Chapter VIII: To Breathe Again

It was strange, Morgana reflected, to walk through Camelot again. In a good way, though.

Last time she'd been here, the streets had been empty and tense. People had looked at each other with wary eyes; they'd watched the guards with barely disguised hostility, like dangerous animals that might snap at any moment.

Now, though….

It wasn't perfect. Leftover tension lingered in some places, and a few people remained suspicious and snappish. Nobody seemed particularly happy when they saw a guard, but the bloodcloaks' presence had been greatly reduced, which Morgana suspected did quite a bit to alleviate tensions.

But it was so much better that it was almost like walking through an entirely different city. Every storefront was open, every smithy rang with the banging of hammers. People walked through the streets without glancing over their shoulders, instead focusing on conversations with their neighbors or on watching the happy, laughing children who zoomed through the crowds.

No one really paid attention to Morgana and Gwen, dressed as they were in peasant garb and focused on their destination. They'd teleported into the house Gwen had shared with her father to avoid the guards at the gates, then entered the city proper, walking as quickly as they could before their targets moved.

"You can breathe again," Gwen had murmured wonderingly, and she was right.

Tristan and Isolde were enjoying a late breakfast at their usual inn when Morgana and Gwen entered. Isolde glanced up disinterestedly at the sound of the door opening, looked away. Then her eyes widened as she realized what she'd seen, and her head snapped around as she said something to Tristan. He followed her gaze, mouth opening slightly when he recognized Gwen.

"You're not dead," Isolde noted wonderingly.

"I'm not dead," Gwen confirmed, a grin on her face.

"Who's your friend?" Tristan asked suspiciously.

"Morgana le Fey, of Tintagel. Morgana, these are Tristan and Isolde."

The smugglers stiffened, either because Morgana was an authority figure or because she was a known witch. Or maybe, the lady reflected, it was a combination of both. But they didn't flee or shout or call any attention to the strange little group, so she counted it as a win.

"We have a proposition for you."

They exchanged unreadable glances before returning their attention to Morgana. "Oh?"

Gwen took over. If Morgana hadn't known her, she'd have thought that the former maidservant was completely unruffled rather than fighting down tension. "You know, obviously, that Arthur—ah, King Arthur—is planning to repeal the ban on magic. To do that, he needs to renegotiate treaties with several other kingdoms that have sworn to attack any land where magic is free. He's going to have a summit next spring, but decided that it would be best if he sent an ambassador to lay the groundwork beforehand."

"And Lady Morgana the known witch is going to be his ambassador?" Tristan said.

"No," said Gwen. "My brother Elyan is a knight, which means that I am technically a lady."

"And you want us in your retinue," Isolde deduced. A slow grin spread across her face. "Because we probably know better escape routes than anyone else you know?"

"That's a big part of it," Gwen admitted. "There's also the fact that you were willing to help people escape Uther's reign of terror, even though you could have been killed on the spot if you were caught. You're brave, cunning, quick, and you've proven both that you can be trusted with dangerous work and that you're willing to help out people associated with magic."

"You'd be well compensated, of course," Morgana cut in. "Room and board in multiple castles, new clothing and horses, and quite a bit of silver. Speaking of which…." She passed them a small coin purse, payment for the last group of people they'd spirited from the citadel before her own unmasking had put an end to their little smuggling project.

"…How much silver?"

Morgana named her starting price. It was enough to make the smugglers' eyes go wide and to make Gwen hide a wince. They'd decided on this amount last night after a lot of wild guesswork about how much smugglers made in an average season. Apparently, their haphazard calculation was just as interesting as they'd hoped.

"We need to talk about it in private," Isolde declared. She and her partner scurried off.

"Do you think they'll do it?" Morgana asked once they were out of sight.

"Yes," said Gwen. "If they say no this time, I strongly suspect that Hunith will come to convince them."

Morgana managed not to laugh. "And that'll do the trick?"

"The woman is a force of nature, Morgana. If Arthur sets her on his more reticent councilors, magic will be legal within the week."

"What about Sarrum?"

"That's actually a good question, and I don't know if I'd want to watch that confrontation or run the other way. It would probably end up in the history books. They'd write songs about it."

"We could get Geoffrey to—here they come."

Tristan and Isolde slid into their old seats. "You're asking an awful lot from us, you know," he told them. "We'd be risking our lives for, what, half a year? Double your offer and we have a deal."

Morgana grinned at him, because this was something she had experience with. It was always fun to bargain with another professional.

In the end, she and Tristan agreed on a price that was closer to her initial offer than his. They shook on the deal, each satisfied with the end result.

"We'd be recognized at the castle," Gwen told them, "so we need you two to go get the letters of introduction from Arthur. And… if you see my brother Elyan—he's one of the new knights, so he'll probably close by—could you give him this?" She handed Isolde a thick letter. "It's from me and our dad. We had to leave rather abruptly and haven't had a chance to get directly in touch with him."

"We'll do it," Isolde promised.

They agreed to meet at noon at a location about two miles west of the city. Morgana and Gwen had already arranged to rendezvous with Gilli and Sefa there, so it would serve as the starting point of Gwen's ambassadorial tour. Before that, though, they had a few other preparations to make.

Hunith had managed to acquire most of the necessary supplies yesterday afternoon: food, tents, a map, and serviceable good clothes. She had not, however, been able to acquire raiment suitable for a lady, as they hadn't had any of that in the Isle of the Blessed and certainly didn't have anything in Gedref. Fortunately, Morgana had given Gwen a few of her own old (or 'old' or 'didn't suit me but I bet they'd look lovely on you, Gwen') dresses over the years, and her former maid had already fitted them to her own measurements. Since they didn't have to return to the Isle for two random Catha companions before heading off Gilli and Sefa, they had time to double back to her old home and pick up a couple nicer pieces.

(They could technically have done that before speaking with the smugglers, but they'd felt that it would be easier to go back to Gwen's house than to track down Tristan and Isolde if they finished their breakfast more quickly than anticipated and left the inn. It wasn't like Morgana could whip out a scrying bowl on the streets of Camelot. Even if she could, she hadn't yet learned how to scry on her own, though Morgause was quite intent on teaching her.)

"I can't believe this is actually happening," Gwen confessed as they made their way to the meeting place. "Gods, I hope I don't ruin everything."

"You won't," Morgana assured her. It was not the first time they'd had this talk. "You aren't going to inspire any wars or assassination attempts or anything else you're worried about. You won't make a fool of yourself, either. Just remember to take deep breaths."

"…I wish you were going with me."

"I do too," Morgana admitted, "but everyone on Albion must know by now that I'm a witch. I'd just get the entire group thrown into the dungeons."

"Still," Gwen sighed, then forced a brave smile. "It's good to see Camelot alive again, don't you think?"

Morgana let the subject change stand. "It is. It's especially good to see that there aren't a hundred guards at every gate. I would really rather not be recognized."

"I keep expecting someone to suddenly confront us," Gwen admitted. "Just, you know, burst out of the shadows shouting about witches and traitors."

They paused a moment, suddenly tense, and looked into the nearest shadows. Nobody paid them any mind. They grinned at each other, a little embarrassed, and walked on without mentioning it.

Soon—too soon, Morgana thought with a pang—they were at the rendezvous. They leaned against a pair of trees, chatting idly, until Morgause appeared with Gilli and Sefa.

"I take it you were successful?" the warlock inquired.

"We were," Gwen confirmed. "Tristan and Isolde should be here in just a few minutes with our horses and the letters."

"That'll be nice." Gilli gave his saddlebag a little shake. "Or it will be once I get used to them. I'm… not particularly experienced with horses."

"Have you not ridden before?"

"Only a couple of times. I can handle it, I'll just be sore for the first day or two." He smiled slightly. "Good thing our first stop isn't too far."

They had decided to visit Nemeth first. It was a small kingdom and closely allied with Camelot, a relatively easy introduction to Gwen's new task. Even better, its royal family was (from what Morgana and Arthur could remember of them) sensible and intelligent, quite inclined to listen to reason.

It would have been easier to set out from Gedref, as that territory bordered on Nemeth, but they weren't certain how Tristan and Isolde would have reacted to teleportation, nor did they want to reveal the whereabouts of their temporary refuge. Everyone would hopefully be in Listeneise within the fortnight, a month at the most, but there was really no point in tempting fate.

"Thank you again for doing this," Gwen told them. "Both of you. You're very brave."

"So are you," Morgana reminded her.

A nervous little smile. "Thank you. Morgana, Morgause, good luck with Amata. Tell Merlin not to strain himself until he's absolutely positive he can handle it, with helping you or finishing up in Listeneise."

"Don't worry, I will. Good luck with Nemeth. I'll try to bring you back into the dream world tonight."

"Right. I'll see you then."

They hugged, tight and perhaps a bit desperate. "You'll do fine," Morgana promised.

"So will you," Gwen replied.

Morgana gave her friend one last squeeze, one last nod, then disengaged. "I'm ready, Morgause."

The wind picked up, and then the sisters were back in Gedref, leaving Gwen behind.

Today wasn't quite a bad day, Merlin reflected, but it was definitely below average. Bad enough that he wanted to put this off, but not so bad that he couldn't bull through it. He just had to keep his slight tiredness and dizziness from Wyrmbasu, as the wyvern could be quite the worrywart sometimes.

He might not have been successful in that endeavor, as Basu was eyeing him with extreme skepticism.

"Don't look at me like that," Merlin whined.

Basu kept looking at him like that. His tail gave a little thump.

Persuasion was all in presentation. Merlin gestured at his stomach. "I finally figured out why this isn't healing right. It's the Dark Tower. You know, the nasty thing that made your old master's bad condition even worse? So if I want to get better, I have to destroy the Dark Tower."

Basu tilted his head to the side. Merlin decided to take that as a good sign.

"And this won't be like when I knocked myself unconscious for days after taking the reins from Anfortas, because I had no idea what I was getting into then. I've made proper preparations this time. Father will come at sundown in case I'm too tired to fly. He'll bring me back to Gedref. Morgana and Morgause will be checking in on Arthur, Gwen, and the knights. Well, mostly Morgause, since Morgana can't scry yet, but she'll be very useful if they do have to go to Camelot to rescue him. And Gaius and a bunch of other healers know exactly what I'm doing, so they're prepared, too." Merlin grinned, spread his arms. "Contrary to popular belief, I do know how to learn from my mistakes."

He didn't mention certain other aspects of his family's plans, namely that he was under quite a lot of (internal) pressure to do this as soon as possible. If everything worked out, his father would teleport the first wave of survivors to the old capital of Listeneise tomorrow. They would ready houses, clean out the rest of the wells, and generally finish making the place habitable. (They would also need to prepare beds for Sarrum's victims, who would eventually be brought to the safety of the Perilous Lands, though they'd have to recover a bit first.) As soon as they deemed the place habitable, they'd send word to Hunith, who would organize the next groups of settlers.

Anhora and Blaise had tried very hard to hide their relief about all these unexpected guests finally leaving their home, but Merlin could tell they were happy about it. Not that he blamed them, of course.

"As you can see, I'm being very sensible about this, and I'm doing it for a good, well-thought-out reason," Merlin told his wyvern. "So what do you say, my friend? Shall we?"

Basu lowered himself to the ground, allowing his warlock to clamber onto his back. Merlin gave the wyvern's head a quick little scratch before his red wings unfurled and they were off.

Perhaps it was the dragonlord in him. Perhaps it was his mother's Sidhe blood. Perhaps it was just because he was named for a bird. Whatever the reason, Merlin absolutely loved flying: the steady flapping of Wyrmbasu's wings, the wind carding his hair and stinging his eyes, the ocean rippling beneath him. Soon they came over another shore, over patches of forest and field threaded through with little streams. They crossed a ravine, and the landscape changed into something barren and blighted until they reached a thick dark wood. Then the Dark Tower poked over the horizon (Merlin's wound ached) like an accusing finger, growing larger by the moment.

It was the first time Merlin had come here since his injury, so he wasn't prepared for the way that the pain increased. By the time that Basu lighted, he was panting for breath.

"You're not looking well, young warlock."

Merlin jumped. "Kilgharrah," he gasped. "You nearly gave me a heart attack. Don't do that."

It really said something about his state that he hadn't immediately noticed the enormous bronze-and-gold dragon. In his defense, though, Kilgharrah had been waiting in the forest, obscured by its thick canopy. Also, Merlin wouldn't put it past the dragon to remain invisible until he spoke, just for his own amusement.

"What are you doing here?"

"Your parents told me about your plans and requested that I keep an eye on you."

Wyrmbasu hissed, wings flaring. Kilgharrah replied with a slow, impassive blink.

"But Father is going to check on me come sundown."

"Sunset is a long way off, Merlin. Neither Balinor nor Hunith wanted you to lie on the ground for hours. If you do lose consciousness, it will be safer for me to carry you back to Gedref than to let your wyvern try to bear you on his back."

Basu chuffed. "He didn't mean it that way," Merlin murmured, scratching his friend's head. "He just has bigger claws, that's all." Louder, he asked, "I don't suppose you have any last-minute suggestions to make this easier?"

"Do it as quickly as possible," Kilgharrah advised. "One blow, so that the tower cannot regroup. And do it soon. The longer you are here, the more it will sap your strength."

"Right," Merlin agreed. He walked—well, staggered, using Beothaich as a walking stick—until the vile structure was barely a step away. This close, the presence of the mandrakes and ugly magicks was almost overwhelming, seeping into him like the odor of putrefaction. It was looking at him, almost, a malevolent presence with its own dangerous consciousness….

The stab wound burned. So did his land-bond.

Merlin made a rude gesture at his architectural adversary. "That's not going to work, so knock it off." He sat, slipped off his shoes. He felt a bit better with his bare feet directly on the ground, though it was still embarrassingly difficult to stand back up. Beothaich dug into the ground as its master positioned himself.

The land-bond opened wide. Strength flowed into him from stone and stream and hillock, from the waves pounding against the shore and the deep roots of the nearby forest. Even the air was charged with something electric.

Breathe in, breathe out.

Bedrock and topsoil, groundwater and springs, sleeping bones and crumbling buildings, root and loam, mouse and wyvern. He could feel them all, a million little pinpricks on his awareness, but there was one thing, one terrible ugly thing, that threatened to drown out their songs. It was a discordant note, a blood-fat leech, a wound leaking pus.

Merlin wove the wind and the waters into a net; he strengthened it with granite and tempered it in the memory of a forest fire. The net twisted in his hands, folding in on itself, its gaps filling with crystal and brambles. He pushed the spell into his staff, let it linger in the crystal, and called upon the power he'd held before taking up the Fisher King's mantle. Dragonfire flowed through his veins, tempered by sweet water from the Lake of Avalon. His bones were shards of crystal; his breath, the wind of change.

These things Merlin fashioned into a scythe. Words flowed from his lips without him noticing, words that he had never learned in any of Gaius or Blaise's lessons. The air itself tingled.

A trickle of red ran down his face, onto his lips. He ignored it.

The next bit was the trickiest. He had to time it perfectly. He needed to cut through the spellwork attaching the Dark Tower to the land. Then, when the building tried to reconnect, he had to wrap it in his net, let it draw strength from just that tiny, finite fraction of what Listeneise had to offer. Then and only then could he physically attack the tower, strike it with lightning and quaking.

Merlin drew in a deep breath. Raised his blazing staff. Aimed—

-and collapsed with a shout as another knife slammed into his belly.

No, he realized a few moments later, he hadn't actually been stabbed again. It just felt like he was reliving that soldier's attack. His wound was open again, worse than it had been since the night of the attack. Blood gushed down his stomach.

He'd pass out soon, just like he had then.

Thank the gods (and also his parents) that Kilgharrah was there. He'd probably bleed out otherwise. Indeed, the dragon was fast approaching, telling him to let go of the spells, that he could do this later.

The spells. He still had the spells!

Merlin didn't think about it, didn't let himself think, because he was absolutely positive that the Dark Tower could read his intentions. Instead, he acted.

As the warlock struck with his scythe, he pulled on the land-bond as hard as he could. He flung it behind himself, then raised the net like it was a shield.

The ties between the Dark Tower and the kingdom of Listeneise were severed, cut through as easily as felling grain (as easily as bloodcloaks cut through his people). But the tower had been designed to withstand that kind of attack, to latch back onto the land within half a heartbeat. Its magic flailed about like hungry tentacles, like lampreys, diving right at Merlin and the land that he protected.

It hit his shield-net instead. The magical structure collapsed around it, enveloping it like a cocoon. But the tower's mouths were already burrowing through, slavering as they sought a bigger meal.

With the last of his strength, Merlin pulled up the scythe of his own power and cut through the bonds which connected him and his land to the rapidly weakening net.

(Beothaich's light stuttered. Merlin's blood dripped onto the ground. Drip, drop, drip, drop, and long-dormant seeds drank it in.)

He was going to pass out now, but he had to stay awake, had to maintain another barrier between the net and Listeneise in case he'd underestimated the Dark Tower and it made another attempt. He had to—

Warm, golden breath. His wound scabbed over, not yet fully healed, but no longer leaking lifeblood everywhere. A blunt snout nosed at him, a wing pressing against his side.

Merlin opened his eyes. (When had he closed them?) He did not stand (when had he fallen to his knees?), for he didn't want to waste an iota of his strength. Instead, he glared up at his enemy, eyes burning magic-golden like the crystal atop his stave.

Even with Kilgharrah's breath partially healing him, the warlock didn't know if he could stay awake long enough to let the Dark Tower devour itself. If it broke free, it would latch back onto Listeneise and Merlin would have to do this all over again.

That, he decided, was not going to happen.

But there was only so far that stubbornness could take him, and he was rapidly approaching that threshold. He needed a way to drain the tower's energy more quickly, take it out with a bang rather than a whimper.

Merlin dug deep, deep into the part of him that was Emrys. He breathed in, letting the magic pool behind his breastbone, flow up his arms.

Breathe in. Form the shape of the word, the spell. This would happen; the universe would shape itself to his will, and that was all there was to it.

"Acwele!"

The spell leapt forward with all the force and splendor of a lightning bolt. The last thing Merlin saw before the exhaustion finally claimed him was his light colliding into the Dark Tower, breaking it in two.

...So guess who mixed up the update dates and thought I was supposed to post on Dec. 4? That's right, it's me! I'm a flipping genius, yes I am.

Alternate chapter title: "In Which Wyrmbasu is Reluctantly Convinced to go along with Shenanigans (Because Merlin Would Just Hurt Himself Otherwise, You Know he Would)"

NaNo is going pretty well. As of this moment, I have slightly less than a thousand words to reach 50k. I've reached and exceeded my personal goals of finishing/writing 3 one-shots for TPP and getting up to chapter 20 of this fic. It'll obviously need a lot of editing, but the first draft is done.

Next chapter: December 18, and I WILL get it right this time. Lots of people conspire. An unexpected character (though you might be able to guess, looking at the show) arrives in the court of Camelot.