I desire the things that will destroy me in the end.

-Sylvia Plath

Chapter 25

All the magic in the world couldn't make me forget, he'd promised with passion-reddened lips.

But he didn't remember. And she wanted him dead.

Somehow, someway, she thought that in the deepest corners of his mind, he'd remember…something. A flicker of recognition. A memory. A moment. A vision. A dream. Anything from their time together, time that meant more to her than she'd ever thought possible. She knew he wouldn't, she'd known it all along. It was twisted that she should blame him for magic done by her own hand, but she did.

There was only hardness in his eyes. Not love, not passion. He'd claimed that he couldn't hate her fully, a promise that he'd clearly broken now. Or had she broken it when she took Gaius? It hardly seemed to matter anymore. Too many promises had been smashed under the heavy burden of duty and loyalty.

Even from his submissive place-literally between a rock and a hard place-he still had the courage to stare her down. No matter how many times she told herself that he was a stupid serving boy, nothing more…he'd proved to be so much more than that. Courageous. Wily. Loyal. Bold.

He was weak. A potent combination of kindness and cruelty that cut free the bonds of others while stabbing her in the back. A peasant who knew nothing of magic.

"When will you learn not to meddle with things you couldn't possibly understand?" she asked. How true that was. Damn him for being here. Damn him for making her feel something. For making her hope. Damn him to hell. He had always been at the wrong place at the wrong time with the wrong reaction. In her hovel. In her bed. Loving her with a sweetness that still made her heart clench. And just like that, her worst enemy had stolen her virginity and proved that her cold heart wasn't totally frozen.

And now he had to die. The dagger pointed at his throat felt like it was twisting in her heart. She could do it. She would do it.

This was a war. She was fighting for her life. Emrys. The name like a shadowy boogeyman that lurked in the darkest corners of her mind. If she were ever to feel safe again, Emrys had to die.

"I don't care what you do to me. I want to know what you've done to Gaius," he practically spat with rage in his eyes. "If you have harmed him…"

Even now, he had the gall to threaten her. All his precious love and concern for Gaius. As if he'd ever shown her a moniker of that affection, as if he'd ever regretted the sins he'd committed against her. Once, her feckless heart shouted and she promptly muzzled it. He didn't remember that either.

Her coldness was armor, she wore it because it was one of the few things she had left.

She'd longed for that type of loyalty from him. Ever since her sister's death, she'd felt no peace, no safety. Every day, (begrudgingly, she admitted, save for the one with Merlin), had brought a new dawn of suspicion, concealment, and deception. Arthur and his knights. Merlin. And now Emrys.

She was hunted. By men and by destiny. By her doom.

But it was memories that stalked her now. The gentle touch of his hands on her back. The fullness of his body pressed deep inside of her. The light in his bright blue eyes.

She forced herself to speak the hateful words with the sneering nonchalance that she'd perfected long ago. The words that would make him hate her just as thoroughly as she wanted to hate him.

And Merlin was a complication she'd never been able to afford. His interference yet another obstruction on her path to power. She needed to be rid of him, once and for all.

Even if it broke her heart. Not that he'd ever know.

He should've welcomed the peace.

It was hard won after all. Gaius had nearly starved. Gwaine had fought nearly to the death for a bit of bread. Elyan had been tortured. So he'd taken her magic. Although he felt some sense of satisfaction at her undoing, the true terror that had come across her face (terror like he'd only seen once before in the darkened physician's chambers on a night when they were both too young to deal with destiny), had wiped the smirk right off his face. He knew what it was like to be powerless. He knew how much she valued control. To have it all taken away….he hoped that he never had to feel the loss of his own magic.

So once again they'd thwarted Morgana's takeover, once again she'd been driven from the castle, once against Arthur was back in his rightful place. Albion's destiny was back on track, his plans for the future still possible.

But this time the victory felt even hollower than before. Because just like last time, he had no idea where she was.

It was still a mysterious to him how she'd up and disappeared. He told himself it didn't matter where she was or what happened to her. The wound at her side had likely killed her, even if she had escaped to the forest…somehow. She had probably died in some God forsaken spot, just like she'd promised would happen to him in the cave.

Everyone thought she was dead. She had to be.

But in his reckless, traitorous heart he knew she wasn't. There was a strange connection between them-terrifying him and comforting him in the same moment. Deep in his marrow, he knew she wasn't truly gone. She couldn't be.

Everyday he thought on the litany of sins she'd committed against Camelot, recounted them to himself over and over like prayers. Gaius starved. Gaius tortured. Elyan tortured. Gwaine beaten. Isolde dead. Tristan heart-broken. Lancelot dead and shaded. Gwen exiled. He repeated the names of the dead he knew or simply remembered their faces; men and women slain in battle by her mercenaries. Peasants. Servants. Noblemen and women. The injuries he had suffered by her hand. Arthur's pain at his father's death. All of it.

And by each night, he'd convinced himself that he'd never loved her. That she was as unlovable as he'd once professed her to be. That she was an evil witch with hatred in her heart, incapable of loving anyone but herself. Incapable of tenderness, affection, or kindness. Undeserving of love or compassion. La Belle Dame sans Merci as she'd once set out to prove. He hated her.

But then he went to sleep. And his dreams made a bloody mockery of him.

Night after night, week after week, he was plagued…assaulted by dreams of Morgana. Since they had retaken Camelot, he had begun to have the most intense and elaborate dreams. Dreams that were so vividly real and tangible that he felt as if he must've lived those moments.

But it couldn't real, definitely not. They were moments that didn't exist yet felt so…genuine. Moments swirled together behind his closed eyes. He told her he loved her and heard her confession of love in return. Tied her up for his pleasure. Plunged his body deep into hers and brought them both to the heights of pleasure.

More often than not, he woke up hard and aching…he slaked his desire with his hand but it did little to quell the ache in his body. Because it felt so real. Yet it wasn't. It couldn't be.

After several weeks of this madness, he decided to finally consult Gaius, albeit with a salacious version of truth. The old man's brow had furrowed over his breakfast as Merlin briefly explained how he had started to have dreams about what might've happened in Morgana's hut after the femorrah's insertion.

"So you see, I'm wondering if it's my mind's way of remembering what happened there?" Merlin asked with a touch of hesitation. He almost felt foolish for asking. But he needed to know.

Gaius stood and pulled out the dusty tome they had previously consulted. Flicking through the worn pages, Gaius's fingers skimmed over the words, eyeglass in hand.

Frowning, he said, "No, it doesn't mention memories being accessed through dreams. In fact," he paused to read. "It appears that the femorrah's poison would've prevented such memories from ever being formed."

Looking up, eyeglass still pressed against his right eye, Gaius asked, " Do you remember anything else? Any dreams about your time here at Camelot?"

"No," Merlin said instantly. "Nothing else." All of his dreams centered on those moments in her hut.

He sighed and continued. "It's just…the dreams feel very real. Not like I'm watching something happen, but that I'm feeling it."

"Hmm," Gaius mused, his face thoughtful. "Your mind was essentially hijacked by the femorrah's magic. It wouldn't be unusual for your unconscious mind to react to such an intrusion by conjuring up fantasies or false memories to fill in the voids. The brain is a fascinating organ, capable of great power."

They both sat silent for a moment, then Gaius nodded and said, "Or it could also be the delayed result of head trauma from around that same time."

"What kind of head trauma did I suffer?" Merlin cried. He obviously couldn't remember anything, but he did remember some pain in his head upon waking up in the physician's chambers. Not one had explained it further.

"You knocked yourself out by running into a pole, and Gwen bashed you in the head with a pitcher. Several times, I think. You were a rather inept assassin, although quite persistent."

"And you're just telling me this now?" Merlin asked incredulously.

Gaius shrugged. "It is a possible explanation for your dreams."

"I guess," he replied dejectedly. "Do you think I will ever remember what happened while under the influence of femorrah?" he had asked.

Gaius considered that for a moment and said, "The femorrah's dark magic is strong, and even someone as powerful as you would have little way of breaking through. Your mind simply didn't process or save those memories. It would be nearly impossible for you to access them, either through dreams or any other type of memory replenishment."

FINIS

I had intended this chapter to include the naughtiness that had plagued me during my time in London. Alas, that'll have to wait for next time. Thanks to everyone for the great reviews! I enjoyed hearing all of your different perspectives on S5 and the hotness of last chapter. I don't say this enough, but truly, thank you for reading and reviewing. To say that I live on reviews is something of an understatement. I feed on them. I breathe them. And they give me the courage and the enthusiasm to write each new chapter. Thank you. Really.

On another note, I didn't mention this last chapter because I do realize that my author's notes are meant to be just that, a note, not a blog. But since all of you were so kind when my cat Lola passed away, I wanted to tell you that we acquired a new kitten in June. Her name's Katniss. I wanted to name her Pemberley after Mr. Darcy's estate but after she chewed on my copy of Mockingjay, she basically picked her own name. And yes, she's freakin' adorable. Like, sickeningly, disgustingly adorable with lots of personality and sass. Honestly, I (have and) could rhapsodize for hours and hours about all of her shenanigans. Be very glad you're not in my contacts list. Seriously, I've become that crazy cat lady who takes pictures and videos of her cat and sends them to friends. All. The. Time.