Chapter 25: When the Air Clears
A figure loomed from the opaque cloud that filled the throne room as Arthur paced forward, Morgana's hand fisted in the back of his dark leather vest, so as not to lose him in the all-enveloping smoke. Much too big for Merlin – Percival, then, still fighting.
He shouted without thinking, "Eight then a quarter!" as he would to Leon, as an alert and an order.
But Percival heard, understood, and obeyed, shifting to his right as he blocked the Medhiri's massive blade two-handed. Arthur glided forward and up, two inches from Percival's second rib, driving hard into the black Knight's chest. Wordless, breathless, gone, the fourth of them wafted back hollow to the floor.
Panting, he ignored Percival's quiet, "Well done, sire."
"The others," he said quickly to the big knight. "Elyan and Lancelot there by the wall. Take Morgana to them. Get Leon there – and Tristan by the far corner if you can. Stay with them, and defend them."
He heard Morgana begin to protest as Percival reached for her, and turned back into the eddying smoke – which somehow felt as easy to breathe as clean air. Gwaine he'd last seen there. And Morgause there. He had no idea what Merlin was doing with his smoke-screen, but he knew his duty. Medhiri first. Then he might seek to help Merlin with the witch.
The ashy air parted before him on a pained cry and a muffled thump; he didn't have to wonder which of the combatants had gone down. Gwaine was the only one of the two capable of feeling pain, or collapsing. Arthur lifted the sword grimly – dragon-breathed or not, it didn't fly on its own and it was heavy and his arm ached and bled and his reflexes were slowing, gradually and inexorably.
One to go. One to go.
He moved forward in a controlled jog. The end was in sight – even if nothing else was – the dark hooded figure blended with the swirling cloudy air, and the Medhiri was upon him. He ducked the blow of the dangerous broadsword, couldn't check his momentum, so pushed another step beneath the black cloak and swung at his enemy's back with all his strength.
The Medhiri's bulk began to dissipate before his blow was complete, and the sudden lack of resistance unbalanced him – weakness and weariness delayed his attempt to regain – he crashed to the floor before the black cloak settled limply on the golden polished wood.
Looking up into the vaulted ceiling, he noticed absently that the smoke had cleared.
…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..
There was darkness and disorientation in the cave. Panic and sudden danger and fear.
Gwen clung to Merlin with arms that ached from the strength of the single blow of the malevolent broadsword that she'd blocked, not questioning his sudden and miraculous appearance. She felt his body heaving for breath and trembling with exertion, physical or magical or both, and clung to Freya for stability.
And hoped to high heaven that he – or Arthur – knew what the hell was going on.
Why were they standing still when they should be running? She hadn't a moment to prepare herself before her world seemed to flip upside down, and she had to swim through a murky darkness to reach the light – and then the miasma seemed to cling to the very air around them, swirling confusedly.
There was wood under her feet now, polished flooring rather than the rough slanting stone of the cave. Had he brought them –
Merlin moved violently, swinging her and Freya stumbling back before he was gone – the smoke cleared so abruptly her eyes teared at the sudden brightness. She blinked, and without Merlin's body in front of her, her attention centered on Isolde, scared and vulnerable as a little child.
And there was a blade through her body.
Gwen leaped forward to the blonde woman's side, absolutely horror-struck, and Isolde looked at her pleadingly. Looked past her shoulder, as Gwen ducked under her arm, grabbing her tightly around the middle, below the blade, bracing herself to catch as much of Isolde's weight as she could, so she wouldn't simply drop to the floor, whenever her legs gave out.
Someone arrived at her side in a rush – expecting Freya's slight figure and dark braid, Gwen startled a bit at Tristan's lean frame and unkempt blonde hair.
"Ease her down slowly," he said to Gwen in a dreadful voice. "It's all right, we've got you, love."
"Whatever happened to the idea of finding a bit of land and settling down?" Isolde said to him, quite calmly.
Then Gwen was struggling under half the other woman's weight, and trying to help her collapse to the floor gently. Tristan positioned his body mostly behind Isolde's, supporting and comforting her. "We'll still make it happen," he told her, his voice rough with fear. He looked up at Gwen. "Where's Merlin?" She heard what he didn't say – we need Merlin.
She rose on her knees to scan the unfamiliar room – enormous, they could have fit the front courtyard of the Lionys palace in here – and saw Freya five or six yards away, on her knees beside Merlin, sprawled motionless on his back at the base of the wall. Her hands fluttered over his chest, his neck, his face; she looked up to meet Gwen's eyes and gave her head a single negative shake.
"I'm sorry," Isolde whispered to Tristan. "Our dreams…"
Tristan told her, "Isolde, don't."
There was blood on Gwen's hands; she could do nothing for either of them. It was a private moment, and… the room was very quiet. She turned – there were bodies all around, but only one person standing. A woman with vivid dark eyes and long wavy blonde hair, wearing a robe-like dress of soft periwinkle, focused on a group of people across the room from Gwen and under the window, kneeling or lying, their movements hurried but distant, somehow. She recognized Percival's broad back.
"You will thank me someday, sister," the blonde woman called.
Gwen saw there was a woman in the huddled group under the window, her hair long and black and disheveled. There was blood on her hands, and she ignored the one who addressed her. Then the blonde spoke the words of a spell that sounded familiar to Gwen, braced herself and tipped her head back – and nothing happened. She turned those vivid eyes – furious eyes – toward them.
"He's not dead yet?" she demanded of no one in particular, and began to stride across the room.
Gwen found herself on her feet, stepping between her new friends and the stranger – the high priestess, her mind remembered, and where was Arthur. She couldn't stop a sorceress long, how much time did Freya need, did Merlin need –
Behind her on the floor, Isolde gasped out, "I wish…"
"I wish, too," Tristan said, his voice an agony that squeezed Gwen's heart also – despair and determination, looking death right in the face.
"Hold me," Isolde suggested. Weakly.
At least, Gwen thought grimly, as the priestess approached in a predator's stalking prowl, intent now on Gwen, who held her ground with fatalistic resolve. At least Isolde may die in the arms of the man she loves.
"Morgause!"
The cry came from further into the room, near the shadowed dais at the far end, and Arthur stepped into view. Gwen wanted to shout for joy and rush to him, but his expression was grim, his movement and bearing that of an exhausted, wounded, determined warrior. He lifted his sword, the sword from the stone, and her joy was chilled with fear for him, pride tempered by apprehension.
The priestess halted and looked at him, and the shadows congealed behind him, reaching massive arms around his torso and neck in a macabre embrace, sudden and violent. The sword was flung from his hand, and his cry of pain was choked off.
Far better to die than to see the man she loved killed. She steeled herself to run forward and –
…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..
Merlin, someone said. Gentle and sweet as an angel.
There was a searing pain in his lower back, and he couldn't breathe. Couldn't really sense his body, as though he were immersed in a lake of fire – warm and not unpleasant to feel, though his mind screamed in a terrible calm whisper of the danger he was in. That others were in. Arthur.
Kilgarrah breathed fire down on Arthur… no. He held his breath below the lake's surface, searching the cloudy depths for the prince's chainmail-laden body… no. That, too, was memory.
Perhaps a shard of the shattered window glass had stabbed into him?
Arthur was still in danger. He must face his kin, the dragon – he must haul himself up from the forest path and keep sprinting for Avalon – he must.
"Merlin," the angel whispered sadly. "Is she really going to win?"
He opened his eyes. She was not looking at him. He twisted on the hard surface his body lay on, and felt the bones of his spine grinding together. Odd. And he could not feel his legs.
He raised himself up on one elbow, fumbling at his back to gauge the severity of his wound – serket stinger – Aithusa, he thought urgently, making the word a call.
Legs weren't important. He focused first on Isolde, limp in Tristan's arms as the smuggler pressed his lips to her face, once, twice.
Beyond them, he recognized Gwen, standing fiercely but helplessly protective.
And beyond, Morgause. Watching with wicked delight as a black Knight – how many left? he could not make the count – crushed Arthur in its grip. The prince kicked and struggled, and it was useless.
Where was the sword? There, glinting on the floor, three useless yards away. Once, when they were boys, his magic had tossed the sword lightly to the hand of the warlord's son… once in his bedchamber, when a troll had tried to take Camelot in the guise of a lady…
Someone was screaming, screaming someone's name.
I can't do everything, he thought, in agony. His magic was there, but it felt blunt and clumsy. He might kill Arthur trying to save him.
But his angel. Had magic. She could…
"Freya," he said, knowing she was there, trusting. He pushed his hand along the polished wooden floor to point.
Then he waved his fingertips toward Morgause, funneling what felt like the last of his magic in an outward burst, haphazard and messy and confused.
The witch was blown backward off her feet, and struck the rainbow column of glass. Hard enough to tip it over, and it shattered – he felt the reverberation in the floor beneath him. Morgause didn't move; perhaps he'd killed her, he didn't care.
…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..
Arthur struggled up from the floor to see Morgause start across the hall, heading for – he blinked. Maybe he'd hit his head. What was Guinevere doing here, she was supposed to be at the cave.
Even as his heart swelled with pride at his lady, brave in spite of her fear, showing defiance to one she had no hope of besting, he willed his feet forward.
Not Guinevere. You face me, witch.
"Morgause!" he roared, lifting his sword.
Something seized him about the chest, from behind, with such brutal abruptness that he lost his grasp on the hilt of the lifesaving sword. He kicked out, and what felt like a band of iron squeezed all his ribs at once. He felt something crack, and he cried out – and then his throat was crushed by a second inexorable grip.
Arthur couldn't breathe, and struggling was agony, but he did it anyway. He would die if he didn't. He might die anyway. If I'm going to go down, I'll go down fighting! he thought.
And felt his swordhilt slide into his hand.
Dead already, he thought, that was fast, even as his fingers tightened. Or so close to death that the hallucination felt real. He swung, and it seemed effortless, the weight of the blade accomplishing its arc through the air – and the lethal strictures disappeared.
He stumbled, gasping though pain filled his side at every breath, blinking away black spots from his vision – and one especially stubborn one that resolved as the actual remains of another Medhiri.
The last one, he thought dazedly. Or, well, almost.
Six he'd killed, and the seventh imprisoned, thanks to Gwaine. To be dealt with at any later convenience, he supposed.
He looked down at the sword in his hand. Thank you, Merlin, he thought hazily. Impeccable timing.
Arthur looked up, around the room. The glass column lay in shards around a body, glittering in blonde hair and on light blue fabric. And Gwen came to him, at once worried and relieved. He stepped stiffly to meet her, and was glad to feel her arms around him, her body against him, even though it hurt.
"You're all right?" he said to her. "The others?" No one else was standing.
She turned in his arms to look for herself. Wind gusted at the black hole of the empty window, suddenly filled by a great white face, glittering scale and gleaming tooth, so fast that Gwen flinched against him and he gasped at the pain that flared through his side.
Aithusa opened his maw in a silent snarl and breathed into the room, sulfury tendrils of air curling about them, not unpleasantly. It felt, Arthur realized, a little like Merlin's magic. It eased his worry in much the same way.
The white dragon's jaws closed and he blinked down on them enigmatically, fixed with palpable hate on the witch's glass-strewn body. He snorted twin columns of smoke, then – slowly and reluctantly, it seemed to Arthur – he withdrew, disappearing once again into the darkness of the courtyard, or the skies, probably.
What the hell?
Arthur moved forward slowly, glad that Gwen did not let him go. Elyan was on his feet, coming to them. He felt Gwen inhale sharply on a twinge of pain of his own, but the young lord's son, though he looked a bit the worse for wear, didn't hesitate to hug his sister, one-armed.
"I'm fine," Elyan murmured to her. "You?" She nodded against him.
Over Elyan's shoulder, Arthur saw Lancelot, stretched out on one side where Leon had laid him, the scout behind him, perhaps occupied with dressing his wound. Morgana was crumpled near them, and it looked to Arthur as if the captain of Lionys might be talking to her.
"Where's Gwaine?" Elyan asked, and Arthur swung to the right. Percival looked up, his fingers at the neck of the dark-haired swordsman Arthur had knighted in a cave, earlier that day. Unless it was already after midnight. "Gwaine, you still alive?"
Gwaine moved, then groaned. "What do you think," he rasped. Then blinked up at the ceiling, at Percival. And a shadowy version of his impish grin showed. "And that's Sir Gwaine to you," he added, looking at them as Percival grasped his arm to lift him up. Elyan went to join the two of them, leaving Gwen to Arthur again.
"And – why are you here? I assume Merlin brought you?" he asked her.
"One of the Knights of Medhir found the cave," Gwen answered. "I think Isolde tried to fight him, but…" She began to draw Arthur forward, and he saw that Tristan had recovered enough to take his lady in his arms, kneeling over her and kissing and caressing.
"Oh, Aithusa," Gwen said, in a tone of happy discovery, his sense of her worry waning. As if the appearance of the white dragon somehow explained the smugglers' behavior.
Arthur almost sighed in relief. But – "Where is Merlin?" he asked.
…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..
The dragon-wrought blade flashed, silver against black, and Merlin's prince staggered free of the darkness.
Arthur would live. Merlin let himself drift away again.
Merlin. Another voice spoke, deep and gravelly and not-so-angelic. Though it did make him think of wings. Merlin. More insistently.
Let the druids come, they can help… No, not Morgana. Isolde's life is in danger, he thought at the white dragon.
And you, my friend?
A warm wash spread over him, through him, and he felt blissfully content for the first time in – he couldn't remember. He breathed and breathed and thought, when the warmth retreated, that perhaps he could soar through the skies on his own, now. He wiggled his toes inside his boots; it might be nice to sleep for a week.
The witch lives yet, Merlin. There was a growl to Aithusa's voice in his head, a slow-burning rage held in check to the command of his lord. Are you aware? What would you have me do? This witch is our enemy…
Is she a danger?
Not anymore. Merlin could imagine the draconic expression of satisfaction, implacably unsympathetic.
Go. But not far…
He felt rhythmic reverberations through the polished floorboards, and a soft touch on his left shoulder, patient and comforting. He opened his eyes to the faded dark pink of Freya's dress over her knee. Without moving, he shifted his gaze and focused on another kneeling figure.
Two, rather. So closely entwined they were nigh indistinguishable. Isolde tucked nearly inside Tristan's long jacket, her fingers making his hair stand up even more haphazardly, as they kissed, urgently and deeply.
Merlin smiled, and Arthur's boots came into his line of vision, the tip of the sword hanging unneeded. He turned his head far enough to say, "I think I'll take that week off this time, Arthur."
Arthur laughed softly, and Merlin reveled in triumphant contentment at the sound. "And leave me with all the cleaning up to do?"
Merlin put his palms flat on the floor and pushed experimentally. His lower back twinged, so he brought his knees up under him. He felt shaky as a newborn colt, and realized that Freya was supporting him quite heavily on his left; he dropped back to a kneeling position to squint up at the prince.
Blonde hair damp with sweat, blue eyes dark with exhaustion, blood showing smeared on his skin through a rent in his left sleeve just above his elbow. Which was looped over Gwen's shoulder as she clung to him, happy-tired.
"I think we could use a little cleaning up," Merlin observed. "You're hurt?"
"I'm fine. Maybe a broken rib or two," Arthur said. As Merlin reached up, he caught his hand to steady him as he rose, though he winced. "It could have been worse. Merlin – thank you for this." He shifted his grip on the hilt of the sword to demonstrate what he meant, then pushed it back into his belt.
"Not me," Merlin said. "Freya put the sword in your hand."
Arthur looked at her seriously as she stood beside Merlin; she was scarlet with self-consciousness. The corner of the prince's mouth lifted in a faintly incredulous smile. "I think we'll keep you around," he remarked.
Gwen left Arthur's side to put her arms unhesitatingly around the younger girl. Merlin heard Freya say to her, "I'm only happy I didn't accidently hurt him; I don't have very good control over that magic."
Merlin wasn't sure his legs were going to hold him. He felt alarmingly weak. Drained. As he had when serving in the hospital tent below Dinas Emrys. As he had when Morgana had used his magic to cleanse her sister's spell from Camelot.
"Aithusa said Morgause isn't dead," he said, moving gingerly toward Arthur, who turned to fall into step with him – slowly, though he didn't comment on the pace.
"That's too bad," Arthur said. Perfectly serious, and without too much rancor.
Merlin was aware that both girls followed them. Isolde and Tristan were getting to their feet; further away Elyan and Percival were holding Gwaine upright between them. And Leon was with Lancelot, whose eyes were open, though he lay on his stomach on the floor.
Arthur paused, and Merlin glanced down past him, at one black-clad body that was more than empty material. And there was blood. He reached out to take Arthur's sleeve in his fingers. "We can deal with your uncle later, all right?" he said softly. Arthur nodded without speaking, and Merlin released him as they both moved on.
Morgana sat on the floor in the midst of the broken glass, her sister's head and shoulders pulled onto her lap for a pillow. Merlin considered trying to use magic to sweep the glass from the floor, and found he had no desire to discover if he had the strength or will even for that much, at the moment. His spell blocking access from the room held – no mistakenly loyal knights or curious mercenaries or even servants could enter – but he'd have to withdraw that soon. They needed Gaius, but first…
"No," Morgana said softly, rocking her sister a very little.
There was blood on Morgause also, he saw, discoloring half the priestess' face, staining her blonde hair and Morgana's hands sticky red. Multiple fractures, he guessed, of the skull and maybe jaw and she might never see from that eye or hear from that ear if she didn't just die of the trauma to her brain –
He put out his hand unsteadily, and found Freya's shoulder. She covered it with her own, almost hugging his hand, and he knew she felt his trembling and weakness but she made it look like he was the one giving her comfort. He looked into her dark eyes and saw sympathy and understanding for the way he felt sick at heart to have to use his magic so. There was never any regret for protecting Arthur, or his other friends, just the wish that other magic-users would not make this use of it necessary.
"No, no, no," Morgana repeated, in a low, dead voice, and Merlin felt a pang of pity for the prince's sister. Perhaps she was naïve where Morgause was concerned, perhaps too trusting of her brother's uncle. Perhaps he felt a bit of betrayal, that she could believe him capable of such deceit and treachery, but her grief he was wholly sympathetic to. She'd been told Arthur was dead. And her father so stricken at the news, he could no longer rule. To think she had lost half her family, and faced the responsibility of shouldering the burden of a kingdom at once must have been terrible.
"Morgana," Arthur said. Gently but firmly.
"Oh, Arthur," she said, lifting tear-brilliant green eyes, and all arrogance was gone. Only a very tired, very confused, very hurt and very young girl was left. The prince disentangled himself from Gwen and stepped forward to kneel stiffly beside her, and without releasing her hold on her sister, Morgana reached for Arthur, clinging to the arm he offered. "I'm so sorry. But please, she's dying. For weeks I thought my only brother was dead, and now my only sister…"
She looked up suddenly into his face, an alert hopefulness brightening her pale features. Arthur seemed to catch her idea at the same time.
And they both looked at Merlin.
One madly expectant, the other darkly disapproving.
"Please, can't you…" Morgana struggled a moment, "help her."
"You don't have to," Arthur told him firmly, and at the little noise of despair his sister made, drooping, he said, "Morgana, she almost killed him!"
"Morgana," Merlin said softly. He thought if he shook his head too emphatically, he might lose his balance and crash backward onto the floorboards. "I can't."
…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..
If he was honest with himself, Arthur would have to admit that he was a little frightened to press Merlin for an explanation of I can't. Morally, or actually, or… In any case, if Merlin began to use healing magic, others would come first.
Tears spilled from his sister's eyes, over her pale cheeks. "Could I?" she asked Merlin in a low voice, then looked at Arthur. "May I?"
He looked at his friend, swaying where he stood, and white as a sheet. He looked at Freya, and Gwen, who were supposed to be peacefully fast asleep, far from here. He looked at Tristan and Isolde, standing at a discreet distance with an arm around each other; there was blood on Isolde's vest, also. At Percival and Elyan and Gwaine between them. He felt Leon and Lancelot's eyes on his back, waiting.
And he saw, not fellow fighters that Morgause had threatened, for which he wanted vengeance, the fullest measure of justice that the law allowed. But family, any one of whom it would hurt him to lose.
A hurt he would hate his sister to feel; had hated for two days now, to think of her grieving his death.
They were all looking at him for a judgment, even Merlin, and he felt for the first time the weight of kingship. This decision, and someone's life in his hands. A criminal, an enemy, a foreign leader. Subject to Camelot's laws? Had he a legal right to pass judgment? What consequences or reprisals from her people, if he consented to her death as an execution of sorts? But if he allowed her to live?
His eyes returned to Merlin's, and realization nudged him. Merlin would feel the accountability of this death, also. Would take the responsibility of the results of her continued life. But the choice was Arthur's.
He did not have to say anything. Merlin understood.
The young sorcerer spoke, his voice serene and almost melodic on the words of the spell; Morgana's attention sharpened on her unconscious sister, but nothing happened.
"That's the incantation you'll use," Merlin told her.
"But you've taken my magic," she reminded him mournfully.
Merlin gave her a smile that was beautiful in spite of the darkness by his eyes and the blood by his mouth. "Only until dawn," he said. "Or – the focus of the spell is under your bed. Burning it will release the binding on your power."
Arthur smiled to himself, recognizing the trust the younger man so unhesitatingly placed in Morgana once again. Hoping that she recognized it as well, and would value that, as Arthur himself did.
She looked up at him again. "Could we please?" she asked, referring to whatever object Merlin had enchanted to block her magic for this night. "I may not be able to… but I want to try, Arthur."
He nodded, but… first things first. He turned to glance over at Lancelot – still lying flat, but his eyes were open to watch them. Arthur spoke to Leon, "How is he?"
"He'll be fine; I've done what I could for now," Leon answered. The barest of pauses. "If you wish, sire, I can go to Lady Morgana's chamber and dispose of the device?"
"One moment, Leon," Arthur said, and Morgana gave him a questioning look. He reminded her, "Everyone outside that door is under standing orders to kill Merlin, and anyone who looks like me and is near him. You're going to have to rescind that."
"Yes, of course, immediately," she said.
Arthur stood, adding to Leon, "And send someone for Gaius." They'd have to grab a few guards; Lancelot would need to be carried to the infirmary, and quite possibly Merlin, though the stubborn idiot might need to take a tumble or two before he'd consent to that handling. The others needed medical attention, he needed to check on his father, deal with his uncle's remains, dispatch the last Medhiri…
"Sire," Tristan said, and it surprised Arthur into giving his full attention to the smuggler. "I am aware that my past and my profession has been – less than honorable. I treated you disrespectfully, yet you were willing to accept my service anyway. Your sorcerer has restored my Isolde to me not once, but twice, a debt I can never repay. I just want to say, no matter what the future may hold for either of us, I feel as Gwaine. I'll fight for you for free, any day."
Arthur felt a sudden impulse, as he had when Gwaine had spoken, and if he looked at Merlin he thought he could guess what he'd see. "Still not in any position to grant a knighthood," he reminded the smuggler lightly.
Tristan took one long step forward, leaving Isolde and her small secretive smile behind. "If you're of a mind to accept my oath," he said with quiet intensity, "I'm of a mind to give it."
Arthur couldn't help shaking his head incredulously, at the changes only a few short days had brought. In his world, in him. But he concluded with a nod, and the sm– no, former smuggler – knelt. Arthur drew his sword stiffly, and laid the flat of it – bright, still, after all the work it had done this night – on Tristan's shoulder.
"Rise, Sir Tristan," he said aloud, "Knight of Camelot."
"Can we please," Gwaine said, grinning as he leaned heavily against Percival's bulk, "drink to that, now?"
A/N: Some dialogue from ep.3.12-13 "The Coming of Arthur," and 4.12-13 "The Sword in the Stone."
PS, I'm not crazy about using the dragons as a catch-all safety net. But I think it's okay in this situation, because of Merlin's confusing it with the serket incident, and he's asking Aithusa to heal someone else…
And, one more chapter after this…