"Allard, call Brandon in, will you? Supper's just about ready."

Allard grumbled. He was quite comfortable in his seat by the fire, easing out the stiffness in his limbs accumulated over a long day of collecting and chopping wood, enough of it to supply the village for a good while yet. He'd been at it since the clouded sun came up all the way to when the world became a soup of nighttime fog and bone-biting chill, so the idea of going back out into it was not high on his list of priorities. "The boy's a man grown, Isabel. If he can't be bothered to give that Margery girl some peace and show up for dinner, that's his problem."

"Oh, Allard," Isabel huffed, rubbing her hands on her rough-spun apron in that manner that said she was not going to drop it.

Allard, knowing it was going to happen eventually, let out an especially loud snort of displeasure before hauling his poor, aching body from its seat and crossing to the door of their tiny house.

It was a wicked sort of night, make no mistake. The half-moon stood no chance against this dense gloom. He could hardly see two huts down the muddy road before everything was swallowed. Damn boy, always making things difficult. Allard wished his son was still small enough to simply haul around by the ear. Much more manageable that way. Tucking his tunic more tightly about his trembling body, Allard trudged off down the slick roadway. No doubt he would find Brandon floating about his little lady love.

It was only a short walk to the Tillens' home, but every step of it was a misery. Aside from the chill and lack of visibility, Allard couldn't help but feel weirdly unsettled the farther he got from the warmth and sheltered walls of his home. He paused every now and again, listening intently, but there was nothing to hear aside from the usual night noises. Still, he walked faster. He wasn't a superstitious man by any means, but he did know that instincts were not to be simply brushed aside.

He rapped loudly against the Tillens' door, muttering under his breath. Robert Tillens answered it, his countryman looking a bit miffed. "Oh, it's you, Allard. Thought you were Margery and that boy of yours." His neighbor's lip curled a bit in disdain. "They've snuck off again. If your son's doing anything improper…"

"I swear, Robert, if Brandon's doing things he shouldn't with your daughter, I'll take a switch to him myself," Allard replied. "Right now, all's I care about is getting his fool hide home so I can kick my feet up at the hearth. Where did they go?"

"Beyond the village borders." Robert waved his hand vaguely toward the southbound road.

Allard groaned. "On a night like this? When I bring them back, we'd better both knock some sense into their thick heads."

"Believe me, I will." With disgruntled acknowledgements on both sides, Robert shut the door and Allard set off in the direction he'd been pointed.

The moment he stepped beyond the last house, the village vanished, as if it had been swallowed up into the earth. Allard was alone in a world that was hardly more than four meters wide in any direction, with four drifting walls locking him in.

Should have brought a lantern, he mused uneasily. He hadn't thought he would be going this far. He could only hope, as exasperated as he was, that the two youngsters had thought to do so. If they had gone out too far, it would not be easy to find their way back. He trudged on, beating his chilled arms and trying to quell the fear pooling in his stomach.

There was a rustle. He stopped. A thump. Then running footsteps, fast closing in. Allard stumbled back a bit, alarm rising like bile in his throat before he heard panicked gasping. And sobs. A girl's sobs.

A pelting figure burst from the mist, almost colliding with him. A strangled scream rose from the girl's throat before she seemed to recognize him. Then she flung herself into his chest, shaking like a newborn fawn and letting out choking wails.

"Margery?!" Allard cried, recognizing the red hair. "Good god, what's happened to you, girl?"

Margery gasped, then tried to yank away. The lass was like a frenzied animal, eyes rolling in their sockets and her skin bone-white. "P-Please! We have t-to go, we have to RUN! Brandon, oh heavens, Brandon!"

Allard seized her by the shoulders as panic seized hold of him. "What?! What's going on, where is my son?!"

Margery looked mad with fear, and her eyes kept twitching back the way she'd come. "W-We we-were together, we were walking b-back, and then—and then…it came. Out of the mist, the monster! It-It got him!" she howled, tears streaking down her pretty face. "It took Brandon! And it's coming for me now! Please, we have to go!"

She didn't even wait for a reply. Wrenching herself from his grip, Margery took off into the fog, disappearing within a moment.

Allard's heart thudded madly in his chest. His boy was out there. Something had attacked his son. He didn't put much stock in monster tales, but there were wolves in these woods, and other beasts of stranger sorts, all very dangerous. For a moment, Allard stood at a loss. His son needed help, but Allard was unarmed and alone, and not at the peak of strength besides. Whatever beast was prowling around out there, he doubted he would be any match for it.

Then he heard a cry. A man's garbled cry, trailing off into a haunting moan of pain.

Brandon. He was close, and hurt. Steeling himself, Allard plunged into the murk. I'm coming my boy, just hold on.

He seemed to wade forever, his eyes scanning frantically for a sign of his son, for any approaching threat. Should he call out? There hadn't been another sound to help him along. He feared what that might mean.

Just as Allard was resigning himself to having to shout, he saw something. He jerked to a halt. A crumpled form lay in the road. As he stared, it twitched slightly, and another moan trembled from it.

"Brandon!" Allard cried, stumbling forward, fear and relief warring in his heart.

In less than a second, both emotions were crushed beneath a shock of absolute, heart-stopping terror. The shape on the road had shifted, and when the head rolled to face him, he saw that it was not a human head. Blank white orbs stared him down, and as another horrifically human-sounding groan sounded from it, a crescent moon of white fangs split open in a hellish grin.

Allard didn't have time to scream. He didn't even really see it move. All he registered were those dead eyes suddenly filling up his vision, and the cold stench of the grave. And it was over.

The beast crouched over its prey. Tipping back its head, it did not howl, but rather let out a grating, tapering scream, the sound of a man being dragged to hell.


The whirling, wind whipping feel of instant transportation stopped abruptly, dropping Merlin roughly onto loamy forest floor.

The warlock staggered against a tree, trying to catch his breath while checking for any nearby threat. It had been some time since he had last transported himself like that, and he already felt exhausted. The restless nights preceding this one weren't helping either.

Get it together, he told himself. He heaved himself upright. The spot of forest he had landed in matched the one he had seen in the scrying water, but the beast wasn't there. However, he was close to the point where it had been summoned from the other side. The air in that direction throbbed with chilling wrongness, the essence of the spirit world leaking out like cold from a cracked-open fridge.

Merlin debated on what he should do. The creature could not be allowed to reach the villagers, but if Morgana had been the one to summon it, she might still be near the origin point. This could be his chance to finish this mess, the mess he had invited by letting her go.

Ultimately, Merlin turned deeper into the forest, away from the village. If he knew what this creature was it would be easier to banish it, and if Morgana was foolish enough to linger, two birds with one stone.

He found what he was looking for in a steep-sided, rocky basin in the forest. The dead leaves littering the ground had been swept away, and a sigil of summoning was burnt into the dirt. Sliding down the slope and kneeling at the center, Merlin conjured a light to hover above his head as he searched for the pattern and any runes that could tell him the nature of his beast.

It was a great swirling design, not uncommon when dealing with necromancy, but the writing along the edge of the circle gave him his answer. Merlin hissed under his breath, "Black dog." Omens of death, shepherds of lost souls. This was not good. In their natural state, black dogs were neutral creatures. They led wandering spirits to their proper destinations at their most benign, but if dragged from the other side and exposed to the living world with its many bright, living souls…Merlin had seen the kind of carnage they could wreak. Only the summoner would have some measure of protection from the beasts. Damn him to ten thousand more years of immortality before he saw that kind of slaughter happen in Camelot.

He also found another marker, almost like a scent of the conjurer's magic, and it was a familiar one. He'd sensed it on the Isle of the Blessed, although it had been greatly magnified there, easy to follow. This was Morgana's work for sure. But what could she gain by attacking one little village, one not even that close to Camelot? His eyes narrowed. He had his suspicions.

Merlin's head shot up when an eerie shriek was blown to him on the night winds. He stood up quickly, blood turning to ice. Black dogs only screamed when they killed.

Every sympathetic part of him wanted to take off running in that direction, but his logical side knew that he would be too late to save whatever poor soul had fallen victim to the beast. If he made pursuit now, it would only make things harder. Black dogs could not be killed or harmed, and the only way to properly banish one was to send it back through its summoning point, which was an already unlocked door to the land beyond. Trying to force it back to the other side through sheer might was something even he dared not attempt. So he would make his stand here, and hope no one else was out there in the path of danger.

It hit Merlin suddenly. This was the first sign. By coming back to the past Merlin had every intention of changing certain events, doing things differently, but this was the first alteration resulting from his return that was out of his control. There had been no black dog the first time, they would have known about it otherwise. Indirectly, Merlin's actions had somehow resulted in a death that hadn't happened before.

It really is starting, then, he thought grimly. A whole new destiny is beginning to form itself, and there's no stopping it now.

Now to make the black dog come to him. He closed his eyes and visualized walls coming down, thin ropes wrapped around him snapping loose. With every piece of shielding he shook off, his ancient magical presence flared outward just a little bit more. He would be sending out a beacon to all magically attuned creatures in the area. If the black dog was so drawn to normal souls, there was no way it could ignore an immortal one.

He doubted Morgana could either.

He hoped the beast would hurry up. Even with the creature probably bearing down on him right that second, even if he had not completely let down his guards, Merlin locked his arms around himself, a tremble working its way down his spine. Unblocked, Merlin felt insecure and loose, as if he wasn't existing just in his body, but also floating around it in rags and swirls like invisible smoke, so that the wrong breeze could yank a piece of him away with it. It was when he was like this that, despite his age, he relearned the fear of his own abilities. "Come on," he snarled under his breath. "Come and take a bite."

A shape exploded from the mist in reply, a bone-chilling keen whistling from it as it barreled into the hollow. With a flash of his eyes and a whip of his hand, Merlin smashed the creature off course. It slammed into the ground and rolled, before staggering back to its feet. The corpse eyes stared Merlin down. The thing could hardly be classified as a dog, but it was the closest approximation. No other detail could distinguish it; its form was liquid and pitch black, as if the creature had been conjured up from a tar pit. A grisly grin showed off its teeth.

Merlin didn't take his eyes off of it, stance ready for the moment the dog lunged. The summoning sigil was directly between them. He would have to be ready with his magic the moment it made its move.

A rush of pounding paws and a shock of warning on the back of his neck was his only warning. His magic reacted for him, lashing out and catching the second black dog as it pounced for his unprotected back, but his distraction gave the first an opening. It lunged forward.

Merlin only just got his arm up in time. He was knocked to the ground, stars exploding behind his eyes when his head collided. His breath shoved from his lungs. The black dog was on top of him. It latched onto his forearm and bit down.

A scream was strangled back at Merlin's gritted teeth. He heard bone crunching beneath the oozing jaws. Eyes flashing again, a shockwave of force exploded outward, blasting a cloud of dead leaves and the black dog away. It took a chuck of his arm with it. Merlin stumbled to his feet, gasping. Streams of blood were trickling down his arm and dripping from his fingers, and the throbbing pain was fierce.

"Clever, Morgana," he panted roughly, keeping both the prowling dogs in sight. They were chuffing and moaning, desperate to get at him, eyes bulging in their dark heads. "So it was me you wanted."

"It was indeed."

Merlin twitched an eye upward to the highest ridge of the hollow, making sure the hood of his cloak was still draped low over his face. She was standing there, drawn up proudly with yet a third black dog eyeing him at her side. When he caught sight of the dark scars striping her skin, a twinge of disturbance assailed him. Had he done that?

The last time he had seen her on the Isle of the Blessed, she had been wrecked with grief for the death of her sister Morgause, whom he had killed; still raging, but the devastation and vulnerability brought back scraps of his oldest memories, when Morgana had been his friend, a woman he'd long since buried. The new Morgana, the one that had replaced his friend, was out tonight in full force just as he remembered her. For a moment, all he could do was stare as it struck him again. Who was this woman? Where had the kind and noble spirit gone? An oozing whisper slithered into the back of his mind. "You could probably answer that question. Just look inward."

A bitter smirk was playing on Morgana's lips. "Our positions have reversed, haven't they, Emrys? Now I'm the one standing above you."

"Difference is," Merlin replied, making sure to add the draconic rumble to his voice he'd had last time, "I was willing to let you go, to give you a second chance. I doubt you'll afford me the same courtesy." His magic, already taut to strike out at the dogs, pushed painfully against his bones and his fingertips, longing to escape and take out the imminent threats. He winced, his arm pulsing hotly, the skin growing completely slick. He stared up at her, remembering all the misery she had ever caused, all the death and destruction.

She laughed, every second of it dripping with disdain and mockery. "As if I would grant any kindness to the man who killed my sister."

"To prevent you from tearing the Veil. She would have died anyway, Morgana. Is it really her you seek vengeance for, or was it your missed chance at the throne of Camelot?"

The haughty expression cracked. Her eyes widened and her face paled impossibly with rage. "How dare you!"

"Have I hit a sore spot?"

Morgana had gone completely rigid, and the dogs were moaning. One began to inch forward, but Morgana snapped at it in the language of the Old Religion, and it halted. When her gaze came back to Merlin, the hatred had been tempered with morbid curiosity. "Who are you, that you would speak so to a High Priestess? Why have you appeared now, and where have you come from?"

"Only if you tell me why you crave the throne so badly."

"It is mine by right! With me as queen, Camelot could embrace magic once more."

Merlin tilted his head to the side. Somehow, knowing that he had nothing to fear made space for curiosity. Any of his old questions about Morgana's motivations had faded into obscurity with time and in the wake of her escalating crimes, but now he couldn't help but wonder. He had the chance to ask now. "I can understand that," he admitted flatly, "But I can't say I've seen much sympathy for other sorcerers in you. You would harm anyone to achieve your goals. You were willing to sacrifice your own sister. What do you really want?"

"And why would I tell you that?"

"Call it an enduring curiosity."

Morgana's eyes narrowed, but at the same time the fevered enmity seemed to fade. She seemed much more contemplative, and for a moment, in spite of the slavering black dogs straining to attack and the scarred mien of a vengeful priestess, she looked almost like her old self. Merlin, to his surprise, felt a stab of longing.

Then her face split into a cruel grin and the manic spark returned. "Why, what I truly want is to see all of Camelot kneel before me, and to slit my beloved brother open from toe to top."

It felt like Merlin had been turned to stone, at least on the outside. Under his skin, his magic shrieked and writhed like a mad beast. Her words echoed in his head like clanging bells. Slit him open from top to toe. For a moment he saw all white. When he spoke, his voice was deadly calm. "Never."

She laughed. "What hole have you crawled from so suddenly, oh mysterious Emrys," she spat, "that has saddled you with a traitor's loyalty to Uther Pendragon and his reign?"

"Not Uther. Never him."

"So Arthur?" she scoffed. "He's no better, you fool. He has no more sympathy for our kind than his father did. If you hadn't taken my sister's life, I might have allowed you to join me. Then you could have followed a true queen."

It was all he could do to keep himself talking normally. Painful whiteness burned in his skull. Slit him open from top to toe. Arthur. Dead. Dying. Merlin couldn't do anything. Nothing. Helpless.

All white.

"Hardly," he said, barely above a whisper. Deadly. "Every man can change if he's willing to listen. Magic or not, the moment you decide you're above all counsel, you've lost all claim to rule. The moment you decide innocents are expendable for the sake of your ambitions, you've lost all claim to righteousness."

"And I've lost all patience for your senseless bleating. I can feel that you are powerful, Emrys, and I almost grieve to snuff out such magic, but it is wasted on a blood traitor like you. Even you cannot beat back and banish three dogs of the other side at once." With a snap of her fingers, the third black dog at her side leapt down into the hollow. The trio began to circle, forcing Merlin into the center. His vision was beginning to blur with blood loss, warm trickles still flowing down his arm, but he didn't feel its pain. It was just the magic, threatening to rip out of him at the seams, and all the white.

"Do you not have the stomach to come down and finish me yourself? To take your sister's revenge?" His eyes focused only on her. Pinpointed. Waiting.

"I thought it was only fitting. My sister was slaughtered by a pathetic dog, so why not return the favor? You achieved a coward's victory with surprise and an impressive display, but I'm afraid your noble little endeavor ends here. But first I would see your face, see what piddling wizard with no claim in this war has risen above his ranks, so that I can watch you scream as you—"

Tasting victory, Morgana had lost all wariness, as well as her bodyguard. Gloating before the game was up had always been her way. With a heave of his magic that his exhausted and now injured body screamed protest against, Merlin vanished from his cornered spot in the hollow in a whirl of darkness. He reappeared right behind Morgana, sword now in hand and swinging a deadly arc for her neck.

Her fighter's instincts served her well. She flung herself down just in time. Merlin's sword sheared off a trailing lock of hair. He made to swing again, roaring out words of magic. The blade glowed reaper's blue.

Morgana flung herself away, scrambling and shrieking for her dogs. His sword rent the ground. Merlin leapt after her, a pursuing shadow. The white was filling his vision, he wasn't even really seeing her, but he didn't need to. His magic scrambled outward like rabid, reaching claws, snatching at her ankles and tripping her up before she could get up a proper run. She crashed to the ground. FINISH IT, every bone and cell in Merlin's body screamed. Slit him open from top to toe. Never!

Morgana's hand flung out, and this time Merlin did not have a shield ready. He rocketed backwards. When he landed, it was on his ravaged arm, and he howled. Then the dogs were on him.

One on his leg, one going for the throat. His bloody hand plunged up first, going for the eyes in desperation. Two fingers sank into cold mush, and one of the dead lights went out, but it didn't stop the beast. It shoved forward, and with Merlin's fingers hooked into its pitch-made-solid skull, the force of it snapped his hand completely backward. Still he clung on, as he writhed helplessly and as shadowy teeth lunged for his throat. He couldn't escape. Pinned like prey.

Trapped.

No, no, NO!

Something hot and wild surged up inside him, and he didn't bother to hold it back. With a roar more dragon than man, another blast of force escaped him, much bigger this time. Not just force. Fire, snow-white fire. It sent the beasts hurtling into the dark depths of the forest, out of sight, and he was free. Merlin, gasping and snarling, dragged himself upright, ignoring the leg he could barely stand on. His heart beat so hard it could have shattered a rib. His gaze swung wildly about, searching.

Morgana was staggering away, the third dog guarding her rear.

Slit him open from top to toe.

A new pain surged up at the nape of Merlin's neck, running down his arms to his hands, a killer frost so cold and so vicious it would shatter him like glass if he did not respond. It felt like hate. His sword lay not far from him.

The third dog charged him, jaws slavering. It didn't matter. Merlin caught hold of the sword with his magic, and flung it straight as a crossbow quarrel at the retreating sorceress even as the dog slammed into his chest. Merlin heard Morgana scream as he and the beast tumbled back into the hollow.

He felt the magic of the summoning sigil beneath him the moment his back collided with the floor of the hollow. Calling up his magic, even while the dog slashed open his tunic and the skin of his chest, he rolled over once and activated the door with a guttural cry. For an instant, a world of blackness opened its gates below them, and the cries of spirits echoed up from the depths of the earth. The black dog dissolved like morning mist, and the gate snapped shut.

Merlin slumped bonelessly. The other dogs would be on him at any moment, but a familiar crackling was sounding in his ears and ringing in his skull. His vision was fading in and out. Angling his head, Merlin saw that the teeth and claws of the dog had gone deeper than he thought. The shreds of his plain gray tunic had been soaked black, and more was yet pumping out. Couldn't feel much, though.

All so white.

Merlin let his head thump back into the dirt. Glowing eyes were staring down at him from the ridge of the hollow. As the thunder in his ears grew louder, he sighed. He tasted blood on his breath.

"Eight years," he mumbled.

The dogs plunged down on him. He yelled out the words of magic. The door opened. Then, he allowed himself to go to sleep. He drowned in the noise of thunder, and the wails of the dead.

He welcomed the darkness.


A/N: Apologies for the delay. My thanks to mersan123, catherine10, MythologyStar, and son-of-a-dragonlord for their reviews, and of course to my beta. See y'all at the next update.