Ch. 8
Merlin dreamed of cruel laughter and a world reflected in broken glass. He dreamed he was flying, but then he was falling, and when he hit the ground he broke through it and continued to fall into darkness more solid than any moonless night. His only company was the voices hating him, mocking him, condemning him. He was the liar, the traitor, the darkness on which death rides. Wait, they said, just you wait. You will wake, you will turn, and Camelot will burn like we did.
Merlin snapped awake with a gasp, sweat-soaked, shivering and liable to lose what little he had in his stomach at any moment. As was the bane of vivid dreams it took far too much time for Merlin to reorient himself and recognize the dark shapes of his room. But the relief of knowing where he was did nothing to placate the queasiness. Temper it a fraction but not a helpful fraction, and if he wanted to keep what he had in his stomach then Merlin was going to have to endure one of Gaius' vile potions.
He didn't want to. He'd never been a fan of medicine but these days his body seemed intent on making him choke on them, his throat closing off and his stomach spasming every time he drank anything out of a bottle. Gaius had caught on, thank goodness, and laced his food instead. But when nauseas and in need of a remedy now, Merlin knew laced food wasn't going to cut it, and putting it in water diluted the stuff practically useless.
There was nothing for it. Merlin's stomach wanted to rebel and Merlin was desperate to keep it from doing so. He needed to keep what he ate inside him, to grow strong, to get back to work as Arthur's servant and get back to normality.
He needed to beat these blasted nightmares.
Merlin stumbled out of bed and from his room, clinging to the walls as his legs threatened to give out on him at any moment.
"Gaius?" Merlin called, taking the stairs one careful, slow step at a time and practically hugging the wall. He had no idea how he managed to make it to the bottom without collapsing. "Giaus, You need to get the green bottle, I think I'm going to be-" He looked up into the room and blinked. "Gwaine?"
Gwaine smiled so big it seemed to nearly split his face "It's about bloody time you came out of that room. Come here, you!" he said, already advancing and all roads of retreat denied to Merlin.
"Gwaine?" Gaius warned just as the knight opened his arms for an embrace to end all embraces.
"Wait, Gwaine!" Merlin tried, panicked.
But it was with much surprise that Gwaine eased his arms around Merlin, barely touching him while pulling him closer.
Merlin threw up down his back, anyway. A moment of very uncomfortable silence followed.
"S-sorry," Merlin said weakly.
Gwaine chuckled, squeezing his shoulder. "Merlin, mate, I've had worse done, believe me." He pulled back, finished with the hug but not yet ready to release Merlin. Instead, with a hand still on his shoulders Gwaine guided Merlin to the chair still by the window.
"In fact, remind me to tell you about the time I ran into a giant toad – five giant toads to be exact," he said. Only after Merlin was situated did Gwaine remove his soiled jacket. Gaius hurried over and checked Merlin's temperature with a hand to his forehead. Merlin reared his head back.
"No, Gaius, I'm fine. Just..."
"Another bad dream?" Gaius finished.
Merlin nodded sullenly.
Gwaine, standing just behind Gaius, brightened with a conspiratorial grin on his face. "Well, you know what's always aided me in being rid of nightmares."
"A rowdy night at the tavern may see to it that you sleep well, but in Merlin's condition it would probably kill him," Gaius said with exasperated patience. He draped the blanket that had been left on the chair the other day around Merlin's shoulders to chase off the post-nausea shakes, then fetched the very bottle Merlin had tried to ask him for.
"A warm mug of mead, then. Knocks me right out," Gwaine suggested.
The very thought of mead, warm or otherwise, kicked up Merlin's stomach in another fit of rebellion. Gaius was quick to return with the medicine that he had poured into a cup. Merlin, however, still had to squeeze his eyes shut and drink it fast before the flavor had a chance to register and give his throat a chance to close up. It didn't matter the subtle differences between the potions; if it was bitter, if it burned, his body wanted nothing to do with it.
It was better than addiction, Gaius had said the first time Merlin had choked on a bottle of draught meant to ward off nausea, although he'd looked grim while saying it. Yet despite Merlin's body's rejection of potions in bottles it still needed time to rid itself of the chemicals forced on it, to readjust to having no chemicals in it at all, and that meant no sleeping draughts and nothing to help numb the pain of Merlin's injuries. No medicine made sleeping difficult and the dreams vivid, and Merlin knew it was starting to show in the shadows under his eyes and the hallow paleness that made him look sick even though he wasn't. Two more days, Gaius promised, and perhaps they could try a light sleeping draft, but Merlin was seriously starting to wonder if he could wait that long.
He was so tired of dreaming, of waking up in such a state of panic that his first act was to either tumble from the bed or dive for the chamber pot. He was also tired of being tired, of being weak, and not for the first time – despite his assurances to Gaius – wished he hadn't gone to pick stupid herbs.
Wished the stupid rebel Druids had faith enough to wait.
Wished he wasn't their beloved Emrys yet not so beloved they didn't mind hurting him for their own ends.
Wished they had left well enough alone and not woke the monster waiting inside him.
Wished there wasn't a destiny.
Every time he woke, sweat-soaked or vomiting, he felt the dragon shifting and writhing inside him, anxious to get out, to be free, and burn the things that made him afraid. Burn whatever stood in his way, friend or foe, because they were all nothing but ants.
It terrified him more than the dreams.
"-erlin? Merlin?"
It wasn't the sound of his name, it was the hand on his shoulder that broke Merlin from the hold of his thoughts with such a jolt the empty wooden cup was flung from his hands, hitting the floor with a clatter. Gwaine snatched his hand away as though it had the power to burn.
"Sorry, didn't mean to startle you," Gwaine said, a laugh in his voice but concern in his eyes. "You looked like you were off on your own little adventure, there."
"I wouldn't call it an adventure," Merlin said, rubbing the space between his eyes hell-bent on forever aching.
"Ah," Gwaine said. "Say no more." He pulled up a stool and dropped onto it. "Maybe you should talk about it, rage a little, throw in a few colorful insults and curse the bastards that did this to the lowest reaches of hell?"
Merlin gave Gwaine what he hoped was a look that said if he wasn't having a grand time thinking about it then why would he want to talk about it? He had a feeling what it really said was I could use a very long nap, preferably one that lasted a week.
"I think," said Gaius, "that perhaps more rest would be better?" It wasn't a suggestion, it was a hope, because Gaius knew better than to make orders disguised as suggestions where sleep was concerned.
And yet Merlin still said far to quickly and a touch desperately. "No! No, I'm fine. Sickness is going away and everything. In fact, I think I might be able to eat something soon," he added with what he knew was a pallid smile.
Gwaine slapped his knees. "All right, then. How about I tell you about that giant toad or five while I have the chance. You'll love it, believe me."
And Merlin was tempted to say yes, please, for the love of all that is holy tell me something, anything. Talk until I fall asleep and dream of bloody toads. What came out of his mouth was a quiet, "kay."
So Gwaine talked, and for the next hour, Merlin thought only of toads vomiting on an annoyed Gwaine, and Merlin managed a small smile that he didn't have to force.
~oOo~
Merlin had at last reached the point in which Gaius felt it safe for him to take a sleeping draft. Were Merlin to be honest, he didn't think the draft was all that Gaius said it would be. Merlin slept, but the dreams were twice as fractured, three times as volatile and seemed to have declared all out war on the natural sleep cycle. Sometimes Merlin was the dragon attacking the camp. Sometimes the dragon was sitting before him, black as ink, sinuous as a snake and sharp as a blade watching as Merlin was strung up by his arms and left to suffocate. Merlin still woke gasping, not flailing yet his body heavy and his mind feeling thick and slimy like it had been dipped in the pig sty.
But the draft must have been doing something right. Each day Merlin was feeling a little stronger, able to take the stairs of his room without needing to cling to the wall, eating more and feeling nauseas less. Four days of taking the draft, and Merlin graduated from porridge to stew full of meats and vegetables.
When Gwaine was sent with Leon to investigate what seemed to be a case of arson in one of the farming villages, it was Percival who kept Merlin's thoughts too occupied to wander. Gwaine must have caught on that there was more to Merlin's need for company than to stave off boredom. Gwaine was always far more perceptive than people gave him credit for. It both warmed Merlin and, again, made him wish the ground would open up and swallow him. It wasn't that he didn't appreciate the company – far from it – but the thought of Gwaine knowing that Merlin was afraid to be alone, afraid of his own thoughts... it was ridiculous, really, but there had always been a part of Merlin that fretted over the knights seeing him as weak. Not physically weak – no amount of lugging armor about would ever match the intense training the knights went through to strengthen their bodies, and Merlin was okay with that. It was when some malcontent or visiting lord would look at Merlin askance and crack some joke about him being the knights' pet or mascot. Or when Arthur rolled his eyes and told Merlin he could stop hiding behind the tree, now, because the danger had passed. Or when the knights would surreptitiously gather around him forming a protective circle during those battles when the odds seemed stacked against them, dividing their attention between potential danger and ensuring that Merlin was safe, putting themselves at risk.
It was when Merlin did his best to defend himself with a sword and failing because his attacker was twice his size, and it was either risk using magic or risk one of the knights coming to help him. He didn't want to be a hindrance, and most definitely did not want to be seen as some male damsel in distress. It was not unlike what it must feel like to be a younger brother to much bigger, better, older brothers. They wanted to protect him. He wanted to be more to them than the plucky little manservant who tagged along and occasionally made them laugh.
It was stupid, silly, embarrassing, but as was the case with all thoughts and feelings when you were not well, it was persistent and omnipresent. Especially because he needed the distraction, even if Percival's tales were a little more gruesome, or Elyan's tales were a bit dull and involved mostly blacksmithing accidents. Leon tried, at one point, because once one knight set a goal or task for himself and got another involved then they were all involved. It was horribly awkward at first as things often were between reserved Leon – noble and knight – and Merlin the servant. Until Merlin managed to coax from Leon a few stories about young Arthur and his escapades, then it was the most fun he and Leon had ever had up until Leon "remembered his place," dropped the subject like a hot rock and it was right back to being awkward for them. Merlin felt rather bad for Leon. He did try.
But nearly a week after Merlin began taking the draft, he'd garnered enough strength for short walks about the castle, accompanied by either Gaius or one of the knights if they had time. Three more days and Gaius finally (if reluctantly) gave Merlin his blessing for short (very short) trips outside.
Merlin felt like he was learning – learning how to walk again, learning how to exist again, learning how to be; each step bringing him a little closer to normality. And while he was anxious enough to reach that normality by pushing himself to take one more step no matter how his legs burned and his body ached, when he stepped outside, pushed himself a little further through the hustle and bustle of a busy courtyard seeking a shady place to sit, he would realize with a sinking heart that he still had a long ways to go, because he immediately wanted to turn around and go back inside.
He ignored it, thinking he was being silly again since there was no immediate cause for his unease. He would find his shady place, sit down, rest for a few minutes then go back inside. It was his third attempt at going out and trying, but failing, to stay longer – Percival by his side – when he realized the situation wasn't getting any better.
"Merlin? You okay? You're looking a little pale. Is it the crowds?" Percival asked.
Then Merlin realized what the problem was.
It was the crowds. It was the diverse faces of so many people, people who once upon a time might have been Druids disguised as peasants, wandering the town then the courtyard, pretending to go about their normal routine when all the while they were looking.
Looking for Merlin. Looking and waiting with the patience of a saint for that right moment when they would be able to carry him away without notice. It was the eyes that turned Merlin's way looking disinterested, unless they were only pretending to be disinterested, and suddenly Merlin felt more exposed than he ever had in his life.
Because he had to wonder, because it had to be asked, what if some of the Druids had survived? And what if they wanted to finish what they started, not for the end game they had hoped for, but to kill Merlin as they hadn't been able to in the camp?
Or maybe they felt death too easy, and they would torture him, never allowing him to die until they said he could.
Merlin used to love being outside, once. This new found fear made him feel like he had lost something, that a piece of happiness had been taken away, that he wasn't moving toward normal at all but he was walking a journey taking him further and further away from who he had once been
No. No, no, no, he wasn't going to let that happen. He wasn't going to continue being their victim when he had destroyed them so easily. Merlin dug his fingers into the edge of the step he was sitting on until his knuckles blanched, holding himself in place while his body begged to go back inside. The dragon stirred in his chest like a waking snake. If they came for him, he would destroy them again, easy as that. Fly away and burn them.
Then burn Camelot when reality collided and there was no friend nor enemy, only the insects who deserve only fire.
"Merlin?" Percival said. His larger body settled itself beside Merlin's thinner one, his sword sheath tapping on the stone. "Are you all right?" he asked, then settled a large hand gently on Merlin's back.
Merlin relaxed his grip. After a deep breath, he relaxed his body.
The Druids wouldn't take him. Not here, not now, not when Merlin had his magic and Percival had his sword. But the tension of seconds ago had pulled his muscles fiddle tight, the release of that tension leaving him shaky and cold, and Percival didn't miss it.
"Come on," he said, taking Merlin's arm in his strong grip and pulling him slowly up. With all the walking down steps, through halls and out doors, it amazed Merlin how far more draining a single moment of near-panic defeated by the subsequent battle for resolve could be. He would not, could not, let the Druids have what they were not here to take.
Merlin let Percival keep a hand on his arm just in case as they made their way back to the tower, the dragon calming down in the presence of that single patch of strength.
TBC...
