Disclaimer: I do not own Merlin.
The trail was hard to pick up.
At first glance, it seemed that Tauren and his camp had vanished into thin air, only leaving a dead fire and Merlin's neckerchief. But, with the help of said enchanted object, Arthur was able to choose an approximate direction. The knights, Arthur, and Cadan had traveled for half a day, their horses twisting through the woods at a hurried pace, only stopping briefly at a stream to refresh their resources before continuing east. From the royal's best guess, he assumed that the traitors were taking Merlin to the Darkling Woods. That meant that, though they would not have to travel very far, there was still a lot of area to cover. The Darkling Woods was not a small place, and their limited knowledge through the flashes of Merlin's vision was not enough to narrow the search parameters.
The only positive thought was that the southeastern edge of the forest bordered Camelot, so when they rescued Merlin, it would not take long to get him home.
Arthur's attention turned to his companions. Without Merlin to blabber on, the ride was much more quiet. There was no cheeky conversation coming from the king's right—one in which Gwaine could excitingly join in on by mocking him with his usual "princess" insults—and no banter for the rest of them to laugh at; it was disconcerting, actually. They rode silently, with Arthur in the front, followed closely on his left by Leon, then Percival, with Cadan and Gwaine bringing up the rear. No one was talking or shifting in their saddle. They looked straight ahead, backs stiff and hands holding tightly to the reigns in anticipation for what lay before them.
The Pendragon frowned. Yes, they were all worried, but their tense silence was only worsening his nerves.
He shifted his head slightly to his left, locking eyes with Leon in an attempt to initiate conversation. It was never his job to start these things, and it made him more than a bit uncomfortable to think of taking on the role. That was Merlin's job. His heart beat painfully in his chest, a grimace twisting his face. It's still his job, he corrected himself.
Arthur wouldn't allow himself to dwell on worse case scenarios. His soul told him that Merlin was still alive—and as long as the idiot stayed that way, Arthur would find him.
But the knights didn't have that comforting assurance in their soul. They couldn't sense that the man they considered their brother was still breathing in the earth's air; they were still holding on to Arthur's relieved sigh—that earlier confirmation that told them Merlin lived.
"Sire?" Leon's quiet voice broke through the silence like a knife.
"Yes Leon?" Arthur tried not to let the relief he felt at hearing someone's voice enter his tone. His glance had worked.
"Are you alright?" Leon asked, but then, after a few seconds pause, added almost hesitantly, "Was it… the neckerchief?"
Arthur winced, absently brushing his hand over the fabric tied to his wrist. His First Knight must have seen his expression when they'd locked eyes—he'd thought he'd hidden his discomfort better.
"No, I was just thinking." The king's mental exhaustion released itself in the form of the sighed words.
"Have you... tried it, recently?" Percival questioned softly.
"…No."
"Well, no time like the present, Princess," Gwaine jibed, though his voice failed to bring its usual, cheerful tone.
The king gave a curt nod, but didn't reply. The knights and Cadan silently followed his lead as he pulled on the reins, slowing his horse. They watched as Arthur gently untied the neckerchief from around his wrist, taking special care in handling the precious fabric.
Arthur took a deep breath, preparing himself for the possibility of seeing something unpleasant, and then let it out slowly as he closed his eyes, focusing on the part of his soul that belonged to his brother.
At first, there was the familiar darkness, but Arthur pushed harder, straining his closed eyes to see beyond natural vision.
Then, he saw it; he saw the cottage again—more like a hovel—built into the rock and dirt, hidden with vines and moss.
He saw the inside, with plants breaking through the walls, and a small hearth providing a dim light.
The images sped up,
Merlin's boot clasped tightly in a cuff and chained to the floor.
A waterskin.
Bright light.
He was outside, then, looking at tents and fires.
Chainmail, Druid cloaks, and armor.
The ground, the fingers of Merlin's left hand, then a hazy shadow.
Arthur's eyes flicked open, his breaths coming in quick gasps.
"Arthur?"
He raised his hand, gesturing for his friends to remain silent for a moment longer. He closed his eyes again, attempting to get his breathing under control. He had felt it this time—his brother's magic. Only, Merlin's power felt… different. When he had connected to the visions, the warmth Arthur associated with his warlock's magic was still there, but it felt…off… restrained maybe? Weakened? But it was the feeling that something was off with Merlin himself that really bothered him.
The problem for Arthur, was that Merlin's very soul felt weak, not just his magic. It was as if the magic was not just siting beneath Merlin's skin, locked away by some chains, but, being redirected—taken, somehow.
But was such a thing possible? He knew of magic-restricting manacles—both from his father's harsh methods, and Merlin's own explanations… and experience—but when he'd caught the glimpse of Merlin's leg, the chains binding him looked normal, with no runes in sight. So what other techniques had his brother's captors found to contain his magic?
Arthur shook his head, in an attempt to clear that thought from his mind; he wouldn't dwell on that. There was something else about the vision that was nagging at him.
Taking deep, slow breaths, he went over the images again.
Why did the hovel seem so familiar? The itching feeling this memory created made Arthur growl in frustration—it was like the other half of his soul was pleading with him, begging him to remember something.
But what was it?
He breathed in sharply, his mind instantly bringing him to a conversation he once had with Merlin. It was one of the more important and recent discussions he had shared with the warlock; Merlin had been telling him of all his magical adventures, eventually running into the spot on his timeline when Morgana had taken him captive. And although they had talked about it before—upon the group seeing the scar their first day back in Camelot—Merlin was telling Arthur the incident in greater detail.
"For the Fomorroh not to grow back, I had to kill the mother beast, which, of course, was in Morgana's possession."
"How did you know where to find her?"
"I only have halting memories from when I was under the enchantment, but from them I was able to remember where she had kept me."
"So you just stumbled around the forest, until you happened upon this place, her campsite?"
"Of course not, you prat. I found my way to her hovel—in the Darkling Woods."
The Darkling Woods.
Morgana's hovel.
Of course! What better place to set up camp and hide an army than their former leader's home. It was close to Camelot, but well hidden and in a relatively secret location. Of Arthur's knowledge, only Merlin and Agravaine had been there.
"Sire?" Leon called, pulling the Pendragon from his puzzled thoughts.
He sighed. Unfortunately, that meant that neither he nor the knights knew where it was either.
"He's alive. I still haven't seen Tauren, or any other captor's face, but I may have an idea where they're keeping him." Arthur kicked his heels into the side of his horse, and the animal immediately responded, spurring into motion.
Tightening his hold on the reins, Arthur motioned for the men to follow, but didn't look back; instead, he brought his gaze to the forest, unconsciously seeking a familiar mop of black hair and a sunny smile. He soon realized the futility of the action though, and not finding his manservant-turned-Court-Sorcerer, the king dropped his eyes to the path ahead. His heart clenched in his chest, and after fingering the precious fabric that brushed against his wrist, Arthur whispered into the breeze,
"Hold on brother, I'm coming to get you."
Merlin blinked past the bright sunlight as Dariac's men brought him through the doorframe and out of his dark prison. The rough hold the man had on his arm, though, brought a grounding pain to the warlock's pounding head. Without his magic, Merlin felt almost withdrawn from the world, as if he couldn't sense the life around him. It was times like these that the warlock realized how ingrained his magic was within him—it truly was him, connecting him to the land as though it was a lifeline. Merlin shuddered at the emptiness he felt in his veins, the feeling of his magic leeching out of him through the blasted brand on his skin, keeping him weak and in captivity. The hands tightened around his arm, reacting to the tremor that had had gone through the captive.
"Recognize where you are, Emrys?"
Dariac's statement brought Merlin's now-adjusted eyes to the speaker, whose own dark orbs glinted with surprise.
"Ah, I see you haven't noticed yet," Dariac responded, intrigued, but motioned with his hands, eager for Merlin to look around.
The warlock flicked his gaze to the right and then to the left, soaking in the forest and large collection of tents and campfires. There were hills of rock, built up on either side of the valley where they stood; from the steep incline, rebel Druids sat and watched their leader with his captive.
While the rocky terrain wasn't exactly foreign to the forests of the area, Merlin felt a prickling sensation crawling up his spine. The place did feel familiar, he just couldn't place it—I shouldn't be surprised, though, he thought, Arthur's dragged me across the entirety of Camelot's kingdom. With the area in front of him not giving away their whereabouts, the warlock maneuvered around his guard, and caught sight of where he had come from, the hovel behind him.
His breath caught in his throat when he finally realized where they were.
"You're camping beside Morgana's old cottage?" Merlin couldn't help but feel creeped out. These people were really taking their loyalty to Morgana to another level. Belatedly, Merlin understood why he had felt the familiarity of the place, and in turn, why the Druids would want to stay there. It wasn't the landscape or even the rock-hewn hut that had given it away per say, but rather, the faded enchantments and wards the witch had placed on her home. He could feel—albeit very, very weakly—the dark magic swirling through the air. Merlin knew, though, regardless of the dull signature Morgana's wards released, that if he had control over his own magic, her power would still be overwhelming. He was her destiny and doom; he would always be able to recognize her magic.
"Good," Dariac smiled as though Merlin had just told him exactly what he wanted to hear, "you know where we are."
Merlin looked at him, one eyebrow rising in an impatient gesture as he waited for the rest of his captor's story.
"Well, then you will also know that Arthur has no idea of this place's existence… and therefore, your whereabouts."
The warlock cursed to himself. He had totally forgotten that the king had never been to the hut. Merlin had told Arthur about where he had been held captive (apparently now the first time he'd been held here), but the details were never placed onto a map. After all, Arthur had no desire to see where his sister had spent her sad existence in exile.
The warlock's hands tightened into fists, and although the action brought twinges of pain to Merlin's injured wrist, he almost welcomed the discomfort; it distracted him from the overwhelming thoughts of hopelessness seeping into his mind.
Dariac's annoying chuckle brought Merlin's glare back to his captor, "Now you get it."
Merlin waited for more snarky comments, but instead, the man simply gave a nod to the now two Druids holding him, and turned away, walking up the incline.
Roughly, Merlin was shoved forward, but the hands on his biceps kept him steady enough on his feet so that he—luckily—did not fall. He growled at the rough treatment, but followed their forceful pulling, making their way behind Dariac.
At the top of the rocky hill, more tents were spread out among the trees, with campfire smoke billowing through the surrounding air and rising towards the forested canopy. Merlin suddenly became aware of the numerous wards placed around the encamped area—no doubt to hide the sounds, smells, and smoke of the Druid settlement from prying eyes. He also recognized an enchantment similar to the one he used on patrols with Arthur and the knights, to alert him of movement and trespassers. Unfortunately, it seemed, Dariac knew what he was doing when it came to keeping his army concealed.
As they walked by rebel Druids, sneers and harsh glares were thrown at the warlock, but Merlin kept his head high.
It hurt—it really did—to see the hatred in their eyes, dulled from the faith that had crumbled and had been forgotten from their childhood belief in Emrys. Merlin felt the familiar feelings of remorse rise up at these people's stares, but he forced them down; he had, long ago, accepted hatred as one such path that sorcerers chose for themselves.
Taking a deep breath, Merlin shook his head. He had to remember that it wasn't all his fault; he was Emrys, but even then, he couldn't save everyone—or make them all happy.
Merlin continued being led through the camp, passing a makeshift forgery along the way, racks of swords and other sharpened and gleaming weapons surrounding the tent.
Throughout the "tour" Dariac never turned around or spoke, but kept walking, letting Merlin alone with his thoughts.
The path widened, and then stopped, emptying out into a large circle. The forest had been divested of its undergrowth here, making a sparring arena with a circle drawn into the dirt, runes placed at varying intervals around the circumference. Weapons were leaning against the outlying trees, and a ring of Druids were finding their way to the open space, watching silently. Dariac went to the middle of the training field, and finally twisted to face his captive. But, instead of speaking only to Merlin, he raised his voice, letting his words carry to his rebels.
"Our time is almost here, my friends," Dariac walked in a slow, small circle in the center of the arena, his eyes staring out at the Druids with a passionate glint, "Soon Camelot will know its failures."
Merlin clenched his jaw, memories of Morgana's own attacks on the citadel rising unbidden to his mind. He could still hear the sharp metallic echoes as the sounds of clashing swords bounced off the masonry; the screams and wails of battle; the red-caped men fighting to protect their home, even as their last breaths left their bodies.
Merlin looked towards the sky, blinking back the gathering tears and memories—memories that were made that much more vivid by the warlock's battle strewn nightmares. He had never had the stomach for war, but now, each thought of combat brought the horrors he'd faced at Camlann to mind… it was terrifying.
"You see Camelot pretends to welcome magic into its ranks. While the laws have supposedly all been repealed, its precious king—the very king who would knight commoners according to their strengths and talents—still carries reservations of such power." Dariac's harsh tone resonated with the bitter souls around him, his men growling and shouting in their readiness for battle. But, after a few moments of listening to the anger, a sick smile on his face, Dariac quieted the rebel Druids with a hand.
"And so, in the end, there is only one protector that has the gift in Camelot. Only one sorcerer who has been given the trust of the king… and we have him here, King Arthur's precious Emrys."
A chorus of jeering laughter erupted from the outer ring of the clearing, filling Merlin's ears with an amplified sound that was not too far off from those he'd heard growing up in Ealdor. His mind couldn't help but fill in the hurtful words from his childhood, matching them with the mocking tones of the rebels' laughter:
"You're pathetic,"
"What's wrong with you, you stupid child?"
"He's possessed!"
"You're a monster."
"Cursed, that's what he is!"
"Oh look, it's Hunith's worthless son!"
"You're nothing but a fatherless bastard."
Merlin gasped, shaking his head in an attempt to clear the words from his ears. What was wrong with him? Why was this affecting him so much? He'd heard these scornful words and derisive laughter all his life, so why was it so hard to hear it now?
Was it because these people actually understood him in a way? Because they too, had magic? They knew prejudice and fear with the same familiarity that Merlin knew it by—they had lived in the shadows, pretending to be someone they weren't. And yet, while the walls of hatred had been torn down with Arthur's proclamations, and Camelot once again welcomed magic, these people were still too bitter to let their childhood feelings go. So now they, just like all those who had mocked a younger Merlin, pushed their anger and hatred onto him, laughing and scorning the one who'd been prophesied to help them.
If only they could look beyond their discontent, if only they knew of the lives they could live in Camelot—peaceful, happy lives.
Merlin let a single tear fall from his lashes. The rebels were quieting, but the warlock still felt their unrest tugging at his soul, the discord creating a tension in the air around them. He pitied these people.
Merlin glanced at the earth to his right, at the closest rune that had been marked into the ground. It was upside down from his angle, but after a few moments, the symbol made sense to him. He quickly brought his gaze—as nonchalantly has he could—to the next rune down, recognizing that one and the one beyond it.
Dread hardened the lump in his throat, and his meager supply of magic buzzed beneath his skin, unable to be accessed, but at the same time, voicing its presence in the clearly magical arena.
Dariac was creating a teleportation circle.
Merlin had read the runed sequence not too long ago, during the move to his new chambers. With all the magical books entering his care, the warlock had spent every spare moment he could with a new tome. One such book had been a categorical encyclopedia of sorts, on the uses of runes. He couldn't recall what the rest of the transportation circle called for, but it seemed that Dariac's was well on its way to completion.
Merlin's heart skipped a beat at the observation.
That meant the attack on Camelot wouldn't be in a few weeks.
It would be in a few days… at most.
Merlin shivered at the prospects, and again, the hold on his biceps was readjusted, tightening further against his arms. The increased pressure pulled the warlock from his evaluating thoughts, and to Dariac, who was presenting a fervent speech to the gathered crowd.
"Camelot cannot stand a chance against us! We will fight, and we will win—for as Emrys is ours, so will be his city!" Dariac raised his hand in triumph, looking back at Merlin with a sneer. As the rebels cheered, he brought his hand to the opening of his shirt, pulling out the pendant, "We will watch the old Camelot burn, and we will build a new kingdom from the ashes. As the mighty king falls, the phoenix shall rise!"
With an outstretched hand and a pull on Merlin's instinctual magic, Dariac forced his captive to his knees.
Fire burned through the warlock's veins as his energy seeped through the brand. He fell forwards as the guards relinquished their grip, his gaze fixed on the left hand that supported his weakened body. Merlin closed his eyes as he tried to drown out the angry shouts, the pain, the weakness, the fear. He slowed his breathing as Dariac lessened the pull on Merlin's magic, bending down to whisper in his ear, "And then, Emrys… with your king gone, and the kingdom destroyed, you will be alone. And you will wish for death."
Merlin gasped as Dariac relinquished the hold on his power, feeling the small amount of magic snap back into his weakened frame. Again, the tears came unbidden to his eyes, blurring his vision as the Druid rebel's words sunk in.
Similar thoughts had often plagued his mind. Once burdened with an impending immortality, Merlin had spent many sleepless nights thinking about a lonely future; a time when he would watch his friends and family fall around him, walking away from this life and leaving him to roam the changing world alone; a time when the warlock would have to let go of his king, but still sit by, holding Arthur's withered, elderly hand while he drifted off to the next realm.
The resurfacing thoughts brought a sharp pain to his mind, and Merlin had to hold his breath to keep a sob from leaving his mouth.
He closed his eyes, taking deep, measured breaths in hopes to calm his racing heart. Merlin could feel another panic attack creeping up, and he fought just as desperately against the anxious trembling as he did his past reflections.
He wouldn't show weakness in front of these men.
Besides, he knew in this state, that if he submitted to the panic, it would be impossible to calm down quickly.
Arthur wasn't here to talk him down.
At the thought, Merlin's heart clenched.
Arthur.
He needed to get back to his king.
A rush of strengthened resolve boiled in his veins then, and while it felt weak and nothing compared to the power that was always there, Merlin couldn't help but let loose a sigh at the familiarity of it.
They may have control of his body—his magic—but he still had his mind. He would defeat Dariac and his phoenix rebels. With renewed determination he vowed to save Camelot and its king.
His enemy would not win.
Slowly, Merlin braced himself against the ground and pushed up, standing in spite of the guards hovering over him. Their hands roughly encircled his biceps, keeping Merlin in place.
Dariac had turned his back again, facing away from Merlin, and so the warlock used the opportunity to gather his wits about him, taking another calming breath before speaking up.
"I won't let you."
His captor, who had been saying something to his men, stiffened, and slowly rotated to face Merlin.
The hands released Merlin's arms, as though the Druids weren't sure they wanted to be in the path of their menacing leader. Dariac's head was held high, and his lips in a neutral façade, but there was a tremble of anger noticeable in the clench of his jaw, a fire in his eyes.
Merlin spoke again, "I won't let you take Camelot, and I certainly won't let you destroy her."
The man's face took on a look of disbelief before his features screwed up in a display of pure ire.
"Just like every other threat to Camelot that came before you, you will be defeated." The piercing blue gaze of the warlock caused a few men behind Dariac to take a step back. They could see something in Emrys' stance—a power they feared. But the man before Merlin took no notice of the burning glare; instead, he growled, and again, the pendant flashed as it was pulled from behind his tunic and into the sunlit clearing. Words of the Old Religion were spat from his mouth, the harsh sound thudding against Merlin's mind, emphasizing the sharp contrast between Dariac's voice and the familiar, comforting tone in which Merlin released his magic. The thought of the ancient language buoyed Merlin's spirit, and he couldn't help but smile.
But after a few more words, the warlock felt it, the very soul of him leaving his body via a now-burning wrist. He gritted his teeth and fought, hard. He could not let this enchantment overpower him.
If he could just hold out, or find a way around the bind…
A manic grin spread across Dariac's face, and it was then Merlin new that, with a sinking heart, the man would soon win out.
He was testing him—holding back the true strength of the enchantment.
Snarling, at the thought, Merlin raised his branded hand out, and before he could stop instinct from taking over, a shout tore from his lips, one that was so often accompanied with a wave of power.
But this time, pain followed the exclamation; blinding, burning pain that raced up Merlin's arm and slammed into his heart like a battering ram. He dropped to his knees, bringing his hands to his chest in an attempt to relieve the stuttering of his muscles. Panting, Merlin fixed his blurred but fierce gaze on Dariac as he stepped forward, a tight grip on the amulet around his neck.
"I'll burn each and every house, stable, and tower to the ground, and tear every brick from your precious citadel until nothing is left but ashes and ruin. And I promise you, Emrys," he hissed the words, seething, "your king will be the first to die."
A kick was delivered swiftly to his side, and Merlin gasped, falling to his side and folding in on himself. The pain still pulsed through his veins, making his whole body tremble. He wanted to reply, release his anger against the man, but couldn't find energy enough to open his clenched jaw.
And so, Merlin was forced to watch Dariac walk away, a simple shadow as he blocked the light of the sun.
They both knew who'd won the fight.
And for once, it wasn't Emrys.
AN:
Just a little background. In the series, Morgana's hut was originally thought to be in the Darkling Woods, where Morgana is repeatedly seen meeting with Morgause (and later on, enchanted Gwen) planning to take over Camelot, and then in overlooking views as she waited to attack the city in the finale of Season 4. That is, however, until the episode Servant of Two Masters (4x06) where Merlin went missing in the Valley of the Fallen Kings. But, for travel time and the proximity to Camelot, I am using the Darkling Woods as its location. Although, if you think about it, the Woods does seem like a more realistic place for it; how would Agravaine get all the way to the Valley to talk to Morgana in one night? In reality, it was too far away—according to BBC's map—for him to bring Morgana updates all the time, and make it back to the city.
Anyways, hope you enjoyed it. The next chapter should be up within the next two weeks.
Thanks again to all of you who have read, favorited, followed, and reviewed! Your encouragement and reviews mean the world to me—I love hearing from all of you, and PMing about our mutual love for Merlin!
Well, until next time!
Mirror