AN: A short chapter but hopefully a good one (: Sorry this took me so long to get out :( and double sorry to the person I told it would be up like three weeks ago. Unfortunately, something came up and I haven't really felt like writing a lot since :/
Tonight's episode got me in the mood though. Can I just say Arthur - SQUEEEE - Merlin - SQUEEEE :D:D:D:D Hahaaa. I'll quite happily marry either of them ;) Not fussed tbh ;) Haaa.
Anyway.......
Review, please? I promise to try and update soon with a longer chapter (: It's about time Isolde meets Merlin's friendies, don't you think? ;)
Merlin felt rather than saw her fall behind him. Silent footsteps, but she was definitely there as he weaved his way through the market place, careful to avoid stepping on the legions of beggars and pickpockets that were under his feet. She made no effort to speak to him and he made none to turn around, simply continued walking with his clammy hands clutched around the stone tablet like a child.
It was roughly thrice the size of Merlin's hand, edges rounded and set in a wooden frame. The stone was pockmarked, older even than him, but that wasn't why he treated it with such care. On it, drawn in startling detail, was a sketch of rune that had adorned the faces of so many cruelly murdered, which, he thought with a small frown, made Uther's request to see it all the more sickening. He had refused to come down to the mausoleum, instead requesting that a drawing might be made and then taken to him. Merlin, manservant and apparently dogsbody, had been volunteered to do the fetching. And the drawing actually, until Gaius had taken it from him in annoyance and turned Merlin's childish scribble into something a little more elaborate.
It was only after turning into a narrow alley that Merlin stopped to face his stalker. Sure enough, it was her, the grey hood pulled low across her face. From under it, a pair of blue eyes regarded him emotionlessly, heavily fringed by long eyelashes.
"Following me?" His voice was light, friendly. She was, he had decided in the nights since his first meeting, harmless, and if he was completely honest, he liked having her around. She was, by her own wishes, his own little secret, a friend from out of the rain. Between them, there passed an unspoken understanding of magic and though that frightened him, it also left him elated. An angel couldn't be evil, could it? And if Merlin was honest, it didn't hurt that she was the first young woman to look at him and see him as special. Sure, there was Gwen, but that had never been more than an awkward admiration that had never got past the blushing. With Isolde, there was something else.
"Why would I be doing that?" she asked, but there was a playfulness about her eyes that he had not seen before. She smiled, pulling the hood back before hastily rearranging the tendrils of hair that tumbled down her back. Her vanity, Merlin noted, was possibly one of the only things that annoyed him about her. The other was her temper.
As he watched, she lifted her hands to remove the hood of her emerald green cloak. It made a pleasant difference, thought Merlin, to the usual grey. Her complexion seemed luminous, a faint flush in her cheeks; it was the first sign of life he'd seen in her since they'd met. It was then that he noticed the skin of her hands; red, rubbed raw in some places with scratches and bruises in abundance. Against the alabaster skin, the effect was quite ugly, and, Merlin was surprised to say, repulsive.
"What happened to your hands?" It was the wrong thing to say. Immediately, the smile disappeared, replaced by such a look of anger that Merlin physically recoiled.
"It is nothing," she said coldly, lips white.
"Nothing? Isolde, they look painful! I could have Gaius fix up a balm for you if –"
"No, Merlin! No one must know I'm here, else I might have to leave." She pouted and leant forward so that her face was inches from his ear. When she spoke again, it was a purr, her hot breath tickling his neck. "And I don't want to leave, Merlin."
He gulped, unsure of what to say, but felt himself drawn into her. She smelt strange, but the scent was attractive, soft and musky with faint traces of wood and vanilla. He wondered where she slept at night before realising he'd never thought to ask her; in fact, he'd asked her very little.
A sudden clarity of thought flashed through his mind and he heard himself say,
"I could always make you something. Gaius' has taught me a few things. I could make you an ointment to help them heal faster. If you want me to, that is. I mean, Gaius should be out for the day so you wouldn't have to worry about being seen."
"Out?"
"Yes. The King's asked him to investigate something." Merlin paled, suddenly remembering the tablet in his hands. "Bugger. I'm meant to be delivering this to him."
"What is it?" The warlock paused, uncertain whether he should be divulging the sensitive information. Granted, he doubted Isolde was the gossiping type, but one wrong word and the whole inquiry could be jeopardised, and the young servant's killer might never be found. Sensing his hesitation, Isolde leaned forward again, this time her lips touching the edge of Merlin's ear. The sensation sent thrills through him and without being aware of it, the whole story came pouring out.
When he'd finished, she leant away as if satisfied. His head was pounding and he felt a little groggy, but he put that down to the close proximity of her. She really was so very beautiful, and she was all his. Not Arthur's, not Uther's, not even Will's, but his.
"And this is the rune?" Gently, she prised the tablet from his fingers and traced the outline with her own. It seemed to Merlin that for a brief moment, the mark glowed blue under her touch but then it was gone and the pain in his head was intensifying. Confused, he winced as he took the tablet back.
"Merlin? What's wrong?"
"It's nothing," he lied. "I'm just tired, that's all. I've got to get this to Uther –"
"Leave it." Her voice was hard, commanding, and for a second, he felt his hold on the stone loosen. Then, his senses returned and he found himself clutching it tighter, disbelief swirling about his eyes. "What I mean is," she said in a decidedly softer tone, "it can wait, can't it? You look ill, Merlin. I should get you back and –"
"No. I've got to –"
"You don't have to do anything, Merlin. Anything at all. Why don't you just shut your eyes, Merlin? I know you want to. Go to sleep. I'll look after you."
She was right, so very right, and he felt sleep approaching rapidly. He did not have the energy to fight it, nor the inclination because the truth was that he felt safe. She had hold of him, and her skin was cold, and she was whispering in his ear. No, not whispering; singing, singing a lullaby and she had the voice of a nightingale.
"I – I – Arthur –"
Then, consciousness fled and Merlin knew no more.
***
Darkness. Emptiness. The sound of sobbing travels on the air. In a small, dark room, a woman waits, her blonde hair flowing and loose around her. Pale skin, paler than fresh snow, reflects the moon. Someone enters, his face stretching into a large grin as he catches sight of the waiting guest. Smile turns to scream. A knife plunges. The body lies still, blood flowing. Sculptured cheekbones turn pallid. Blue eyes are shut with trembling fingers. A knife carves a rune into the cheek. Glows blue. Something is muttered inaudibly. A tear is shed. A long sleeve pulled back to reveal scarred arms. The knife slices, and power surges into the flesh, coursing through the body like liquid fire. A long, piercing cry more dead than alive.
Somewhere within the depths of night, Morgana screamed.
