Past Faults and Future Perils

by wryter501

Ten years into Camelot's golden age, Morgana casts a spell of exchange to send Merlin into the past - and bring his younger self forward. Inexperienced and untrained, and surely much easier to kill... In the past, Merlin must somehow connect with a young king who still hates an illegal magic, to duplicate the spell and return both his selves to the proper times...

11. The Faelg of Time

A/N: This is a bit back and forth, sorry if it gets a little confusing… One more chapter after this one, I think (they've all turned out so long for this story!), but today begins November – NaNoWriMo. So I really can't say when I'll be able to write and post the last chapter – sincerest apologies! But it will come, rest assured… Sorry-not sorry if you consider the end of this chapter a cliffie…

Chapter 11: The Faelg of Time

(Past)

Camp had been far more awkward than Merlin had anticipated, without dinner or blankets, lost when the horse was lost in the rockslide in the pass.

The high slopes had yielded nothing for them to scavenge, so they ate the fennel stalks Gaius had packed for Merlin, to keep hunger from gnawing at them all night. Arthur said nothing about the meagre offering – which was wholly uncharacteristic of him, and Merlin worried til he remembered, the king wouldn't complain in front of a stranger. Or about having to huddle back to back for warmth all night.

Merlin had fallen asleep almost instantly, well used to it and comfortable, but some part of him remained aware that the king shifted periodically through the night, wakeful.

The morning dawned miserable, and hunger woke Merlin. Arthur was already on his feet, silhouette dark against a dreary sky; Merlin's waterskin swung from his hand as he reached it forward.

"You found a stream," Merlin observed, needlessly.

"I've already drunk my fill," Arthur responded. As Merlin unstoppered the mouthpiece, the king added neutrally, "You slept well last night."

It wasn't quite a question, but Merlin answered anyway, attempting a light-hearted tone. "I needed to. Hope I didn't kick much."

"Rather that than being stabbed in the back." Arthur turned, beginning to move away from their shelter for the night and Merlin scrambled up, unsure if the king was carrying the joke, or not. Without anything to pack, he had only to catch up with Arthur, descending the northeast slopes of the mountains.

By the time the lake and the Isle and its ruins came into sight, though, Merlin was pleased and relieved to find a bit of sorrel and hogweed along their path, and they arrived at the waterside not totally preoccupied with hunger. The feathery leaves of the head-high growth at the lake's verge were already mixing autumn's yellow and red with summer's green. Seed-pods had burst, flinging their downy contents over the grass. Without jacket or blanket, however, Merlin's discomfort fluctuated between cold and dissatisfied appetite.

"Those ruins will offer some shelter from the weather," he spoke his thoughts aloud as they trudged down the slope toward the saplings and brush growing at the edge of the water, the rushes and reeds. "We can get a fire going…"

"You want to cross immediately, then," Arthur said. His hands were tucked under his arms, too, but he had a nice hide jacket and his riding gloves.

"You don't?"

Arthur didn't look at him. "More game will come to drink from the lake on the landward shore."

Thinking with his stomach. Merlin reminded him, "You haven't got your bow, sire – it was on the saddle."

Quick annoyed glance. "I do know how to set traps-"

Merlin.

"So if we can spot a game trail or two and be careful enough not to leave our own tracks and scent…"

It was hard to tell with the clouds covering the sky – and a new bank blowing in, low and thick and smoke-colored, and that one carried rain – but he guessed it to be noon, or thereabouts. "There are fish in the lake," he offered. "If we cross, I could begin to set up for the ritual, and you could-"

The annoyance deepened. "You want me to catch your dinner while you play with magic. I am the king."

Merlin.

"And-" Merlin paused to make sure he had his friend's attention – "I am not your servant. Each of us has abilities that are needed; it makes the most sense to assign the chores according to what we do best."

Arthur's jaw clenched, and he said nothing.

"I'll gather the firewood and make sure to get a good warm fire going," Merlin bargained in a persuasive tone, grinning.

The king scowled. Merlin counted it his win.

He diverted to the muddy edge of the water, immediately spotting sweet-flag, saxifrage, and float-grass. Stems and leaves and seed-heads all edible – maybe not filling or appetizing without the right preparation or additives, but Arthur's mood would improve with something to eat, as much for the easing of those concerns for the present and future as for the settling of hunger pangs.

Arthur made his way along the shore as Merlin plucked and gathered, and presently called out, "This boat is barely large enough to carry us both at once."

Merlin made the appropriate noises – I heard you; what a pity.

"There's no oars or paddles. Or poles. The last time we were here there was a boatman, but I don't see…" He trailed off as Merlin sat back on his heels and cocked his head curiously.

What did Arthur mean by that word we?

"What?" Arthur said, scowling.

"The boatman's presence might be linked to whoever or whatever else is in residence on the Isle," Merlin remarked. There had been a self-propelled single-person craft when he'd met Nimueh here. And the larger ferry with silent attendant when they all crossed to confront the Cailleach and the torn veil.

The king lifted his head to gaze across the water toward the ruins. "Wyvern, too," he mused. "I suppose you can deal with them."

"I suppose they don't make very good eating," Merlin quipped.

Arthur snorted and watched him approach, wetter now and muddy also, the float-grass and saxifrage leaves bundled inside the longer sweet-flag stems tucked carefully between his arm and body. Careless handfuls that would need to be cleaned, but better than nothing.

"You do realize how absolutely ridiculous you look," he drawled sardonically.

Merlin gave him a tired smile. "I'm not trying to impress anyone."

"Aren't you."

Arthur gave him a sharp look, but didn't hesitate to stabilize the boat for Merlin to climb in first, hampered by the greens and the pack weighing his shoulders. He shoved it off like he expected the boat to skim all the way to the Isle on the strength of his push, and Merlin unbalanced a little on the cross-plank seat. Arthur leaped and tucked his legs and perched in the stern.

For a moment he looked at Arthur, looking at him – waiting expectantly, tensely, as their momentum slowed to floating. Merlin remembered doing magic to keep his boots clear of the Daeg's clean floor, the first time he'd done it with Arthur watching. Without saying a word, he directed the boat to skim its way to the Isle.

Arthur didn't say anything. Didn't relax in his seat, either.

Then again, no one had relaxed the last time they'd been here either…

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

(Future)

The light rose slowly, imperceptibly. The chamber was stone, rough-cut and dark damp and grimy beneath his face where he lay sprawled on his belly and unmoving.

His whole body twitched and smoldered.

Maybe if he lay very still, it would stop. Then he could feel if he was injured, if he was hungry or thirsty…

He should have some plan. There was some reason why he was never wholly helpless, if he could just think…

But nerves sparked, and muscles jumped, spasming involuntarily. Noises squeezed from his throat, murmurs chopped into jagged pieces he had no control over, and his clothes and boots rasped on the ground like disoriented bats.

Maybe if he kept very still…

Maybe if he kept…

"Merlin. Merlin? Merlin!"

The voice penetrated his unconscious lethargy with the suspicion that he recognized the speaker – that he ought to respond – that he cared about connection, and reassurance.

"Merlin, please answer me if you can hear me! We've all been frantic – they've been taunting us - we can't break through to you yet but some of their wards are down so we're trying to reach you…"

Dusty?

"Yeah! Oh, Merlin. It's good to hear your voice…"

Emotion trembled through him, he noticed distantly. He ought to care more… The darkness trembled all around him, rumbling too softly to hear audibly, but the sensation was menacing and raised the hairs all over his body.

"Are you okay? We didn't know if you knew we were here – just here on the shore and they've maintained their defenses but we think we're wearing them down and it's only a matter of time…"

A long breathless string of words that didn't make sense to him.

But – Arthur?

"He's here, he's with us, he says – He says you're an idiot for coming here alone, but just hang on a few more hours and we'll come for you. He's said a lot more than that – but that's not important. Are you all right?"

I'm fine, he managed, relaxing to hear the king's message. Even relayed in her voice, he could hear his friend's tone, the annoyance and concern…

But he was with Arthur's ten-years-older self. Would the king he'd met sound annoyed and concerned like the Arthur he'd been severed from nearly a week ago?

How many days. How close was he to going home. Surely his older self remembered this, and knew there was reason for hurry. Knew there was… no way to shorten the time, after all. It would happen when it happened.

It wouldn't happen at all unless he could defeat Morgana, though, right? Or was that backward, and he didn't have to worry about Morgana because it was going to happen before the magic was reversed and it was going to be reversed and-

I want to go home.

He missed an Arthur he understood, even as he knew he'd miss the way the older king treated him, the ease and simplicity of life after the secret was told and the laws changed and… the lies forgiven.

How was Arthur handling his older self? How had he explained what was happening – was his older self lying and sneaking and managing on his own? Was Arthur angry about the magic? Evidently he was going to be there when Merlin switched back to his past – but would he be angry, that magic was used or that it was necessary to bring Merlin back, that he had to make such allowances for his hapless manservant.

The thought of lying to Arthur after he'd told someone like Morgana so much truth made him feel dizzy and ill. I want to tell him. I want him with me on my quests like I've been with him on his.

He didn't realize he'd been projecting his thoughts any further than his own skull til she responded.

"Courage, dear heart. It will be over in a matter of hours. You'll be home, and safe – and Arthur says, you have nothing to fear from him. Tell him anything you need to, and he'll pull his head out of his ass eventually. And he'll be with you for ten years – don't forget that."

Thanks, Dusty. He felt awareness pulling him back to his aching body and weary mind, back toward full consciousness. You've been a good friend. I can't wait to-

A splash of liquid ice assaulted Merlin's senses – right in his face, cascading over his shoulders and down his chest, making him gasp for breath and control over initial shock and immediate apprehension.

His hands were numb, locked above his head. His arms were being pulled from their sockets, and he staggered on feet and legs too confused to hold his weight upright.

Morgana stood before him – eyes deep and stark in greenish hollows, a sharp-edged smirk on pale lips, brittle black hair disheveled and tangled, dress tattered and filthy. She held a dripping bucket in her hands, and this he remembered, too. Her hovel was cluttered with rough-made furniture, objects both mundane and magical scattered disorganized over every surface; his wrists were bound with twisted rags to a heavy chain suspended between two of the beams supporting the structure.

"Do you remember this, Merlin?" She shifted, and he saw the metal brazier where fire burned, sullen and secretive. Where she'd tossed a stamped clay medallion to wake a creature of dark magic…

"I do," he said, his mouth dry and his throat raw.

"I guessed you must have," Morgana said, almost casually. She stepped to a nearby shelf and picked up a small carved box. "For a long time I thought that old man was Emrys, helping you for Arthur's sake." She tossed her head, and her smile was cold amusement, firelight reflecting in her eyes. The skin of his left shoulder stung like he was sweating into briar-scratches, or worse. "Now I know it was just you. It was always you."

She reached into the box, but whatever she removed was hidden in her hand as she discarded the box and circled him, more eager and intent than any predator driven by simple hunger and need for survival.

He tried to jerk away. This already happened. I already destroyed the fomorroh, already was freed from these bonds…

But they held, twisting the skin of his wrists. She hovered just beyond reach, behind his left shoulder, and it sent whip-cracks of hot pain up into his skull, down his ribs, to try to keep his eyes on her. She could tell it, too.

"It was just you and me, here, before," she continued. "Why didn't you use your magic? Break free and fight me."

"I was afraid," he blurted, wavering on his feet in trying to keep his weight off wrists and shoulders, turn to face her more fully. Was that freezing well water trickling down his side, or warm blood from the bandit's weapon?

"You were afraid of me," she said, sounding as pleased as if Arthur had just handed her the crown.

"I knew you'd hurt me as much as you could," he said. "I knew you wanted to hurt Arthur even more. If I'd used magic to escape or fight you… I was afraid what would happen if you knew I had magic. You underestimated me-"

She scoffed her derision.

"Everyone always did," he countered, "and it meant I was safer, staying secret, it meant I was more effective protecting Arthur and Camelot, if no one thought I was able to. I didn't want to kill you then, only to find out what you were doing and stop you but if you knew I had magic and I didn't kill you it would have been so much more dangerous…"

"You've said that more than once, now," Morgana remarked. "You didn't want to kill me. Why not?"

"You were my friend." He twisted his arms, trying to ease the strain, trying to see her clearly; his eyes ached from pulling so far to the side. "I'll never quit hoping that… things can change for you. That you'll want to change, and do something wonderful with your life, with your magic, with your chance. That destiny isn't set in stone and the dragon isn't right about everything."

"Hm." There was a dismissive edge to her voice. "You are so naïve, Merlin. And to think I used to like that about you…"

She stepped closer, and he stretched to the limits of his bonds but couldn't escape her touch. Where she set her hand to his shoulder – too close for him to focus properly – it felt like she was driving nails into his skin, scoring his flesh so deeply that blood ran, more than his shirt could absorb. He cringed and froze, unable to fight back, to shove her off balance with his body, to kick out with his feet.

But before… she'd healed him, before. What was she doing, now?

"You remember the fomorroh. How did you resist its influence? How were you able to return to my hut to destroy it? You should have been focused entirely on killing Arthur."

Aconite-soaked chicken set on the king's table before him; he could've teased or distracted him into finishing it, even if the taste was off – Arthur's body slumped on the floor next to the over-turned chair.

One leg calf-deep into the lye-bath before he noticed, it wasn't hot water causing the burning sensation – Arthur screaming as he fell outward and flesh dissolved and bone warped. Or Merlin could have given him a shove off his balance into the tub – Arthur thrashing and gurgling and the water roiling red with blood and chunks of the king's body…

Much cleaner the crossbow hidden in the wardrobe. Arthur too distracted by the thought of a traitor simply to say, Merlin bring me my belt – thud of the bolt through his heart, a reactive grunt when he hit the bedpost behind him… He'd have been dead before he slid to the floor.

Merlin couldn't say, I tried. I tried to kill my king, my friend… "Gaius," he managed. "And Gwen. Paralyzed it… so I could think."

"Were you such an inept assassin," she wondered, digging deeper into his shoulder. He was nearly swinging from his wrists bound to the chain to escape – but she wasn't allowing it. "Although, you had killed before – many times. You see, I've discovered the answer."

She moved her hand to the back of his neck, and a flash of familiar pain obliterated every other sense as he felt the severed head of the fomorroh chew its way into the muscles of his spine.

"I didn't know you had magic. Therefore your attempts to kill my brother were wholly unrelated – and therefore ineffective. But now that I know you have magic – I can aim it and you at Arthur. And this time, hit the mark."

Damn it to… The thought remained unfinished.

Merlin plunged deep within himself, like into thick cold water from a great height. Gloomy and pervasive and no way was up and though he was not drowning, he was lost. Destiny pressed heavily in on him, lights flickering obscure and sound filtering like slow distorted bubbles.

"You must kill Arthur Pendragon…"

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

(Past)

They didn't speak when they arrived at the Isle, Merlin struggling over the side and Arthur running the boat up onto the grassy shore. No wyvern in sight – on the ground or in the air. He hadn't really expected that; he didn't remember any such problems when he'd returned, ten years ago for him.

He trudged alone into the ruins, finding the building and the stair descending below-ground. Drizzle slicked the steps and thickened the air in the subterranean corridor. He was going to need a torch, first of all; he wished he had candles, too. It wasn't going to be easy to find the dry tinder and wood to keep a fire going like he'd promised Arthur.

Magic, again. More magic.

Leaving the underground chamber, he shrugged out of his pack in the ground-level room, leaving it under the part of the room that remained to shelter all its contents from the moisture. The faelg wouldn't take long to draw on the stone – he needed root-ash and another bowl, but they had all afternoon. He could find a sapling weak enough to be uprooted; he could scavenge fuel for the fire and a brazier or three from somewhere; he could navigate the shore to discover whether there was still yellow-lily growing in the shallower water. Roots and leaf-stalks of the yellow-lily were edible too, raw or cooked.

And he'd keep an ear out for Arthur. There were rats in the ruins, and birds – crows and jays, pigeons and doves. The king still had his dagger, and Merlin knew he could throw it with accuracy deadly enough to get them some meat to roast, even if it was unappetizing.

But apparently Arthur had other thoughts in mind. He appeared in the doorway of another room with most of its roof still intact, where Merlin was occupied stomping an abandoned chair into kindling. Unsurprising – he was making enough noise for Arthur to track him from anywhere on the island.

"There's no one else here," the king said, keeping his feet outside the threshold and leaning against his grip on either side of the empty doorway.

Merlin wasn't sure what to say to that. "No – but that's a good thing."

"What did you mean when you said he was here?"

He picked up the last splintered leg, tucking it into his gathered armful and faced Arthur, whose jaw was set and whose fair hair was plastered around his face.

"There's no one here, and there hasn't been for some time."

"We can't physically travel to the place where Morgana has your servant," Merlin said, trying to explain without sounding like he was lying. "It's – here, but not accessible without the ritual."

"We're beyond Camelot's borders." Arthur moved back from the doorway as Merlin approached.

"We are." What was Arthur getting at?

"So… since it's not illegal and I won't be trying to arrest you… can't you hurry it up?"

Merlin rested one shoulder against the damp stone of the doorway. Did Arthur feel like he was being pressured into a choice that was wrong merely because there was no alternative – and did he resent that? It wouldn't help to try to mention how often magic was part of the solution to Arthur's problem – just an unknown part.

"Are you glad that magic is able to help your friend," he said slowly, "or are you angry that it's necessary? Do you still think all magic is evil? That I'm evil for using it – but you'll use me for your own ends, to get what you want and then once again condemn the means?"

The king didn't answer – and didn't look away.

Merlin sighed. "No, I can't hurry it up," he said truthfully. "There's a room where I need to work, but I need light." He shifted his load of broken chair pieces to demonstrate his meaning. "I need to fashion a bowl out of stone with magic, and brew a special tincture and char a root to mark the flagstones and then I can begin the steps of the ritual. I'll need plenty of water, and your servant will be hungry when he arrives and I could stand to eat, too."

Arthur's perception shifted. After a moment, he nodded. Swung away – hesitated…

Merlin knew better than to think Arthur could confide in him, whatever his reaction to Merlin's questions. Maybe he could weigh Merlin's answers more seriously than he'd taken anything coming from his manservant's mouth, but… if he was going to admit he might reconsider his beliefs on magic, it wasn't going to be to the person he thought Merlin was at the moment. It wasn't even going to be until several days after Merlin's young servant self returned…

"It's just beyond that courtyard," Merlin told him. "There's a step down into the chamber instead of a step up – and the stairway is in the corner to the left."

"I'll find you," Arthur said, and moved away.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

(Future)

Merlin gripped rag and chain, squeezing his eyes shut as his pulse thundered through his body – wrists and shoulders and temples – and the floor heaved beneath his feet.

You must kill Arthur Pendragon.

No. Why was this happening? He'd killed the fomorroh, it couldn't grow back, Gaius cut it out of his neck and more than once. There would be a tiny scar under the knot of his neckerchief-

He couldn't reach. His hands were bound, he couldn't touch his neck to feel scar or snake…

Magic! They knew he had magic – Morgana and Arthur and the fomorroh in his neck forcing his thoughts where he didn't want them to go-

Kill Arthur!

No.

Unclyse these bonds…

No!

But then you can feel for sure, on the back of your neck… No – stay bound. Protect Arthur, even from yourself.

"My lady – what is going on? What's he doing?"

"He's fighting himself. Brilliant, isn't it? And so entertaining!"

"Can you not leave him? We are barely holding the invaders to the shore – at least let us use him as a hostage for their retreat!"

"Oh, for hell's sake! Do you know nothing of strategy? If you fear they are close to breaking our defenses they must sense that also – allow them to reach the Isle, allow them to think our people are scattering in fear and defeat, and you can set an effective ambush! Must I think of everything? Let Arthur come, and the moment he believes in his triumph, steal it away!"

Merlin opened his eyes, panting and flushed with sweat.

Morgana was seated on one of her cluttered work-tables – the stone walls of the ruins on the Isle around them, not the mud-brick of her hovel in the woods. She looked much the same as he'd seen her there – but her flesh sagged on her bones, and there were more gray strands in her disheveled hair than he'd seen on any of his friends here ten years into the future.

She noticed his attention, and lifted her chin with a ghost of her sharp smirk. "Let Arthur fight his way here," she said. "Then we'll see what happens with Emrys. Wouldn't it be marvelous if Merlin killed Arthur after all?"

Merlin's eyes shifted to track movement in the corner of the room. It was Mordred, round-faced and clean-shaven, druid cloak behind his shoulders, peasants' clothing and muddy boots. He ignored Merlin but rolled his eyes ostentatiously at Morgana's words, before turning to leave again, up a flight of stone steps open to the room.

"It won't happen," Merlin rasped, trying to strengthen belief along with his tone. "It can't happen."

But it might… This was something only his older self knew. And he might have lied…

"It won't happen," he repeated stubbornly, feeling a great desolate emptiness gaping inside him.

She smirked and swung filthy bare feet. "We'll see."

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

(Past)

"Stanas dennian." Merlin shaped the chunk of broken wall-stone like it was wet clay in his hands, scooping up the sides and smoothing the bottom, leveling the base of the large stone bowl.

He concentrated on his work in the dim flickering light of the burning chair-pieces lumped on the floor as near his knee as he could stand the heat. The exquisite care he took with the magical pottery kept him from thinking too much about the last time he was in this room – ten years ago, and not for ten more.

Where is she now? What was she doing? She hadn't yet done most of the things he'd hated when she did them…

Here in this room it would all come to an end. He'd fought her and her magic – he'd faced horror and despair – and the faelg had pulled him back before he'd truly seen the end of what happened. Now, when he went back – if he made it – he'd arrive at the end of the battle between Morgana's people and Arthur's…

My people… your people…

The roots of a sapling willow smoldered in the fitful fire next to him. Soon he'd rub that charring on the floor in a circle three paces across, a great round representation of history, or fate, of the stars wheeling overhead and defining endless recurring seasons. Then he'd join the vine of the pennywinkle to it, binding every placed element of the faelg together into one powerful whole with many parts moving in concert.

He needed water to brew his tincture, to soak his younger blood from the neckerchief – he needed the stained fabric back from Arthur…

Merlin set the stone bowl down and leaned to retrieve the wooden bowls Gaius had given him – the ones he'd carried all week, and the ones his old friend had carried in anticipation of their last meeting in the lower town.

He hadn't said goodbye.

Tears started to his eyes and he exhaled a bit shakily, laying aside the botanical elements from his pack to find the small knife he'd also borrowed – handle well-worn in the old man's work, blade sharpened so many times there was beginning to show a faint concave arc in its edge.

Then he set himself to dig a small hole through the bottom of the three smaller bowls with the tip of the knife. He was so engrossed in finishing this work that he jumped and nicked himself slightly on the side of his forefinger when Arthur spoke, at the top of the stair.

"Permission to enter." Not really a question, by his tone, but he didn't just jog down the steps, either. Probably he was wary of disturbing any magic he didn't understand.

Merlin let himself slouch, gazing up at his young friend. Damp all the way through, wet hair shoved to the side in an untidy way – fit and whole and healthy.

"I'm not doing anything yet," he answered, referring to the ritual itself, not just the elements of preparation. "Even then, you'll be perfectly safe, so don't worry. Come and go as you please."

Arthur took him at his word, descending the stair with a bundle of black feathers in one hand that turned out to be a pair of large blackbirds, heads lolling on broken necks.

"You're literally going to eat crow?" Merlin said, amused in spite of other emotions that threatened.

Arthur gave him a look, a quintessential don't-be-stupid-Merlin look that was both startling and comical, if he still thought Merlin was a stranger. "No, I'm going to cut it up for bait and eat fish. However there are plenty of the blackbirds about and it's not too terribly difficult to throw a stone and hit at least one, if you prefer it after your fish feast at the cave the other night."

"Oh, no, fish is fine." Merlin remembered Arthur would be successful, too; he and Merlin's younger self would have enough to dry out by another fire in another room and travel several days before meeting the knights. Not very appetizing – but Merlin had not been concerned with the fare, those days. He'd been hungry enough to devour crow if necessary, coming from Morgana's nonexistent care while she took her time killing him. He paused over the last of the bowls, upside down over his knee. "Bait, though? You're drop-fishing?"

"As opposed to?" One eyebrow quirked.

"I would have thought you'd tie your knife to the end of a branch." Merlin considered that he had maybe an hour's work of diligent preparation, and it was only midafternoon. As anxious as he was about getting back – and what state he'd find his friends in – in the moment he rather felt like lingering in the company of his young friend and king, even unrecognized. It was a bit revealing for him, too, to see a side of Arthur rarely presented – and never to him. Dealing one-to-one with a stranger he might consider nearly an equal – not one of his citizens, and not someone who might be a rival in fighting skill, not someone overawed or even terribly respectful, but someone with undeniable power nonetheless.

"The water around these shores is too deep for that to be effective." Something in the king's eyes shifted, and he tilted his head slightly. "Is that how you did it, then, in the stream outside the cave?"

Merlin smiled to take the sting from the sarcasm as he repeated, "As opposed to?"

Arthur's face smoothed to blankness as his thoughts retreated behind his expression. "I suppose I assumed you'd use magic."

"Oh… no. Magic is for emergencies, for when there's no time for alternatives," Merlin explained, digging at the bowl again. Because wouldn't a spell be easier for this, too. "Not for everything. That's lazy and wasteful."

"Wasteful," Arthur repeated. Hesitated long enough for Merlin to look up, but what he said was, "Wasteful, like ruining that knife and those bowls putting holes in the bottom?"

"Gaius gave them to me to use," Merlin told him, finishing and setting them aside. "You'll have to buy him some replacements."

"Hm. We'll see." Arthur added, "I came to ask if you've got some material in your pack I can use for a fishing line. Because I'm not going to unravel my shirt."

And he'd thought of that, rather than considering picking threads out of the neckerchief he'd tucked into the inside pocket of his jacket.

"And if you used thread from your sock, no fish would come near it," Merlin joked, reaching into his shoulder-pack for the roll of bandage-fabric tucked into one of the bottom corners.

"You – do you insult your king so readily?" Arthur said, sounding incredulous.

"Of course," Merlin said blithely, picking at a loose thread at the end of the bandage, where Dusty had ripped the shirt and it had worn loose, washed and wound and used. "Quite often – daily, in fact, whenever he's being a d-"

Merlin cut himself off, unwilling to use one of his personally-invented insults, only to have Arthur accuse him of being part of the attack on the king's young manservant. Else how could he know the silly names Merlin had called Arthur in their shared youth…

Instead he cleared his throat and used the favorite insult of Gwaine's nephew. "Whenever he's being a dungbrain."

Arthur huffed, but didn't say anything as Merlin teased the thread loose from the weave of fabric. The bandage was only as long as one hand to the other with his arms outstretched, but he freed three threads and knotted them end to end, then wound it loosely about his hand to avoid tangling, before rising to hand it to the king.

Who didn't thank him, only gave him a questioning look when he scooped up the waterskin to loop over his shoulder, and then the two bigger wooden bowls – not the stone one, nor the three which would no longer hold liquid.

"What are you doing with those?"

Merlin nodded for him to lead the way on up the stair and out of the chamber. "I'm making water-clocks. It's for the-" He remembered how uncomfortable the king was with the word ritual and substituted, "spell."

"Water-clocks?" They emerged onto the street through the ruins, grass growing between broken and crumbled flagstones, treacherous footing that required attention.

"You've seen a water-clock before," Merlin reminded him.

"Yes, but – you're making one?"

"I'm making three," Merlin said. "Well, they'll be more symbolic than accurate… The principle being, the larger bowl is filled with water and the smaller vessel is set on the surface, with the hole in the bottom to allow water to trickle inside at a steady rate. The smaller bowl can be marked in increments – a bit like candlemarks, that measure the time it takes to burn between them. Or a sand-glass, that measures how long it takes for the grains to trickle through the funnel."

Arthur was quiet as they tramped along. The sky would remain overcast if Merlin was any judge, and while all the stone about them glistened darkly with moisture, it seemed to have stopped falling from the clouds. For the moment. And the fire in that little underground room would soon warm and dry them.

"You sound… halfway decently educated," Arthur remarked grudgingly. "Aside from the magic, I mean."

Merlin would take the backwards compliment. He took them all, and treasured them. Because the rarer genuine praise from his king was awkward and embarrassing for both of them. It wasn't their way.

"I am," he said cheerfully. "Halfway decently educated is still better-educated than anyone who avoids the library to spend his free time on the training ground."

Arthur shot him a look, though his hands were busy tying one end of the thread to a hook he'd evidently whittled from a twig, the rest of the looped string tucked under his elbow with the two crow carcasses. He scuffed one boot, then bent to choose a tiny dislodged pebble as a weight for the fish-hook, without breaking stride.

Merlin reached out, adding in the same tone, "D'you want me to enchant that hook to attract the fishes' attention for you?"

Arthur almost tripped in swerving away from him – then, astoundingly, seemed to actually consider the offered option for a moment before declining. "I trust the entrails of a dead crow over magic."

Merlin's turn to huff – but he only pretended to be insulted, because Arthur was teasing him back, not stating a genuine belief on the topic.

"Oh," he said. "Right here – down these steps. There's yellow-lily, which means there will be fish attracted to the insects that are attracted to the water-plants. And we can eat some of the stalks and roots with the fish you catch."

Arthur led the way down, then crouched at the bottom of the step to pull his knife for rendering the dead blackbirds into fish-bait. "Don't suppose your magic could do anything about salt?"

Merlin grinned, squatting next to him to begin filling the waterskin and the bowls with as much water as he could carry.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

(Future)

Morgana smirked as the chain made grooves in his palms and the rest of his body melted down the wall he leaned against like warm wax. His body heaved for breath and the air was too hot; his pulse thrummed in his ears and sweat trickled down his skin beneath his damp shirt.

"Try harder, Emrys," she invited – ordered. "After all, you are the most powerful son of a-"

The world rumbled outside the room as though they were inside an empty keg let tumble down a hill – only the rolling didn't seem to be affecting Morgana. And if the noise and shuddering were real, she ignored that too.

He wouldn't let go of the chain – it represented his determination to remain bound rather than kill Arthur… You must kill Arthur Pendragon – kill Arthur – kill kill killkilllkill – kill Morgana and all this stops, you can go home… So his magic felt rippled, too, slow and uncertain and clumsy without the use of his hands.

Astrice! shoved her back against the wall or tipped her feet out from under her, but while he labored for breath and clarity, she regained her balance and stalked forward, amused at the weakness of his attempt. Hleap en baec! sent the contents of the tables flinging themselves at her – bits of broken crockery crunched underfoot, dismissed and ignored also – she scoffed, catching them and flinging them back at him.

Flinging other spells too, with cruel curiosity and sometimes he recognized their horrific intent and sometimes he didn't, but-

Scieldan! was his only useful spell at the moment.

She wasn't coming within reach anymore, either. He guessed it had been a long time since she'd been able to boast herself truthfully the equal of her brother in martial ways, but after he'd nearly choked her unconscious with the chain in his hands, she'd kept her distance.

"Come on, Emrys," she scolded, darkly gleeful and not at all disappointed with her game. "Any one of my people could take you. We should have known better than to fear you ever in any measure. And now – now it's only a matter of time."

Only a matter of time. He would go back, and without serious injury, that's what they'd said, that's what they'd told him. But would he lie to his friends? Maybe his older self would have to finish Morgana after the reversal of the exchange, and he just never told anyone that…

"You'll never be the powerful sorcerer everyone spoke of in awe and anticipation, do you realize that?"

I have to be, don't you realize that? Because I already am, no matter when I am… She wasn't listening to him anymore, either, and he didn't have the breath to spare in argument.

"You'll die and we'll weight your body with a stone and toss you into the lake to spend eternity with all those who died here when Uther first destroyed the Isle."

Into the lake for eternity… sounded rather nice. Rather peaceful. Just… not this lake.

"Then I'll raise a new order and we'll take our time picking Camelot's bones apart!" she declared with assumed triumph.

"No," he rasped. "No, you'll never." Except, no one had any idea what she'd do after this, if he didn't… if he hadn't…

Kill her! Kill killkill! You must kill…

He managed a misshapen fireball with a flaming tail – she inhaled sharply but caught it just inches short of her outstretched hand. Just like Nimueh. But unlike the former High Priestess, she hissed and shook her hand like she'd felt it, and it hurt.

Could one call lightning into a room where the roof was the stone floor of a higher structure above?

"Fine!" she snapped. "If that's the way you want it- Hafegeat!"

A gale blew through the room, tossing parchment like frightened swallows, lifting heavier objects to propel in his direction.

Scieldan! Shards shattered, vessels broke, furniture smashed against the wall – to either side and above him, but bounced off his shield without harming him. Always been better at defensive magic. Leave the attacking to Arthur and the others. Doesn't she realize…

Maybe the Merlin she was familiar with did the attacking also. Because Arthur accepted and allowed… Just you and me, throwing ourselves into the thick of it.

He wasn't sure how he felt about that.

Morgana shrieked impotent fury. A dagger appeared in her hand and the wind carried it straight as his heart. It stuck in his shield, twisting slowly like it was burrowing through – but it never advanced.

Astrice!

She was knocked back all the way to her elbows, and the wind died down. He gasped for breath; she glared and pushed herself to her feet.

Why wasn't she having him returned to the other room where he'd been kept? Because she'd decided to finish this now? Because Arthur's fighters were pressing the others too closely? But he'd seen her take her sister's body and disappear in a whirlwind of magic – she could take him somewhere else the same way and escape the king and knights of Camelot …

"Merlin," Morgana said venomously. "I'm going to kill you."

There's always another way… He blinked and watched Arthur cross the chamber between them, rain-dampened and tousle-haired, carrying a string of good-sized lake trout, grinning sardonically as he spoke soundlessly to Merlin over his shoulder…

Then it was just Morgana, completely oblivious to the vision, haggard and consumed with hate and dead set upon ending this. Ending them.

"You'll have to try a little harder, then!" he snapped back.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

(Past)

Merlin drew the circle of the faelg with the twin charred points, willow root and branch, ash and glow. Opposites, and yet still the same thing.

He marked the cardinal directions, north to south and east to west, then further divided each quadrant into threes, every line perfectly halving the whole circle. Scholar-soldier-sage; maid-mother-matron; stupidity-sagacity-senility; bud-fruit-seed. Stages of life, movements through time. Twelve equal wedges for each hour of the day and night, for the houses of the seasons represented by the stars, four of each subdivided into three more.

Loose earth waited in the three smaller bowls, damp clods unconcerned by the holes carved in the bottoms, and he dumped neat mounds in three of the twelve spaces, at the widest point near the arc of the circle. Two of the larger bowls – stone and wood – were already waiting in sections of their own, while the third large wooden bowl cozied up to the fire, outside the faelg but nearby.

It was full of water, simmering the blood from the neckerchief of his younger self. Another small and roughly-made cup-bowl kept it company near the coals of the fire, keeping his mixed tincture warm and potent, while three scavenged braziers held larger fires for heat and warmth in the corners of the room that weren't occupied by the stairway up to level ground.

Arthur sat on the bottom stair, watching him with an expression like the fish they'd eaten hadn't settled well in his stomach, or as though his damp clothes were chafing him in uncomfortable places.

Merlin shrugged a trickle of perspiration off on the shoulder of his shirt. His hands trembled slightly as he separated his organic ingredients, each to their own wedge of the faelg.

Just to the right of due north, the light feathery leaves and dried yellow flowers of the wormwood he'd taken from Gaius' room the first night. Then a cutting of the pennywinkle root, buried in the mound of earth in that section, followed by a handful of caroh-fruit seeds from the palace gardens.

Scoot around to the east and skip the section that held the stone bowl he'd fashioned with magic for now, to sprinkle Gaius' dried calendula blossoms in the middle southeast section, followed by the valerian root buried in another mound of Isle-earth.

That brought him to face and pass the line pointing south, the uneven and crumbling stone of the floor grating beneath his knees. Half the feverfew seeds brewed in his tincture, while the rest were carefully brushed into a little pile, then the second large bowl – also skipped – and the meadow-sawge Gaius had gotten from the gardens also.

In the final section, west to north, the seeds of the yellow-dock he'd gathered in the marsh, buried in the last mound of earth. The seeds of belladonna grew inside berries that looked like small dark cherries, and he'd already been careful to remove several seeds to let them dry a bit. The last section was for the last bowl of water and the next step of the ritual.

"Have you ever done this before?" Arthur demanded abruptly, breaking the silence.

"No. And don't ever ask me to do it again." Merlin took Gaius' knife and enlarged the nick in the side of his finger, bringing new drops of blood to the surface. Instead of answering, Arthur sat forward as Merlin deliberately smeared a red line from bottom to rim inside each of the three small wooden bowls, mixing a bit with the crumbs of earth clinging there.

His heart was thundering in his chest, and he could almost feel the scar on his wrist above his pulse.

Take the neckerchief from the bowl of heated water, wring it out and check – yes, the blood from the stain had soaked into the water.

"I won't need this anymore," Merlin told Arthur, laying the cloth next to the fire to dry.

Pour some of the tainted water into each of the other two large bowls, where it would mix with his own blood as water welled up through the holes bored in the bottoms of the three small bowls. Into them he put the wilted watercress he'd saved from the night he spent with Dusty, the noon-thistle, and the white root of the fennel Gaius gave him, each small bowl positioned patiently, expectantly, beside its larger counterpart.

Fennel looks like dill and smells like anise, and meadow-sawge draws bees and makes for good honey, and pennywinkle is called sorcerer's violet – the flower of death and immortality and friendship.

"F'Egan," he commanded the remainder of the pennywinkle, and the delicately joined roots and stems stretched, crawling along the lines of the faelg he'd drawn with the charred willow root-and-branch, meeting and grafting and separating and binding the whole ritual together, thrumming with its own magic, awakened by his and ready to assist.

Merlin picked up the smaller stone vessel – it was almost too warm to hold comfortably – noticing the faint scent of feverfew because the belladonna was undetectable. This was it, then. The stone tasted dusty, and the draft was bitter without any honey to soothe the flavor.

"What was in that?" Arthur said. Elbows on his knees, and toying with his belt-knife like his hands needed something to do while Merlin was putting the ritual together.

"Feverfew," Merlin told him, stepping for the first time into the center of the faelg – the pennywinkle didn't mind being crushed beneath his soles – and folding himself down to his knees. Not so far to fall, then. "And belladonna."

Arthur straightened, frowning. "That's a poison."

"Not in small amounts," Merlin said. It was necessary to alter his perception slightly, to encourage his mind to release its grip on rationality. Because otherwise the innate conviction that time travel was impossible would inhibit the efficacy of the ritual. "It'll just… put me in the right mindset."

Wipe away more sweat that stung at the corners of his eyes. Double-check that he'd placed the dried flowers of wormwood, calendula, and meadow-sawge correctly, then spoke another spell commanding them to light on a magical fire that would burn indefinitely without consuming them. "Forbearnan."

The flames leaped up from the three sections of stone, disturbing their charges not at all. Arthur put his palms down on the step beside his hips as if bracing to launch himself into any action that became necessary.

And – "Thoeden…"

Light as a playful summer breeze, keeping the seeds of the caroh-fruit, feverfew, and belladonna swirling and stirring within their sections of the faelg. Earth, fire, air – now for the water-clocks.

"Hells, I hope this works," Merlin murmured, preparing to lift all three small bowls simultaneously into their larger cousins with magic. That would begin the process in earnest, for when the water trickling through the holes he'd gouged reached the rim of the smaller bowl, the ritual would dissipate itself. He'd probably have to… empty the bowls. Begin all over…

"What?" Arthur blurted, voice lilting incredulous. "You don't know if this will work?"

"I said I'd never done it before." He was feeling a bit dizzy at the thought, and his stomach was rolling, back and forth like the waves against the side of the boat that had brought them to the Isle.

"Yes, but – what if it doesn't, then? What will happen to you? and – my manservant?"

"Your servant will be fine. He'll return – and tonight," Merlin assured him. However it would happen, it would happen. It would work… or he'd have to try something else at the last minute… But then that would work. Almost certainly. "I shouldn't have said it like that – not to you. Mostly my magic does what it's supposed to, even on the first try."

Arthur didn't look like he was convinced. "So your… spell. Will bring him back, right here – and send you wherever he is?"

Wherever he is. The thoeden-breezes stirred the rest of the air within the circle, carrying the heat of the forbearnan. Perspiration beaded and trickled down Merlin's temple into his beard. "Yes."

"But if Morgana has him… then she'll have you."

Is that concern I hear? Merlin didn't say. His heart was pounding out of rhythm, just enough to notice and hasten his breathing in reaction. Thud – THUD – thdthdthd… "That's true – but I have nothing to fear from her any longer. She won't be able to hurt me – or my friends – ever again. Not after this."

"Why not?" Arthur demanded.

"Your servant took care of the threat she posed. The last time she sees him, the last time she tries to kill him – will be the end of her."

"How?" Arthur snapped, scowling; he always hated to be confused or ill-informed, and that mixed poorly with the promise of hope Merlin's assertion must give him. Except it wouldn't be victory for him, not yet. Ten more years they'd have to fight Morgana. "My servant is going to kill Morgana?"

"Not exactly," Merlin hedged. "You'll have to ask him…"

But he wouldn't. And Merlin's younger self wouldn't volunteer details. And now when he went back to his own time – he was going to have to decide how much to explain to his king.

"Do me a favor?" he said, swallowing hard so his throat wouldn't close on emotion his companion couldn't understand. "Could you tell Gaius that I was sorry to miss saying goodbye to him personally?" Anybody else he was going to be able to give the message to, himself. Hopefully.

"This is goodbye." Arthur pushed to his feet, leaving his dagger on the stair. "And… if I'm going to… express any appreciation, it's going to have to be before any guarantee of success. And by the time I know if it works, to say thank you, you'll be gone again?"

"Not for good." Merlin smiled, though he couldn't hold it for long. The tension of the magic circling him and binding him upon the faelg was growing more insistent. An arrow nocked and a bow bent and a string taut… "I'll see you again."

Arthur shot him a quick, questioning look.

And he couldn't leave his young friend without adding, "Arthur – I know you said, don't call me Arthur. But I always have, and I always will. And I have to say it – you're a fighter, and a damn good one, too. But you can't fight magic. And you really should stop trying, and just… listen. Learn, and understand – which magic to fight. And which, not."

Arthur's jaw tightened, but there was a look in his eyes that made Merlin rush on, something more desperate and vulnerable than he was prepared to handle or comprehend at the moment.

"I know I said to you, Grow up. Maybe I shouldn't have said that either, because you have. You've come a long way in the time I've known you and you wouldn't believe how proud I am of you. I don't want you feeling like you have to do anything – I want you to do what you want to do because you believe it's right. Just – reconsider that you might have to re-evaluate that what you were taught, what you believe is right and wrong about magic – might be a bit skewed."

"Is that all?" Arthur said, his voice catching in his throat and his gaze trying to bore through Merlin.

"Yes. Mostly." Merlin smiled again, hoping not to pick a fight at this last minute. "Just… don't be a prat."

The king rocked back on his heels. But it was time, and past time.

Merlin lifted the small bowls into the larger ones, and the water, containing traces of his younger blood - as well as the watercress, thistle, and fennel – immediately welled through, mixing with the smear of his blood from today.

Now for the incantation.

"Niwiht geniwian, niwiht geniwian," he repeated, keeping his voice steady with an effort. He was sure Arthur himself never felt such pressure to say the right words in the right order with the right inflection in any one of his speeches before royalty or foreign crowds – or Gwen herself on their wedding day. "Yonosae, niwiht geniwian."

The room tilted. The sorcerer's violet twisted and crawled along the binding lines. The fire flickered, the breezes twirled, the earth rooted and protected and nourished, and the water was slowly filling the clock-bowls.

"Her, aeteom ic – on thaet midlen – butan hlifian…" he went on, careful not to let the belladonna affect his pronunciation of the words.

The edges of each stone block blurred. Arthur's silhouette glowed with firelight, and the faelg shifted in his vision. He was the pivot point – time and space melted together and blood pulled to blood.

"Asettan mec gewislics – on thaet midlen – min geosceaft geteode…" Was he falling? There wasn't that much belladonna in the tincture.

But he was sinking right through the center of the earth, mottled rock formations rushing past the edges of his vision like he was trying to follow someone else's traveling spell.

Arthur crossed the circle of the faelg, kneeling into him in a rush, catching his collapse. "Merlin!"

The faelg whirled and dropped away. The sensation of his king's body supporting his own dropped away. The water evaporated in an explosion of mist and the three breezes shrieked out of control, scattering the little mounds of earth and Merlin was going to combust from the fever pulling at his blood.

And Arthur, sounding scared and tense and young, called after him down the tunnel of time reversed – "Merlin!"

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

(Future)

The links of the chain around Merlin's wrists clinked as he lifted both hands, to be able to feel behind his neck. His fingertips found the tiny healed scar, and nothing else – no snake-head writhing beneath his skin. No puncture wounds or smashed bones penetrating the dull ache of sore muscles in his shoulder. Just whatever mind-torture and truth-telling magic lay with the nathair. Not the fomorroh.

Morgana crouched panting several paces away, one hand up on the edge of the table next to her for balance, itself knocked over and broken some time ago. She gave him a baleful glare under tangled graying hair – no more arch looks or snide comments anymore. She wasn't deliberately toying with him now; if he wasn't mistaken, she'd already made the determination to truly kill him, to finish this – and couldn't.

The room shuddered, and dust sifted. All around them the ordinary objects had been reduced to unrecognizable pieces, flung back and forth and battered with opposing magic. The rest of the furniture, save for the ruined table, had been twisted or dismembered, between attack and defense.

And the nathair was dead. Nothing remained of it but a smear of guts and scales and blood beneath the shattered pieces of the box she'd kept it in.

The only problem was…

He shifted, edging toward the stair leading upward to freedom, to Arthur and his friends. She snarled a gesture and he countered with his shield, but the force of their colliding magic sent him staggering back to the corner, where he was hard-pressed to keep himself from sliding down to the floor, while she gasped for air.

"Morgana," he choked. "Just let me go. You'll have some time to escape, we'll let you go this time. But, stop. You have to know you can't win anymore."

"I've already won!" she snapped, her voice broken and whisper-hoarse. "Emrys is not my destiny or my doom, I will not accept that!"

He almost sympathized. More often than not he agreed with Arthur's determination to forge his own destiny and not merely wait for fate to overtake him. But this – no one had chosen this but her. She was forging her own destiny, trying to kill him before he killed her – driving him to defend himself, just as Arthur had necessarily defended his own life, his men and his kingdom, from one magical threat after another.

Arthur would choose a different destiny, though, than to be nothing more than Uther's heir. And Merlin would choose, also – truth and trust.

Why could she not choose something else? Was this destruction really part of her character as much as protection of the innocent was part of Arthur's – to take them down the path of destiny even as they consciously meant to resist?

And what was he? Where was he? Somewhere in the middle – accepting the path while making it his own…

He could not be killed because he had to go back, he believed that because he trusted those who'd told him so. But neither was he able to finish her, and some instinct told him, it was only a matter of hours, if not minutes, before the week of exchanged time was complete.

Either he had to do this – or he'd lied about doing it.

And he couldn't. Couldn't lie anymore – couldn't do this alone anymore. He readied himself to attempt to ascend the stairs again, expecting confrontation-

Both of them flinched as the door at the top of the stair slammed open, the space filled immediately by Mordred and another man – middle-aged and hawk-nosed and unshaven, with blood on his face and slick down the side of his sleeve. Between them they dragged the body of a knight down the stairs, and Mordred grinned as he came.

Merlin knew it was a corpse from the first step, and despaired. Who, then, of Arthur's men.

The blond head swung lifelessly from the neck, fingers empty and motionless, knees and boots thudding into each step behind them without resistance.

Who would be so important that Mordred would bring him to…

"My lady." Mordred pronounced the words with separate sarcasm. "Why am I not surprised to find Emrys still alive? The two of you are supposed to possess legendary power and yet you both have failed. I, however, am the victor today."

The stranger released his hold as Mordred flung their burden the last two steps down. The knight's body tumbled, rocked to absolute stillness without a single sign of sensation or awareness, in the broken detritus of the floor. Not a who anymore, but only a what. The stranger labored his way back up the stairs and out.

Mordred put his hands on his hips and included them both in his enigmatic smile. "Maybe our people ought to follow me instead of you. Morgana."

The ancient prophecies speak of an alliance of Mordred and Morgana united in evil…

She pushed upright, next to the table. "Is that who I think it is? You had no right, Mordred! He was mine to kill, as soon as this one was done!"

If this boy lives, you cannot fulfill your destiny…

Merlin stepped from the corner. His knees threatened to buckle, and he caught his balance on the wall. The chain binding his hands had vanished. What is prophecy? What is truth?

"As soon as this one was done," Mordred repeated mockingly. Merlin took another step. "When was that going to be – tomorrow, next week? After the rest of us were killed defending your play-time?"

Merlin took another step.

The dead man's limbs were crumpled – one leg under the other, one arm behind the back, chin tipped to the ceiling. Eyes half-opened and dull-black. The chainmail collapsed and shrunken over the chest.

There was a smear of blood down the stone stairs, in some places still dripping; blood saturated one trouser-leg beneath the chainmail all the way past the knee. Silver tainted with red – so much red, too much red. More than he'd ever seen at once, save for corpses slaughtered on a battlefield.

I've seen worse.

On a dead man… If I do die, will you call me a hero?

Merlin took another step, empty and sick but the draw was irresistible. Blood showed on the face also, a very slight stain beneath his nose, red-gold in the short beard.

Another step, and his knees failed him and it was what he deserved for his own failure.

Arthur. My lord. Wake up, please… wake up. Look at me… This – this can't be happening. Another dream, right? Another vision she's twisted and cursed me with?

He sensed magic lighting behind him, a spark growing into a spell, into an attack. That was intolerable. With only a thought, he pushed the threat away from him, hard and immediate and as far as it and its creator would go.

Arthur's skin was cooling, and slack. Merlin's fingertips searched helplessly for the pulse of life - deep in his neck, anywhere in either wrist – the chainmail was broken, and blood smeared his hands as he searched trembling, but there was no breath in the lungs. Not for some time, now.

The king had been dead before they'd even begun to drag his body here to this room.

Dead, because Merlin had lied, had hidden and gone on his own to face their enemy and it was the worst decision he'd ever made.

I'm sorry. Arthur, I'm so sorry. I'll never… I'll never do it again… He wouldn't have the chance. Arthur was dead.

But not his Arthur. Any moment now the magic might reverse and he could go back to the king he left – he could tell him everything, everything, and maybe they could change this, avoid this…

If it wasn't possible because it wasn't possible, his older self was going to perform complicated and dangerous magic, and return to Arthur's body, bloody and broken here on the ground. But he'd know that… because he was Merlin in ten years, living the next decade in anticipation of just this horrific moment. In ten years he'd spend the last week of Arthur's life in the past with the king's younger self and then perform this magic knowing it was all over?

Did he deserve to return to ten more years with Arthur, knowing it was only ten because he'd failed? And evidently lied about this part of it, too…

Someone's voice broke into his turbulent thoughts. "…With his own sword, too. An honorable end for an honorable man, at least, wouldn't you say, Emrys? All of us should hope for so much."

Merlin looked up at Mordred, who'd drawn the sword from his belt. A familiar sword, with a runic message on the burnished gold core of the steel blade. Cast Me Away… Rage rose inside him like boiling steam, filling his ears and dulling the shriek that erupted from somewhere behind them.

"Now, now, my lady – don't be jealous. I'm sure you can still find those who will follow you instead of me. And I – I've hurt my enemy as much as I possibly could. How does it feel, Emrys? And I have an immortal weapon to defend myself with, if you're ever in a position to attempt revenge."

Mordred smiled down on Merlin deliberately, then pointed the king's sword at him theatrically. A sword with a fresh stain of blood almost reaching that gold core.

As swift as thought, Merlin's magic plucked the blade out of the druid's hands. Mordred snatched after it, faint consternation just beginning to mar the smooth superiority of his expression.

The blade slid through the air next to Merlin's neck, just over his shoulder – a knight's position. He didn't rise from his knees, reaching up to grip the hilt and spin the blade as he'd seen Arthur do a thousand times, pivoting past his elbow, the point clearing the stone of the floor by barely an inch-

Mordred couldn't have stopped the momentum of his lunge if he tried, and Merlin thrust into it, as far as he could reach. Below the rib cage, no resistance of blade-on-bone. Horror showed in Mordred's ice-blue eyes – realization, despair.

Merlin said, "You should not have killed my friend."

He kept hold of the sword as Mordred sank to his knees, then toppled over, freeing himself. Lifeblood poured from the wound following the retreating blade, soaking his tunic. So much blood; too much blood. Mordred stilled – no movement, no breath – blue eyes dull and sightless in death.

Merlin gagged on bile, regained control, and lowered the sword to lay on the ground by Arthur's hip.

Gwen was at the seashore with the children, all unknowing. And Hunith with them… They couldn't return to this.

He had only moments left to him in this time.

"You should not have killed my friend," he whispered, and it didn't matter who he addressed.

Lightning was impossible indoors anyway… But it had not been the lightning that chose Nimueh's death to balance Arthur's life that night long ago – so long ago.

It was Merlin himself who'd done that. Somehow.

Legendary, impossible magic. Like Sigan who could shift the tides and turn day to night or night to day-

Call back a lost day, rather than skipping ahead to a new one?

Merlin gulped, reaching for the stream of time he'd felt but rarely, able to cup the moments temporarily in his hands before they poured out again at their usual rate.

Time slowed.

Not good enough. Desperation lent him strength – he was the most powerful – but what he wanted, what he needed, was right. Love, not hate; light, not darkness; life, not death.

Time stopped.

It was silence. It was darkness all about, inky and impenetrable – no walls, no floor or ceiling, nobody but himself and Arthur, lying before him in the emptiness.

Not good enough.

Night to day. Not skipping forward in time, but going back. Turn it back. Breathe out, then take it back in… thdthdthd – THUD – Thud…

It hurt. His skin crawled, absorbing perspiration. Tears he hadn't noticed rolled up his cheeks and blurred his eyes.

Not just him, but Arthur too. Take him back – bring him back. Disregard the rest of the world and the people on it; elsewhere drops falling down to splash unnoticed instead of separating from puddles, reforming and rising and returning to the clouds. Wax melted as candles burned, and the sky wheeled imperceptibly above, forward ever forward and too heavy and too enormous to interrupt, but Merlin – Merlin could – Merlin could back up, and he could take Arthur with him.

Second before second before second – how many must he pluck from the past and fling before them into the future before-

Arthur's chest rose. His eyelids fell – then lifted, puzzled and groggy and pained. Merlin swooped into his line of vision, delighted, terrified, and Arthur focused on him.

Merlin released time, and it gushed forward again, darkness fading to the gray stone of the Isle chamber. Arthur dragged in a moment's shallow breath, coughed a terrible little sound that flecked lips and beards with droplets of blood – and his heart would begin pumping more of the same through his wounds.

"Arthur!" Merlin cried out.

The king tried to smile. Twitched like he'd tried to raise his hand. His gaze fell away from Merlin and began to dull with exhausted agony.

Fading. Dying again. Still mortally wounded and Merlin could not heal him. Could not find the reserves of magic to turn time back far enough to prevent the wound initially inflicted.

Just like before, and the Questing Beast. Arthur was dying and no magic or medicine could save him.

Not a cure, but a balance.

You should not have killed my friend… Did he know what he was doing, this time? Had Nimueh deliberately chosen his mother instead of him, or was it necessarily random – some rule of this particular magic, granted not performed, that he was ignorant of?

Take me. Take me. I willingly give my life for Arthur's…

Something in Arthur's essence reached out, spiraling lazily for Merlin's chest – it was blue-white and glowed like moon-lit mist – he prepared himself for his own last breath, the last thud of his heart.

I'm sorry. Arthur – I'm so sorry. I'll never… do it again… happy to be your servant til the day-

As the mist extended, finding Merlin's corporeal body no obstacle, Arthur's eyes widened – focused beyond Merlin – and he read his king's thought instantly.

Danger. Enemy. Behind you.

Morgana.

He'd knocked her into the wall some moments ago – how many, passed and returned? – but she'd spoken to Mordred, hadn't she?

Merlin whirled in his crouch, unbalancing down to a hard seat on the ground, instinctively evading the dagger she stabbed toward him, eager to plunge it into his back, into his chest-

Thud-thud-thud

Pulse steady and even, and the mist spiraled outward, still seeking its mark.

Not you. Not now. Not yet.

Morgana couldn't have stopped the momentum of her lunge if she'd tried. Horror flooded her face as the dagger disintegrated into sparkling motes – white showed around the green of her eyes and her lips cracked as she tried to scream.

Her body shuddered briefly as though Merlin was shifting his gaze between her and her reflection in a mirror. Heat sparked and built in an instant, roaring out of her as she exploded into a thousand thousand sparks of light that shimmered and were gone without a trace.

Shaking uncontrollably, Merlin unwound the twist in his body to face Arthur again. Just did… that magic… right in front of… his king. His friend. Just did…

"You've brought peace at last," Arthur whispered, tension draining from his body.

Merlin's fingers jerked clumsily at the hole torn in the king's chainmail - each movement too swift, carrying too far, having to be halted and drawn back. "Does this hurt?" he blurted. "Are you still-"

"I'm fine." Arthur didn't move to a more comfortable position, didn't even attempt to lift his head from the floor. His eyes were blue coals in ashy pits, and his lips were white and cracked and he looked exactly like-

He'd lost too much blood. Even with the wound healed by that magic-

"Merlin, there's – something I want to say to you," the king murmured, then panted shallowly, fumbling to grasp Merlin's hand. "Thank you. And-"

The spell roared to life around Merlin without warning. Magic squeezed and reshaped him like dough, punching the breath from his lungs and relocating the bile in his stomach to the back of his throat.

I didn't get to say goodbye - I meant to say goodbye. I meant to say…

And then came the fire.