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The Sound of Silence
August

It's not so much a return to sanity, as it is an oppressive weight that smothers him awake.

The physician's chambers are blacker than night, as motionless as death, and together they form a mirror for him to look into. There's a well within him, and it's filled with emotions he's spent so long burying. It feels like—

—like he's left Kilgharrah in his dungeon after begging him for help, and the great beast of legend is there, furious, angry, and putting all his faith in this village boy who has wandered into this vast castle with no idea what he's doing—

—like the moment after, standing alone in these chambers, listening to Morgana's rapid footfalls as she fled after his first betrayal. I'm scared Merlin. I don't understand anything anymore. I need to know what's happening. Please. But there's nothing to say, because there is Arthur to protect and carry and use as his idol for hope—

—like he holds the guilt for the lighting of every pyre as he's waited for Arthur to be ready. Like he's put the knife in their throats with his own hands.

He breathes once and the sound bounces off the stone near his cheek, dominating his fracturing mind. In his second breath he hears the dip and waver like a ghost of a sob. His third is stronger, and he almost feels like himself. Throughout it all he does not hear Gaius.

Merlin's muscles were cold and cramped from huddling onto the narrow stairwell, and they protested with a sharp shiver and a lasting ache as he straightened to listen. Gaius was not breathing.

He stood with his heart in his throat, and as he moved he felt the elastic pull of his bubble of magic, and he realized then that he had frozen the room, and had maintained the spell without thought. He reeled it in, boots echoing in the lofty room, and with the return of time came the soft falls of Gaius' breath, the rustle of his nightgown's fabric as his chest rose and fell.

He wanted to reach out in relief, but he hesitated. Could he face him without remembering what Gaius had done? Could he handle the guilt if he'd truly hurt the elder man when he'd thrown him from the stair? Would he still do what he needed to do, if he let himself feel the call of home and safety that he always felt in Gaius' gaze?

No, he could not.

So Merlin turned away, listened again to his mentor's steady breath, and then slipped into a stream of magic with the merest of whispers.

He stepped from his tunnel onto the windy peak of a mountain, the moon and stars his light for the forests stretching beyond eyesight. Strange how the troubles of Albion could feel so tumultuous, and so dire, while the earth meditated onward in relative stillness. Intellectually he knew the paths through these forests; knew the places to avoid in fear of bandits or sickened magic, but at this height the world seemed at peace. It was a view meant for none but birds and dragons, and its resonance explained the fundamental harmony and wisdom Kilgharrah carried with him.

Kilgharrah's cave, something he'd seen only through a precious vision from the great dragon, opened like a snake's maw in the rock face.

"Leoht," he said, and let his small ball of blue light float into the darkness ahead. For a depth it was a candle in a fog, then it sparked gold trails across one of Kilgharrah's large eyes and the dragon said quietly, "Young warlock."

Merlin strode into the cave, eyes and magic adjusting until he could see the golden head, shining a dull sea-green from the light, curled onto a massive tail in barely escaped slumber. "I know where Aithusa is."

This woke Kilgharrah fully, and his neck wove forward to bring his eyes even with Merlin's. "Where is the youngling?"

"With Morgana in Amata. Only someone as black as her could capture a young dragon for personal gain, and only she can hide her from us both."

"Where in Amata?" Kilgharrah growled. The flames licking his teeth told of a vengeance near to release.

"I don't know."

Kilgharrah's jaws snapped. "You know I cannot find the witch either. Her own Sight shields her from me, now."

"I know," Merlin said softly. His eyes flashed gold again, and his source of light glittered with a new layer of magic. The blue ball stretched into the image of a ring, and dancing about it was a binding spell. "Instead, I need you to find this."

Her magic saves her.

After betraying her to allow her best laid plans to crumble, those elemental weavings sputter from her subconscious and throw her from the path of falling stone.

She can think only of the relief of its return. It is all she has left, now. Her only love.

Her body, which has for so long just been the vessel required to store her power, and carry out her schemes, is again holding her back. Now it is not for vanity or hunger, but pain. Her blood is cold, and it coats her hands and waist. She wants to fall in Morgause's arms and be healed, but Morgause is long dead. She wants to go home, but she does not have one.

She has nowhere to go so she goes nowhere. She falls onto her back in the grass and rolls to stare blankly at the canopy overhead. Creatures have fled from her, and the forest is silent. Her vision blurs.

Funny how she's devoted her life to magic's freedom, for the vengeance she knows it craves, only for it to betray her too. Bitterness curdles in her gut, leeches onto the wisps of magic that remain, and she wants to rail at how unfair Emrys is. But her strength has abandoned her, and her voice cannot even croak.

She knows she's dying because she sees the bright light of the gates of Avalon. A soul for a soul, and she supposes she owes the afterlife tenfold.

But it is not the gate. It is the smallest of dragons, so fey she thinks she may still be hallucinating. The creature is the apology she's owed, the help she needs, the acceptance she's craved. She believes this is the Triple Goddess' acknowledgement of her struggle. She believes this is a sign that she will live on to rejuvenate her shriveling hopes.

Really, though, this is just the beginning of the end.

Merlin nestled into the crevice between Kilgharrah's shoulder blades, watching the powerful wings raise high above his head before beating downwards in a mighty wave. The higher they rose, the louder the wind roared in his ears.

"The spell on the ring is similar to the one from your chains in Camelot. I know at least the Sarrum and Odin have iron similar—"

"I know the spell's history well, Merlin."

"I only mentioned it to shorten the search; Sheba won't be within the castles."

Kilgharrah had been pleased to learn that Merlin could now at least see the intricate spells built into the world around them. It was a knowledge not often gained without instruction and talent. Though the dragon, as a creature of magic, had never lived without this second sight. Apparently, there was even more drawn into the land around them….

The past, for instance, in all its garish detail.

The future too, drawn in subtle shapes, and called prophecy or fate.

Their ascent slowed, and Kilgharrah's wings rippled through currents of air as they glided forward. It was cold up here, so close to the moon, but the dragon's scales were warm and smooth. "Would you like to search with me?"

He had not so soon forgotten the distinct unbalance born from his short, but inhuman connection to Albion's magic. He wasn't eager to meet that chaos again. "Not this time."

Kilgharrah's hum rumbled through Merlin's body, felt more than heard. Not unkindly, the dragon said, "I wonder if it is the king who is forever unready, young warlock, or you."

Merlin had no answer. Whenever he'd learned of destiny, he had accepted it only to find there was ever another wall to climb. Tonight he would free Aithusa, and he would not risk her magic's destruction after seeing the fate of so many others. For now that would have to be enough.

He sunk further into Kilgharrah's broad back and let his mind fill with the ambient noise. "Sleep, my dragonlord, and I will wake you upon our arrival."

It was wind, and the steady thump, thump of wings beating in rhythm with synchronizing heartbeats. These were sounds Uther had nearly driven to extinction.

Together they lulled him, securing and cocooning, then folded a woolen blanket of sleep atop.

Some hours later cool wind slipped into the hollow of his back, tossing away the warmth gained from Kilgharrah's own heat, and bringing Merlin awake. They were dropping towards a nameless clearing in the woodland below and his stomach fluttered with the feel of falling. His nose and fingers were frigid from the constant chill.

"Where are we?"

"The borderlands of Amata. Your quarry is close, but you will have to walk the final mile." Dryly, Kilgharrah continued once they'd landed. "Unless I am allowed to come with you."

"It's safer for you to stay secret; I'll find her on my own." He offered a wan smile. "Besides, I owe someone an apology and I'd rather you weren't there to comment."

"I will remain here," Kilgharrah said quietly. "As long as you bring Aithusa to me as soon as you are able."

Merlin nodded and slid from the dragon's golden back, cupping his hands about his mouth and breathing warmth onto his fingers. Kilgharrah growled, eyes narrowed at an invisible enemy.

"If I don't hear from you by morning, I will burn this kingdom to the ground."

"Kilgharrah…."

The dragon turned away, curling into a comfortable position after the long flight, albeit turning his back on him. It was as much a dismissal as gliding away in the catacombs had always been. "Do not forbid me from flying on the winds of vengeance—not when the preservation of my species hangs in the balance."

Merlin did not try to argue. He could not afford Kilgharrah's ire when he may very well need Kilgharrah's help before morning. Hopefully he would not fail, and innocents would not die.

His magic drove him through trees and onto the wide plain they opened to. From here he did not need magical sight or a scout's scope to see the troupe in the distance. The flat land made the djinn's fire easy to see.

He brought himself to the border of their light, spying inward from the shadows. A few campfires burned low, and none were around to tend them. The djinn stood to the side, staring out into the distance, and all else slept on in their tents. Merlin only had to shift his weight from one foot to the next, and in a blink the djinn had disappeared.

It's raspy voice spoke lowly over his shoulder. "Why have you returned?"

"I owe you your freedom," Merlin responded. "Even if I cannot trust you not to turn on Camelot."

The djinn stepped round and studied his truthfulness. While the creature's skin licked with flames and his frightening gaze unnerved him, Merlin knew he was safe. He had made sure of it, after all, with the spell he'd placed upon Sheba's ring. "You are here for a bargain, not for the binding."

Merlin sighed. "I'm here for both, if you'll accept."

Unsurprisingly the djinn said nothing, only disappearing in another inhuman bound. The only hint of its new location was the settling of a purple tent flap. Even without the fortune teller's sign, the richness and otherworldly aura belied Lalla Sheba's quarters, and Merlin moved to stand a respectful distance from its entrance. The crackle of fire and the sleep sounds of the entire troupe were enough to cover the low sounds of their conversation.

He wanted to burst in and hurry their decision, but he stood and waited in the chill, ticking away the minutes with the tapping of his heartbeat. It was not propriety that held him back—no, certainly not his waning honor—it was desperation born of selfishness. He could not risk Aithusa's safety for a single day, and Sheba was his only hope of finding her quickly.

Finally the entrance moved aside, and the interior lit with the flickering light of the creature. Its burning gaze bore into him as he strode forward. Sheba waited for him, swathed in a dark cloak with her hair wrapped tightly in an emerald green cloth. "We're prepared to hear your offer," she said the moment the djinn closed the velvet behind him.

Merlin bent his head, ran his tongue over his teeth as he thought through how to battle their subtle animosity. In the end, he put all his dice on the table. "Someone I love very much is being held prisoner, likely in the Sarrum's castle. When I first met you, you mentioned the Sarrum had a new plaything. It was a fate you sought to protect the djinn from." He paused, watched her expression carefully. "I wondered if you knew more."

"If I tell you what I know, you'll break this spell?" She held aloft her hand on which twinkled the dull iron ring. Swirling in gold about it were the powerful binding spell, and the lock that prevented the djinn from hurting any human.

"If I can find and free Aithusa, then I'll tear up whatever you choose."

Sheba's eyes cast from Merlin to the djinn, and then they softened. "In the end it won't be my risk, but yours. It is your decision."

There was little hesitation on the part of the creature. He held his hand out for the ring, and Sheba slipped it from her finger and into its waiting palm. She smiled sadly. "Then I suppose we have a deal."

It was a dream from which she never woke. Ever had that one? The dread nightmare known to be false, but sleep is so heavy, so deep, that it pulls you inexorably downward. You're drowning in slow waves, in the soft, black sea. Do you know that scene? It's death. Murmuring to you. It's where we end.

Most of us, at least.

Morgana cracks her eyes open, her only source of light a ring far above her. The well's lid eclipses the sun. She stretches fingers to the stone, and hears through touch the same words she's been told endlessly though the stink and echo of this place. Dense. Damp. Buried.

She's shackled. Cold Iron captures her wrists and her arms hang useless about her face. She cannot move far from the wall that serves as her bed, her chair, her outhouse. Her clothes are filthy, stained, and torn; her hair is matted, and her face and arms so streaked with grime, it is impossible to see the porcelain her skin had originally been. All she breathes is permeated with the retching stench of a pigsty.

Clanking metal reverberates through the tight space, and the dragon's small head warms against her knee. She croons softly and the dragon responds. She has not known this blameless love since the fog of her earliest childhood. It is more precious to her than life itself.

She breathes a slow, deep in-and-out, and sinks into the stone at her back with its stench of mold and decay and human sweat. She floats on the edges of her endless nightmares, drowning in darkness, until wood scrapes against stone and the lid slides to the side and her well goes blinding white.

Teeth clenching, she narrows her eyes, preparing for whoever has come to gawk, or jeer, or violate the blackened witch. Perverted monsters. Drop in a roll of bread and drop your pants, jerk off before you go.

She has fought, kicked, thrown magic in bursts of fire or energy. Some have died shrieking, and others by falling headfirst into her well. They've retaliated with drugs, choking her on smoke, tightening her chains so she could not even pick up her own skirts.

The only good thing, if she can call it that, is that the worse the smell grows, the more they leave her alone. Guards had enjoyed the sight of her chained and degraded body just fine, but now that she stank? Not so much.

Two large shadows bend into the brilliant light, talking in that language she's never understood. And though she does not know the words she grasps the intent. Not so powerful are you now, you filthy animal?

They hold a large stone, no, a bucket, and with a shove of their arms the wave of water spills down towards her and hits like shards of ice. The cold brings shock and pain, and her dragon cries. They continue until the walls are wet, the ground turns to mud, and her dress clings to the shape of her body.

She shakes in rebellion. Her lungs seize and the world turns a hazy black and white that blocks out everything but the shadow men high above her. She screams, and carried in the sound is not pain, but all the primal force of animal rage. Her fury beats harder, faster, painfully against her temples.

It hammers out the order to kill.

"The Purge was a time of evil, and none that survived it came through untouched."

Lalla Sheba tightened her cloak about her shoulders, and her eyes cast down as her story replayed.

"At first, they were only dying in Camelot. Most of us were safe, and we heard the rumors of drownings and beheadings, and the growing uprising, with disbelief. It seemed so far away. The Sarrum even captured his first sorcerer, but we were all led to believe it was justified. I believed I was safe, because I was good.

"Then one night the sorcerer was dead, and the Sarrum came with his army and shackles of cold iron. He slaughtered most, but the more powerful or unique he kept alive, first in the dungeon of the castle, and afterwards in dried wells outside its walls. I never looked, and I never helped them. I only hid.

"In the night, you could hear them wailing. Eventually, they begged for death. He only ever gave it to them in trade—their knowledge, for his mercy."

Stoically Merlin said, "So I will find her in a well outside the walls?"

Sheba turned to the djinn, and the creature replied, "I know of the wells." It turned to Merlin and stated. "I will help you free your Aithusa, and in return you will free me from my bonds."

The djinn slipped out and Merlin followed quickly. He turned to thank Sheba, but her eyes were focused forlornly on the djinn, and remained staring after it even as Merlin let the flap close behind him.

It was silent traveling then, he and the djinn covering leagues across the flatlands through his teleportation and the djinn's fast feet. They avoided the camps of other travelers and skirted villages that huddled between wide swaths of farmland on the great plains of Amata. As they neared their destination the roads widened, and the villages grew more dense, until the grey-stone castle appeared from the gloom, peering down on them from a lonely grassy ridge.

It had one large tower connected to its front gate, tall enough to see the river at its back, and capable of spilling pitch onto any attackers. It's height over the surrounding terrain gave the guards an advantage, and Merlin moved warily into its range, relying on his luck and the darkness to keep him hidden.

The djinn's natural invisibility to non-magic users leant him an even greater advantage, though the brightness of his skin made the ground around him glow. Merlin wondered if he should sneak into that tower and knock out the guards. While it would surely result in alarms later, it might prevent them sooner.

While he deliberated the djinn sped away, presumably to check the wells it knew of. In the meantime Merlin shifted into the shadow of the tower and craned his neck to look up at the many stories. It would be slow going to find every passageway and climb every level to be sure he was safe from prying eyes. He couldn't waste that time; the moon was nearly set, and the stars told him dawn approached.

He had lain sleeping spells before, pushed them likes waves over groups of guards near Camelot's cells. He experimented now, watching a crystalline web of the thinnest layer of magic spread between his palms. He'd never used this spell without being in sight of the people he'd enchanted, but the concept must be the same. Cover them, swathe them, and they'd sleep like babes.

Pressing his hands to the stone, he willed his magic upwards. Like a golden lattice, it climbed over moss and windows, stretching upwards and expanding round. He felt the small current as it connected seamlessly on the opposing side of the tower, and again when it latched together over its ceiling.

He moved back from the wall and his hands fell to his sides. He felt a strange dip as the magic unconnected from him and stood trembling on its own, a threadbare blanket sprinkling the sandman's secrets onto countless bodies.

Instinctively he knew then that his magic was different. He had no proof, really. There was nothing overtly more or less powerful, nothing particularly strange. Perhaps there was a foreign hue, or perhaps the veil he'd ripped aside would never fully be repaired. If he dared to hope...he'd hope he just had a deeper relationship with his magic, or magic in general.

The djinn appeared at his side. "One well is occupied."

Eagerly Merlin whispered, "Show me."

Carefully, he followed the creature around to the east wall of the castle, where a covered well was hidden in the shadow of the castle. He saw a weak spiral of magic leaking into the night air, and in his desperation to free Aithusa nearly leapt to its side. The djinn held back, and the reason for it tripped at his subconscious.

"Your promise," the djinn reminded him.

Merlin looked at the well, and then to the djinn. He could not be certain Aithusa was within, but it would be too much of a coincidence if she was not. The djinn had been invaluable, and it deserved to not be strung along any further. "Sheba bound you initially to prevent you from a fate like this," Merlin gestured to the well. "Will you be safe on your own?"

"I will find a way."

The djinn closed the distance between them, and held out the iron ring in the palm of its fiery hand. Merlin ran his fingers through the spells he and Sheba had built together, and watched as they were destroyed, the energy returning to the air in sublimating fragments. "Thank you for everything."

The djinn nodded almost regally, and then it blinked away, leaving him alone.

Alone with this thoughts, with the well, and with the banging in his chest. He had held a fragile life in his hands, but he had allowed it to slip through busy fingers and fall into the depths of depravity. In equal measures he worried for her life, his guilt, and for everything that could go wrong in the next few moments. With a hand outstretched, he drew on the strength that allowed him to push waves of energy at his enemies, and used it to pull the well's wooden lid into the air. A rush of garbled slurs followed, and he was so shocked the lid slipped from his grasp and banged dully onto the ground.

The voice was female, and a female he would never forget.

He wavered, for an instant, in indecision. Then he let the glamour for age wash through him, feeling the stubble on his chin lengthen into a full beard, his hair growing years in seconds. He tugged at his shirt, hoping she would be too deep in the ground to recognize it. For all the familiarity he had with glamours, they were useless if he couldn't hide his recognizable, servile clothes.

Again Merlin approached, and this time stuck his head and shoulders carefully over the well's edge. Filth and rot overpowered the smell of damp, wet mold, and the dim light cast a macabre glow over Morgana—and Aithusa—who were curled into the dirt far below.

Her visits are never this close together, and she wonders what she's done to deserve the honor.

She hears his footsteps falter, he's scared, she thinks, and she hopes he is one of the stupid ones that lean a little too far over the edge. But at this shadow man's appearance Morgana lunges, then jerks as her wrists catch on the chain. She curses and screams, straining at her bonds with all the anguish and fury of a wild animal trapped in captivity.

Because, even as her eyes adjust to the wealth of starlight, she knows that face. She's known it in her deepest dreams, and fears it whenever she grasps something she covets.

Then the collar snaps from round her dragon's neck and she knows what will happen. She watches in agony as her dragon cries for her, as Emrys speaks words she cannot know, and the skeletal white wings stretch out. You've grown she thinks as the tips of the dragon's wings brush the edge of their pit, and then she can look no longer as the drum begins its beat into her skull. If he speaks to her, she cannot hear him.

For a brief time she'd tasted happiness, had the closest chance for peace when she had looked at the smile of her pure dragon. The rage and violence that had defined so many of her years had a hope to ebb, but then these monsters had thrown her into this prison, ripped away her newfound calm, and allowed her worst enemy to steal away the last pieces of her. No matter what she does, or what she chooses, the end result is always madness.

Hands to her head, face to the stone, screaming without sound. She pushes back hard.

Her well's lid settles firmly into place.

The Sound of Silence, sung by Disturbed

Footnotes:
(1) Sheba and the djinn are from the "Aisle Four" couplet, Chapters 16 and 17.
(2) I didn't come up with the term "Cold Iron", and I wish I knew who wrote it so I could credit them.
(3) Amata's castle is based on Hadleigh Castle in Essex

Author's Note:
Thanks to Jewelsmg for the War of Distance, fought between houses Mile and League, and for being a willing ear to complaints heard by few others. And, of course, to Linorien for helping me turn terrible turns of phrase into actual storytelling. To all you wonderful reviewers, what really astonishes me and blows me away, is how quickly I receive your reviews. I expect them to trickle in over a week, but instead they flood in nearly overnight. It's a singular, wonderful experience.

The inspiration behind Morgana's imprisonment scene is from stories on human trafficking. I can't take credit for thinking of all that wretchedness.

I'm curious, though. Many of you didn't come to this story for Morgana, and I don't know your thoughts on her. Does she deserve this prison?

Knowing what you know, would you leave her there?

Next time: Centuries.