Chapter 2: Speak Little, Say Much
"Rodor has taken cover here," Arthur said, pointing down at a location on the map around which they were all gathered. "It is the ancient tomb of King Lothor, three leagues from our border."
"Mithian can lead us there?" Leon inquired.
"She's recovering well," Gaius confirmed.
"Now our only chance of getting Rodor back is with speed and stealth. A small group of kn-knights," Arthur faltered, feeling an inexplicable wave of panic and disorientation wash over him, like a scream without sound. He cleared his throat, trying to brush it off and continued as though nothing had happened.
At his place across from the King, behind Gaius' left shoulder, Merlin flinched, perceiving the full force of the clairvoyant distress call. He turned reflexively to look back in the direction it had come from.
"We could be over the border and back again in a number of hours," Elyan noted, oblivious to the two men's distraction.
Arthur tried to ignore the inexplicable feeling of dread that continued to linger in the pit of his stomach, and replied, "Exactly."
"Sire, if I may?"
"Yes, Gaius," Arthur acknowledged, looking up from his absent regard of the map.
"Odin has long wanted your blood," the Physician cautioned. "If you are discovered, you could have an army at your back."
The knights looked questioningly at their King, while Gwen's sharp gaze pierced into him.
"That's true, but Odin doesn't know where Rodor is and we do. By the time he realizes what's happened we'll be long gone," Arthur replied easily.
The Queen sat back in her chair on the far end of the table, clearly less than thrilled by the swift dismissal.
"Now we'll camp out he-" Arthur's next sentence was interrupted by an audible scream from down the hall. Everyone's head snapped up. Arthur and Merlin, already put on edge by the mental disturbance, were the first ones out the door.
"Help! Somebody please help!" Mithian cried out, leaning over the crumpled figure who was lying across the stairs. Her maid pushed herself to her feet to address them as Arthur, Percival and Merlin rounded the corner.
"Mordred," Merlin confirmed his own dark suspicions, staring down at the unnaturally vacant-looking teen. Arthur knelt down opposite Mithian, barely paying the others any mind.
"The boy must've slipped," 'Helga' explained. "My Mistress ran out to see what caused the clatter and we found him just lying here."
Merlin narrowed his eyes in response to the unlikely story but knew better than to question it aloud.
"Gaius," Arthur prompted a little too harshly, without looking up from his own cursory inspection of his ward.
"If you will excuse me, Princess Mithian," Gaius politely requested, guessing from the look in the King's eyes that trying to get him to move away would be pointless.
"Oh, yes of course," she moved out of his way, retreating to stand with Helga by the doorway to her room.
Gaius tilted Mordred's head up to check his pupils. Then felt the back of his skull for signs of a fracture.
"Well?" Arthur queried.
"It appears that Sir Mordred has sustained a concussion. There doesn't seem to be any swelling, but I will need to do a more thorough examination once we get him back to his chambers."
Arthur squeezed his eyes shut, taking in a deep, calming breath. He had already lost too many family members to take even this fleeting threat very well. Percival had stepped forward when the King reopened his eyes, but Arthur waved him off. "No. I've got him," he declared, slipping his arms under his disturbingly pliant nephew. Arthur carried him after Gaius, ignoring Merlin's scowl as he passed. It wasn't actually directed at Arthur, anyway, but rather at Mithian's ever-present servant.
She was watching Arthur carry Mordred away with an unreadable expression on her face. He was trying to warn me, Merlin recalled, hurrying after Gaius.
Bran darted anxiously about Mordred's bedroom, whining and scuffing at the furniture with his paws while Arthur placed Mordred on the bed and Merlin pulled the blankets over him.
"Control that beast, would you? I need room to work," Gaius directed, opening his medicine bag.
Arthur retreated to the other side of the chamber and whistled. "Bran," he directed, sitting in the armchair and clicking his fingers. Bran hesitantly complied, resting his head on the King's knee. Merlin waited until Arthur had allowed himself to get suitably occupied with calming the wolf, then leaned closer to address Gaius in hushed tones.
"Have you found anything unusual?"
"Not as such..." Gaius responded, his eyebrow arched.
"Gaius?"
"On the contrary, Merlin. Despite his symptoms I cannot find any physical evidence of an injury. However, I have witnessed head injuries before that were well hidden from detection. I cannot say definitively that that is not the case here."
"It isn't," Merlin concluded. "I felt Mordred scream shortly before he was found, and before I sent him to Mithian's quarters he was trying to warn me about a threat to Arthur."
"You believe that he may have witnessed something."
"He did."
"You cannot go to Arthur with this," Gaius advised, stealing another glance at the man in question. "You have no way to explain it yet without revealing your magic, as well as Sir Mordred's."
"I can't do nothing," Merlin snapped in a harsh whisper.
"That may be all that you can do at the present time. I will do what I can for Sir Mordred. Until he recovers, you must keep a close eye on King Arthur and make certain that he does not fall victim to the same fate."
"Oh, is that all?" Merlin remarked. "Guard Arthur against the same unidentified magical curse that turned a frighteningly intelligent, Druid sorcerer, trained from infancy - into a turnip. Yes, why would that be a problem?"
"Your sarcasm notwithstanding, Merlin, it seems that we have little choice," Gaius replied.
Later that night, Arthur sat at his desk in the royal chambers, peering over maps of Nemeth. He was only half seeing them, distracted by the events of the past few hours. Bran was curled up beside his chair, having been rejected from his master's quarters by the Court Physician. Arthur was the wolf's second favorite human anyway, so he'd ended up with them.
"Arthur?" Gwen called softly from the sleeping area. She was standing just beyond the screen, watching him with concern. "Why have you agreed to help Mithian?"
"Nemeth is our ally."
"One small slip and Camelot could find itself without a King," she persisted, walking towards him.
"That's a risk I'm prepared to take," Arthur returned, running his gaze over the map in front of him.
"For Nemeth, or for yourself?"
He looked up at Gwen, seeing the seriousness in her face. "What do you mean 'for myself'?"
"It was Odin who took your father's life," Gwen recalled. "You can't tell me that you haven't been waiting for a chance to retaliate."
Arthur stood and walked over to her. "However I may feel about Odin, it has nothing to do with this."
"Really?"
"Absolutely not. This is about helping our friends, no more, no less," Arthur assured her, taking both her hands in his.
"Good," she accepted. "I just wanted to be sure."
"You were right to ask," Arthur told her. "I rely on your honesty, Guinevere, and I love you for it." He leaned in and pressed a kiss to her temple. Gwen smiled softly up at him, but it faded from her face the moment he turned back towards his desk. She could always tell when her husband was lying, even to himself.
Mithian snapped her eyes open. There had been complete silence in her chambers for a while now, and she was pretty sure that meant her captor was finally asleep. She lifted her head up to look, letting out the breath that she'd been holding upon finding that she was indeed correct. She slipped out of bed and crept cautiously over. Morgana's hand was still grasping the keys to Mithian's chambers. The princess reached for them, but hesitated. She thought of that boy lying prone in her arms just a few hours ago. He had tried to help her, and if she was caught now, he might very well suffer for it. If I do nothing, he and his friends may all die, she reminded herself.
Steeling herself, Mithian eased the keys out from under the sleeping sorceress' hand and slipped her comb into their place. Then she fled from the room as quickly as she could without waking Morgana, making a mad dash for the royal chambers. She was only a few meters shy of freedom when Morgana stepped out of the shadows in front of her.
"Going somewhere?"
Mithian felt her heart skip a beat. She'd been caught. Now they would all pay, and it would be her fault. "No! No, you are mistaken. I was just- Ah!" The bracelet around her right wrist glowed fiery red, burning into her flesh. She dropped to her knees, gasping in pain.
"Did you really think that you could go to Arthur behind my back?" Morgana asked, as if discussing the weather.
"You are mistaken!" Mithian whimpered out, cradling her wrist in her lap. "I-I was just..." She trailed off in terror, seeing the sorceress' hand reach for the amulet hidden away under her robes. "No! Wait!"
"I keep trying to explain to you the consequences of your actions," Morgana lamented. "Alas, you do not seem to understand."
"No! Forgive me! I understand! I swear it!"
"If you betray me again..." Morgana threatened.
"I'm sorry. Please! I've learned my lesson," Mithian sobbed, staring unblinkingly up at Morgana's hand. The witch's eyes flashed brightly and the bracelet returned to its inert state. She let her hand fall back to her side. Mithian sucked in a shaky gasp in relief. They still had a chance. She had to believe that. There was still hope left.
Gwen stepped out into the hall, drawn out of her chambers by the sound of voices and caught sight of Mithian on the floor. "Is everything all right?"
Morgana bent over and took hold of Mithian's forearms, slowly pulling her to her feet. "Play along and I'll spare his life," she whispered into her captive's ear, once again leaving the details of her threat to Mithian's imagination. She then addressed the Queen. "My Mistress was feeling a little faint, that's all. We were just getting some air."
"Well, I hope you're feeling better now," Gwen said sympathetically.
"Much better, thank you," Mithian replied, somehow managing to keep her voice steady.
"We won't detain you any longer, my Lady," Helga said graciously. "Goodnight."
"Goodnight," Gwen responded, pulling her shawl a little tighter around her shoulders. "Sleep well." She watched Helga steer Princess Mithian back to her chambers, and felt a sense of foreboding in her gut. Gwen was uncertain of why the night around her seemed colder in their wake.
The next morning, Arthur stopped in the doorway of Mordred's quarters on his way to join his knights. The pitcher left on the bedside table had been smashed at some point-probably during the night- and George, the servant charged with looking after Mordred, was cleaning up the mess in respectful silence. The blankets were piled up at the foot of the bed and Arthur could see a few tears in the sheets left over from his nephew's thrashing. Merlin came up behind him with a bedroll tucked under his arm.
"Sire," he greeted. Great. Merlin using 'Sire' straight away usually meant bad tidings.
George looked at the other servant somewhat sourly as he stood. Merlin smiled and stepped out of his way as if he hadn't noticed. Although, it occurred to Arthur that maybe he actually hadn't. Merlin hadn't bothered to look at the other servant until he was already out in the hall, even when smiling-presumably- at said servant.
"Is there something that you want to say to me, Merlin?" Arthur prompted.
"I need to talk to you about this quest," Merlin told him, then indicated Mordred's sleeping form with a jerk of his head. "And also about him..." Once again, his gaze didn't even twitch toward- Oh. There was a beat of uncomfortable silence between them.
"You think I shouldn't go," Arthur responded simply, dealing with the issue that he understood first.
"You agree?"
"No. That's just what you always say."
"You always ignore me," Merlin countered.
"I fail to see what this has to do with Sir Mordred. He's a knight. He knows the importance of this quest, apparently better than you do," Arthur said flippantly, crossing his arms over his chest in a subconscious, defensive gesture. He was not unaware of the undesirable habit that he was forming; the last time that Mordred was in such a vulnerable state, Arthur had abandoned him in order to save Merlin. Now he was doing much the same for the sake of King Rodor.
"There's something more to this that we're still missing. When I sent Mordred to deliver the Princess' prescription, he was upset about something. He kept trying to tell me but I was too distracted. Then this happens to him. I think that he might have witnessed something, Arthur, something he wasn't meant to see, and I'm pretty sure that it's deadly."
Arthur leaned against the door frame, considering Merlin's suspicions while George passed between them to fetch the pile of bedclothes.
"Do you have any tangible evidence to support this theory?"
"I don't," Merlin admitted, matching Arthur's muted voice. "But you know that it doesn't make sense. Sir Mordred supposedly just tripped and fell down the stairs? Mordred? Even if he weren't naturally light-footed, he was due back in the Physician's Chambers after that delivery. Why was he heading in the exact opposite direction? It makes no sense."
"I agree, but do you really want me to sound the alarm that there might be a sorcerer in our midst right before we leave town?" Arthur pointed out, keeping his mouth hidden behind his hand to hinder the nosy servant's prying. George passed between them again, carrying an armful of dirty clothes out of the room along with the sheets. "Even the subtlest suggestion would cause panic," Arthur continued once he was out of earshot.
"Maybe we should postpone the quest," Merlin suggested, surprised that Arthur had so readily inferred the true nature of the threat on his own.
"You're right. Why didn't I think of that? Let's just postpone the quest," Arthur agreed flippantly, turning to face him. "I'm sure that Princess Mithian will understand completely why I am breaking my word based on hearsay and leaving her father to die."
Merlin stared at him.
"I'll post guards out in the hall until we get back. Until we have tangible proof of the threat, the quest must go ahead as planned," the King concluded.
"We both know that Sir Mordred can't be the true target. You could be killed!" Merlin cautioned.
"Regardless, the King of Camelot cannot be seen to betray his allies."
Merlin followed Arthur out into the courtyard and began to load up his horse, while Arthur hung back by the entrance to speak with Sir Leon about their suspicions. Helga was struggling to climb onto the horse that stood behind Merlin. He observed this coldly, not feeling so willing to help the suspicious maid as he normally would be. She was a threat, and quite possibly involved in whatever dark magic had put Mordred into a trance. He had stopped by to check on Mordred's status that morning, and found him returned to a childlike state. It reminded Merlin far too keenly of the trusting little boy who'd clung to him for protection while they hid in Morgana's quarters all those years ago. Like an unwelcome ghost from Merlin's past who had always been right there waiting for him.
"Do you remember what happened to you? Who did this to you?" Merlin had asked, slipping into the chair that Arthur had moved to Mordred's bedside.
Mordred only continued to watch him with a wan smile that clashed horribly with his mournful eyes. Merlin told himself that it was just his mind playing tricks on him in the dimness of the morning light. He wasn't interested in meeting Mordred's eye as things were. It was too difficult.
"Can you understand me at all?"
Mordred nodded. Those ethereal blue eyes were still watching Merlin, still haunting him.
"Why won't you speak to me?"
Mordred shook his head, toying with the edge of his fur throw and Merlin's frown deepened.
"No one else is here. Just contact my mind the way that you... the way you always do." The warlock finally dragged his gaze up to focus on Mordred's face. It hadn't been a trick of the light. A tear rolled down Mordred's cheek. His eyes were screaming.
"You can't... Your magic's been bound," Merlin realized, feeling the hairs rise on the back of his neck. "Was this-" He didn't see how Princess Mithian could have learned of Mordred's magic. Even then, she had none of her own to curse him with, but he didn't believe in coincidences. "Did Princess Mithian have anything to do with this?"
Mordred sucked in a sharp breath and his hands fisted in the blankets.
"Or her servant, Helga?"
Mordred's knuckles were turning white. He opened his mouth, letting out only the scant beginnings of a creaking cry before it was cut off unnaturally; his mouth snapped shut as if an invisible hand had clamped down on his jaw. Mordred shook his head and flopped back against the pillows. He was giving up.
"No, no, no! You have to fight it," Merlin leaned over him to retain eye-contact, his heart hammering in his chest. "Don't you want to be whole again? I need to know who did this! I need to stop them!" he insisted, seeing the last glimmer of Mordred's true personality fading from his eyes. "No. Stay with me. Mordred!" Frustrated, Merlin reached out and grabbed the Druid's arm to shake him. A burst of dark magic knocked him back into the chair, prompting a reflexive rush of his own bright golden magic to boil away the water in the pitcher beside him so rapidly that it exploded. Mordred tossed and turned, lashing out and tearing at his coverings like a wild animal caught in a snare. Emrys!It'satrap!It'sM- Mordred's rapidly-compressed warning was cut off with a jarring surge of dark magic. The childish front returned, unadulterated, and he stopped struggling. A few steaming shards of pitcher tumbled off of Mordred's blanketed shoulder as he shifted to lie on his side, facing the window, effectively turning his back on the astonished guardian. The real Mordred was locked away, well out of Merlin's reach anyway. Replaced by his unwanted specter..
In the present, Gwaine saw the old woman struggling and came over to lift her into the saddle, shooting the stone-faced servant a questioning glance. Merlin turned around and finished securing his supplies. I hope the old crone falls off her horse, he thought bitterly, feeling only somewhat repentant after he pictured it.
Queen Guinevere watched through the window as her husband, his knights and their allies rode out of the palace courtyard. They had ridden without Gaius, seeing as he would likely be needed to tend to his newest patient. She knew that Merlin was experienced enough now to be considered a healer in his own right. The change of plan bothered her more because of the issue that it accentuated: Mordred's accident just didn't sit right with Gwen; Mithian's behavior hadn't seemed natural to her, and the timing... it all stank of perfidy.
She turned away from the window to see Sir Patrick walking up to meet her. The young blond inclined his head in deference to her status. "Queen Guinevere."
"What is it?" Gwen had never seen the novice knight looking quite this grave before.
"Sir Leon has instructed me to ensure your safety in the King's absence. His Majesty suspects that magic may have been involved in Sir Mordred's fall."
Gwen straightened her posture, turning to face her bodyguard fully. "I see. I had my own suspicions as well. Who else knows of this?"
"Just Sir William, Gaius and a handful of the palace guards. The Court Physician has remained in Sir Mordred's quarters given the current circumstances."
"I think it is high time that I speak with him. I assume that a couple of those guards you mentioned are stationed in the Knights' Quarter?" Gwen verified, heading towards the corridor in question.
"Yes, Ma'am, and two more outside your chambers," Sir Patrick confirmed, following a step behind her.
"Good."
They were both taken aback by the sight that met them once they entered the corridor that housed Round Table Members. Two palace guards were trying their best not to hurt a struggling Mordred while he tried to pull away. He was attempting to flee towards Gwen and Sir Patrick's end of the corridor while George did his best to talk him out of it.
"Please, My Lord," the servant politely requested, venturing closer once the guards had managed to sustain their grip on the writhing teenager's arms. "You are still unwell. If you would see fit, I would be honored to attend-" Mordred wriggled his left arm free and pushed George away. The guard who still had a hold of him swore when his wriggling charge elbowed him in the stomach.
"'Honored,' my backside. You 'bout found it, Gaius?" the guard shouted impatiently. Mordred twisted out of his grip and darted away.
"Oh my goodness!" Gwen rushed forward to intercept him. "Hold," she instructed the pursuing guards, catching Mordred under his arms when he stumbled. He reflexively started to pull away, but Gwen gently replaced her grip, shushing him, until he stopped. "Mordred? It's all right. You know me."
Mordred looked up from her hands on his arms to study her face. He nodded.
Gwen smiled softly, seeing him begin to relax. "That's it. Where were you going in such a hurry?"
Mordred scowled at the floor for a second, plagued by a combination of frustration and worry. Then he reached up and grabbed the Queen's sleeve, giving her a meaningful look.
"I see," she said with a soft smile. "You were worried about me?"
Mordred just scowled at the floor again. He hated this curse that Morgana had inflicted upon him. He was more than worried about the royal couple. He was afraid. For the King and Queen, for Camelot, for Emrys, and Princess Mithian-and yes, regardless of what she'd done, he was worried for Morgana's sake as well.
"Well, it seems that we've found each other," Gwen coaxed. "Walk with me?"
Mordred nodded and allowed the Queen to guide him back to his room. Gaius was watching them from the doorway with a damp cloth ready in his hand. He walked back into the room once they neared the doorway, returning it to a saucer on the wash stand.
"As you were," Gwen directed the guards, and they returned to their posts on either side of the door. Sir Patrick nodded once to them on his way into the room. George was the last one in, giving Sir Patrick a swift once-over when the Knight shut the door behind him.
"Queen Guinevere," Gaius acknowledged. "I must thank you for that. I cannot be certain how well the valerian tonic would've worked on Sir Mordred without knowing which spell was used."
"You're certain, then?" Sir Patrick asked, not quite keeping the anxiety out of his voice. This would be his first time guarding a noble and his first magical incident as well.
"I hope that you can forgive me for this incident, Ma'am," George simpered to the Queen, resting a hand on Mordred's shoulder. "I'm afraid Milord is getting rather difficu-"
The obstinate Druid pushed him away by the face, again preempting the attempted removal.
"With respect, my Lord!"
"Mordred," Gwen chastened, sounding oddly-maternal. "I'm sorry, George. You can leave him in my care for now."
George gave an overly deep bow, ignoring his Lord's eye-roll, and went back to cleaning the already tidy room. Sir Patrick watched this and exchanged a look with the other knight that simply communicated, 'Yeesh!' without him having actually to say anything sympathetic. That was just the power of George's irksomeness. It brought people together.
"Merlin visited here early this morning and witnessed a flare in the spell. We cannot be certain whether it was the timing that caused it or something else. When he touched Sir Mordred's shoulder to wake him, an unnatural energy discharged and pushed him away," Gaius explained. "I can only assume that it was a mechanism meant to preserve the working. Many binding spells have similar safeguards."
"Binding spells?" Gwen echoed, taking a seat in the armchair. Mordred plopped down on the floor to sit in front of her. "Oh, don't-"
He leaned back against her shins, unperturbed, weaving a leather cord into intricate knots with his fingers.
"Never mind," the Queen conceded, patting the top of his head. "I knew that something wasn't right as soon as he was discovered. Mordred was not a clumsy child. He is even less so now," she recalled. Sir Patrick's brows neared his hairline in response to the revelation that his fellow novice had known the Queen in his childhood. Perhaps Mordred wasn't such a wild thing as Patrick's father thought.
"We need to retrace his steps. There might still be something along his path that could give us a clue as to who and what he witnessed," Guinevere thought aloud.
"Merlin and I took the liberty of doing so this morning. It would seem that Sir Mordred was with either one of us, or one of the other knights for most of the day. The only anomaly seems to be where he was found," Gaius informed the Queen.
"What do you mean?" Sir Patrick inquired.
Mordred held up the prayer knot that he'd woven for the Queen.
"Yes, very nice," she accommodated him, distracted by the discussion at hand. He indicated her hand as Gaius began to speak and she let him tie his creation around her wrist.
"Sir Mordred was due back in the Physicians' Chambers to meet us once he made that delivery to Princess Mithian. He had been assisting us until he was fit to resume training. Instead he was found on the stairs near the guest chambers."
"That stairwell leads out to the parapet. He had no reason to be there..." Gwen stared down at the top of Mordred's head, deep in thought. "Gaius, I fear that the true danger may have followed my husband out into the woods this morning."
After hours of riding through the forest, Arthur called for a brief pause to rest and refill their waterskins. Merlin walked over and lifted Princess Mithian down off of her horse. Her sleeve slid down an inch or so as he released her and he noticed the burn around her wrist.
"What's..." Merlin's gentle expression sharpened to pierce into her eyes. "How did you get this?"
"I-I, um," Mithian's gaze flicked to her nearing maid and back to his face in literally the blink of an eye. "Odin's men bound my wrists. B-before I escaped."
"Oh. You didn't mention that before." Merlin let go of her wrist. Mithian's eyes were silently pleading with him.
"It's a traumatic memory. I'm sure she doesn't want to dwell on it," Helga supplied resting one spidery hand on the frightened Princess' shoulder.
"Right. I'm sorry. It's just. I've got a balm for that. It should help you with the pain," Merlin said, playing the familiar part of the bumbling, idiot servant. "I'll grab it for you once I'm done refilling these." He held up the waterskins with a disarming smile.
"That reminds me." Helga tossed him hers. For a woman her age she sure had a mean throwing arm. "If you would be so kind?" She smiled at him insincerely.
"No problem," Merlin replied with equally-false warmth and walked off toward the stream. He cleared his throat loudly as he passed by Arthur. It was far enough away that the women had little chance of noticing their movements. Arthur still took his time to follow just in case.
Merlin tossed a waterskin to the prat as he reached the edge of the water. "You took your time."
"What is it now, Merlin, or are you just trying to get out of working?" Arthur replied, filling the vessel despite his words.
"Mithian has a burn around her wrist. It's almost as if she were scalded by a cuff or a bracelet of some kind. When I asked her about it, she said that Odin's men had tied her up."
"Maybe they did."
"I don't think so. Her fear seemed more immediate than that," Merlin disagreed, giving the canteen in his hand a penetrating look as he thought of Mithian's aged maid.
"War can scar people, Merlin, in spirit as much as body. You haven't seen what the horrors of war can do to a person's mind."
Merlin straightened up and pinned Arthur with a look that made the King want to take a step back- or maybe five. That uncharacteristic coldness really merited five. "It can make a tiny, innocent little boy into the most terrifying monster you've ever seen, or it can rob you of sleep for weeks on end because every time the wood of the window-frame creaks too loudly you can hear the women and children screaming. You see all the blood and the death and you see him, and you wish that it was a nightmare. It makes you have to keep reminding yourself who the monsters are because if they aren't..." Merlin trailed off, his face a reflection of some of Arthur's darkest moments. Then suddenly the alien temperament snapped back like a bowstring. Merlin's eyelashes fluttered as if he were recovering from a blow and he added in a much more Merlin-sounding voice "You probably won't take my word for it. Just ask Sir Mordred why he counts the exits whenever he moves through the palace."
Arthur reeled from the shock, even after reorienting himself from the disturbingly intimate retelling-because that's what it had to be, because this was Merlin - the follow up cost him more. It took a long, silent moment for the King to recover from that last, unexpected sucker punch to the proverbial groin.
Merlin saw the look on his friend's face as the pieces began to fall together, and his heart stopped. He realized what he'd just done. "I am so sorry! Arthur. That wasn't... I shouldn't have said that." He hadn't meant to say any of it. After all Arthur had been the one to lead the charge into the Druid camp that day. Merlin had been focused solely on stopping Mordred. As far as anyone but the two mages knew, he had never been there.
Arthur winced. Now that he was thinking about it, Mordred did do that a lot... and more. The look on Mordred's face when Arthur had first tried to offer him sanctuary flashed through his mind, the look on his face that implied Arthur should know better.
"You must have people..."
"They were killed."
Arthur had never consciously registered the meaning behind the rapid flitting about of his nephew's sharp-eyed gaze whenever they entered a room - until now. The King shook his head, feeling nauseous and numb at the same time. "You weren't wrong."
"I still shouldn't have said it," Merlin repeated. He had too much of his own internal upheaval overwhelming his thoughts. He hadn't meant to inflict any of it upon Arthur. "What- Uh, what was I getting at before?" He stopped and took another calming breath, feeling like dirt. "There is something off about the maid, Helga. I think that Mithian is afraid of her."
"I will keep my eyes open." There was a moment of too-heavy silence between them, which the King decided to break almost hesitantly, "How does it feel to be the clotpole, eh Merlin?"
Merlin smiled weakly. "Luckily for me the moment passed, but you will always be a Royal Prat."
Arthur forced a smile of his own for Merlin's sake. "Come on, we still need to make the border by sundown," he ordered, leading the way back to the horses.
Gaius packed up his medical bag and left Mordred's chamber while the others were busy in their own conversations, or in the Queen's case, teaching Mordred to play a weaving game with a loop of leather cord. If Gaius didn't know better he would have said that Gwen was enjoying the boy's unexpected second childhood. He did know better, though, so he only thought it.
Guinevere noticed the old Physician leaving and asked George to hold her place in the game for a moment, chasing after Gaius. "Wait, you're leaving so soon?" she asked, catching up to him outside the doorway.
"I am afraid that there is little that I can do for Sir Mordred until I know for certain what caused this."
Gwen walked with him until they were a discreet distance away from the guards.
"Is there truly nothing more that we can do for him?"
"Your presence seems to calm him, perhaps even strengthen his agency. I believe that he has already begun trying to communicate with you."
"What do you mean?" Gwen asked, her brow crinkling slightly in confusion.
"He went in search of you; you thought that perhaps he was concerned about your safety. He lingers in your presence, at your side or in front of you, not unlike a guard, and then there is that bracelet that he made you."
The Queen looked down at the woven leather around her wrist.
"It is a druid prayer knot. If I am not mistaken, that particular pattern is a Quaternary Knot," Gaius explained, pointing at the centerpiece. "They are often used as a symbol of spiritual protection."
Gwen ran her fingertip over the pattern, deep in thought.
"In this infantile state the main concern now may be coercing Sir Mordred to lead us to answers in whatever way is left to him," Gaius theorized. "Without knowing the true purpose of the spell or what triggers it, my research will be very limited. I do not believe that you would prefer to push him until we can break his resistance to it."
"No. There is another way. A gentler touch will work. I'm certain of it," Gwen stated determinedly.
"As I thought," Gaius concurred, but he stopped her when she turned to head back into Mordred's room. "Queen Guinevere, I feel that I should remind you that the boy you see in him now is just an illusion. The binding spell is making Mordred childlike in order to limit him. It would be best to keep that truth in mind."
Guinevere inclined her head regally, "Thank you, Gaius." Despite her formal acknowledgement, the Queen did not seem comfortable with his advice, confirming Gaius' suspicion that perhaps the guise of the knight's bewitchment appealed to her more than it should. "I know that it is the binding causing Mordred to be this way but he is still bound by it. He is my friend, and he is still in there somewhere. I only wish to help him return to us safely, just as I know he would for me."
That evening, Mordred smiled as he followed Gwen into the gardens, reaching out to greet Bran with a well-deserved scratch behind the ears. Sir Patrick and George both hung back by the doorway to the castle, eying the animal warily. It had not been nearly as easy for George to deal with his Lord while the Queen was off handling matters of Court, but still the apparent bond between the orphan and their Queen struck him as inappropriate. Such things simply were not done.
"Are you certain about this, Your Majesty?" Sir Patrick questioned, more troubled by the insecurity of their comparatively open surroundings than he was of imagined impropriety.
"I think that I am perfectly safe here with both you and Bran to guard me," Gwen answered, leaning down to smell a freshly blossoming rose as she continued, "Besides, the fresh air might do us all some good." She gave the knight a significant look while Mordred's back was turned. It confirmed his suspicions. Gaius had consulted the Queen privately about the curse; she was trying to find a catalyst and cause another flare in the defense mechanism. Why the Queen thought it appropriate to involve herself so personally in the younger knight's treatment was beyond him. The reason not to, was plain as day: the Queen mattered; the boy didn't - and yet here they were.
Gwen watched Bran rolling around in a recently-tilled flowerbed, with an affectionate smile. The wolf suddenly stopped and cocked its head as if hearing something that none of the others could, then turned towards his master, sniffing the air. Mordred was trailing the fingers of his bandaged hand behind him across the wall-climbing rose vines as he walked away. He seemed unnervingly oblivious to the dark red stains trailing from his touch, not quite enough to drip from the sharp thorns.
"Sir Mordred, are you all right?" Gwen asked, watching him wander with an almost dreamlike calm towards the untouched inner garden. No one had entered that section of the royal gardens since Queen Igraine's death, but the wild mass of ivy, stone and yellow roses was clearly where the teen was headed. "Mordred?!"
Bran jumped up just as Mordred reached the edge of the natural barrier and darted through a wolf-sized parting in the overgrowth. Mordred inclined his head slightly, scrutinizing the tangle of roses and ivy before him. It was almost as though it was not a mass of green that he was regarding, but rather, a person.
"Sir Mordred?" Sir Patrick asked, his hand hovering uncertainly by the hilt of his sword.
Mordred looked into her face and the woman smiled. She opened her arms in welcome as the vines seemed to embrace her. No, she was sinking back into them even as she beckoned him closer. Mordred reached out to accept her outstretched hand, but just as the tips of their fingers almost touched-
"Mordred!" Gwen grabbed his shoulder, anchoring him away from the dark, thorny vines. Much like that morning, a burst of dark magic erupted out of him, only this time rather than forcing the Queen away as it had Emrys, the magic blasted the wall of green life before them. Mordred fell onto his back with a disoriented wince. Gwen caught herself on her hands and knees beside him.
"My Queen, are you hurt?!" George queried, hurrying over to help her to her feet.
"I'm fine, thank you," she assured him.
Mordred looked at his hand only registering in that moment, the scratches that he'd collected all over his fingers by dragging them against the rose vines. The magic that had lured him in had been so strong, so familiar and intoxicating… it had felt like nature itself was calling him home. He tried to remember the woman in the ivy; her face was fading so quickly.
"Sir Mordred," Sir Patrick called his attention, and Mordred allowed the other knight to pull him to his feet. "I would ask what that was about..."
Mordred glanced up at Sir Patrick, then turned back to the hedge. He put the thumb and forefinger of his uninjured hand in his mouth and whistled for Bran. The loyal wolf didn't come. Mordred frowned and whistled again.
Gwen stepped closer inspecting his bleeding fingers. "We'll have to take you to Gaius and have this re-bandaged." She looked up, noticing the Druid's unease. "What is it?"
Mordred held up a finger, prompting her to fall silent and closed his eyes to listen.
"My Lord! One does not-" George began indignantly only to be silenced by the Queen's hand over his mouth. They could hear Bran scuffling about on the other side. At first it sounded almost manic, but then something heavy scraped against stone. He was trying to push something. Mordred put his fingers to his lips again and this time chirped off a fast, rhythmic melody.
Bran wrestled with whatever he was pushing for another second, then called back an equally melodic wolf's song.
"He's found whatever caused this," Gwen inferred, looking to Mordred for confirmation.
The Druid nodded.
"Sir Patrick." Guinevere gestured toward the hedge and Sir Patrick drew his sword, beginning to cut away the overgrown vines.
Up above them in the tower, a slender, strawberry blond man watched their actions with a smirk, taking a sniff of the wilting rose that Mordred had left on the ledge that morning. Now that the boy was preoccupied with that old artifact, getting at the more valuable target would be child's play.
A/N: So, yeah. I seem to be getting into the habit of ending chapters on a darker note, whether horror related or just ominous... I hope that's not a bad thing. Anyway, I know I'm being kinda mean to Morgana in this episode; in her defense though she's suffered a lifetime of mind-fuckery so, realistically, she and Mordred would be dysfunctional, 'cause complicated personalities are complicated. Anyway, thanks for reading, guys. I hope you enjoyed it. Special thanks to Agana of the Night and catherine10 for taking the time to review.