arthur stepped to Lancelot's side and began to extend his hand to help his opponent up. Lancelot moved swiftly, sweeping Arthur's feet out from under him and flipping over to pin the prince. Only momentarily, before he backed off and they both got to their feet grinning like boys.

"Time," Leon said laconically.

Lancelot glanced at the two new arrivals expectantly, his carefree expression slipping. "Prince Arthur," Percival said, approaching as the prince caught his breath. "This is Gwaine of Lionys, a friend of mine."

Arthur focused on the pair, sobering also, and Gwen was struck that the prince met both with patience and respect. For one instant, she saw the six men before her as a unit, in spite of the diversity of their background and current loyalties, even including the newcomer. She felt an inexplicable upwelling of emotion in her heart, almost of anticipation.

Then Percival added, "He has news of Merlin."

..*…..

LCT: Technically, I didn't turn Merlin into a bastet. *wink* I am pleased to have taken readers by surprise, though – doesn't happen often, you are all so astute – with the fact of the curse, but I didn't even have to write 'bastet' and lots of people guessed!... although, I hope the (eventual) conclusion of that situation is unexpected (yet satisfactory)… Glad you liked Gwen&Arthur's first kiss, I rather enjoyed the tragedy of putting that opposite Merlin's situation, drawing away from the girl b/c he expects his life is over…