Something is wrong. And none of the staff are quite sure what it is.
Sir Percival has always been quiet. Now he's almost mute. He's gained a clumsiness—an awkwardness—that no one likes. He trips. Over his feet, over chairs, over the wall because he's trying to walk right up against it. He bashes into doorframes and tables and rails. But never into people. He dodges them. Violently, sometimes; wrenching his whole form in the other direction. It's half the reason he keeps bashing into things.
Percival is not training with the other knights. Not going out on patrols or taking up posts guarding. He wanders around. Restless, his hands twitching, eyes constantly searching. He goes in circles around the castle and the castle grounds and the market, reaching out to fix things and then yanking his hands back like he's been shocked. He circles all day like a dog searching for scraps. No one knows quite what to make of it.
Gwaine is worse somehow, bolder but indecisive. He yells. He never yells. But when his voice starts quiet it rises and rises like he's not sure he can hear himself speak. He's gained a single-minded focus, throwing himself into everything he does. He spars with the knights and breaks someone's arm. And then he flinches violently, rushing forward, face softened, an apology on his lips as he guides the knight to Gaius. An apology riddled with suggestions for improvement.
He flies back and forth between angry and helpful and no one's quite sure which to expect. It makes them nervous around him. Makes them wary.
Leon is rigid. Stiff and blank and constantly squinting at everyone around him. Like he's not sure who to trust. He keeps a hand on the hilt of his sword at every moment, stalking around the castle like a bloodhound.
Gwen is small and quick and she whirls about rooms and floors and chores with ruthless efficiency.
Arthur is unmovable. He is like a statue in the garden; tall and strong and unbending. He stands perfectly still at the centers of corridors and rooms, a motionless rock parting the streams of people.
And Merlin… Merlin is a disaster. As clumsy as Percival, as quick as Gwen, as wary as Leon. He is a living breathing storm shadow with winds as powerful as hurricanes.
The whole kingdom is radiating tension and fear and wrongness. It feels like the great purge; families being torn apart, people turning on one another, age-old habits suddenly starting to fray and unravel and then sewn into something else entirely.
The people are not as passive as they're believed to be.
Elyan and Gaius are eager for help and advice. Whispers mist about the castle like ghosts without the restrictions of walls or station or circumstance. Ashes. Stone. Gedref.
The people prepare for a quest. Rodor is friendly to Camelot, and there is no reason to expect hostility so why shouldn't they go? Why wouldn't they go? Someone needs to.
It's George who finds the ashes of the head. Won't say how or where, but he mentions connections, glances at Susie sitting strong and quiet in the corner of the room where she can keep an eye on everything. Susie's always had a strangeness about her. A knowledge of things without being told, a memory that never fails, a lack of fear in the face of the worst possible situations. A calmness, like she knows everything will work out. But it is a calmness with worry, like she isn't sure she likes the way things work themselves out, even if she is unsurprised by it.
There are rumors of witchcraft. Rumors that die down almost immediately. The people protect their own, if they can. The castle staff especially. No witchcraft. Just having faith and being observant. Pure and simple.
Mary prepares the food for everyone. The stable master borrows a dozen horses. Sir Quinn and a handful of other knights, Elyan among them, slip quietly away to accompany the group.
There are people in Camelot. There is wrongness in Camelot. And the people determine to fix it.
Elyan is at the back of the party. Trailing far enough behind to be able to hear hoofbeats following, but not far enough that he can't see the group before him.
There are hoofbeats following. And Elyan keeps careful track of them.
Merlin was saddling a horse behind the stables and Elyan is sure it is Merlin following them now. Elyan makes sure he doesn't fall too far behind.
He is glad of Merlin's presence. If there's one thing you bring on a quest, it's Merlin.
When they settle down to make camp for the night, Elyan trails backward.
"Merlin?"
Merlin is still on the horse. Not stopping. Elyan pulls up alongside him and reaches out to take the reins, ignoring Merlin's flinch. "Merlin, we've set up camp."
"I have to keep going," Merlin says. "I have to fix this. It's my fault. It's all my fault."
"Merlin."
"Sir?"
"It's Elyan, if you're comfortable with that. Come rest. Eat."
Merlin makes a strange sound in the back of his throat. A not-quite-agreement. He shakes his head. "I can't. I… There's…" He shakes his head.
"I could make it an order." Elyan tries and fails to get Merlin to meet his eyes. "Or ask a favor. There's safety in numbers. You'd be helpful to have."
"I can't, Elyan."
Elyan nods. He still has hold of the reins of Merlin's horse. Things fix themselves when Merlin wanders off alone. But when Merlin wanders back he'll be quiet for a day or two. Or bone-tired or stiff. His smile becomes strained. That's when he leaves at one hundred percent. Elyan doesn't want to see how he'll come back if he leaves like this.
"I'll come with you, then. Together. We'll find the ashes and meet back up with the group. You alright with that?"
Merlin doesn't yes. He doesn't say no either.
Elyan lets go of the reins and follows him.