A/N: Helllllloooooooooooo. Here's chapter 3 my lovelies! Please review, comment, favorite and follow and please tell me what you think :)
Chapter 3: Lost
{"Grief is the price we pay for love" - Queen Elizabeth II}
Pain wasn't new to Merlin, he'd been tortured before, and all with the very imminent threat of death staring him in the face.
But this? What he felt now?
Merlin was wishing for death with a fervor he'd never experienced before. He wanted to die, to cease existing, to rather feel oblivion than to endure another second of this.
He had no idea what was happening to him, and as he blinked his eyes open, squinting despite the non-existent light in the cave, coming out from his own unconsciousness, Merlin realized he had no idea how long he'd been out. The pain in his body made it impossible to even considering moving let own get his bearings. It felt as if a hot coil had replaced his bones, sending fire coursing through his body, and within that pain there was a part of him, the constantly fought him. He could feel it vividly, snarling and growling inside, struggling to get out against the constraints of Merlin's own mind. It exhausted him and tortured him, not only to struggle to stay alive to fight to keep his mind his own. The teeth in his mouth kept lengthening and shrinking as did the nails on his fingers and toes which carried with it a kind of torment of its own, life hot metal piercing flesh. Finally, he could take the agony no more, and fitfully fell unconscious once more.
When his eyes fluttered open a second time, Merlin was lying in a pool of blood, evidently his own, if the appearance of his mangled wrists was anything to go by. The pain had subsided to a dull ache, but the beast from earlier remained where it had been earlier, pressing against Merlin's psyche
Nonetheless, he pressed on now finding it somewhat more doable to think clearly as lay on the ground, feeling the grounding sting in his wounded wrists staring at the stone ceiling above him.
Was he dead? He couldn't be, he was bleeding. But then how long had it been since he'd been passed out? Minutes? Hours? Days? Hang on, I'm bleeding, I should be trying to fix that before I die of blood loss. Merlin had always that it was funny to consider himself immortal when simple wounds could technically kill him. It appeared he wasn't technically immortal, just that he didn't appear to follow the general life expectancy rate of others. So long as nothing tried to do him in, he'd go on living. Perhaps until the end of time itself.
Merlin stumbled to his feet, finding balancing to be a little out of his skill repertoire as the pounding in his head grew. He nearly fell twice, scrambling with gross uncoordination for the shelves and counters, consequently shattering plates, vials and knocking books off as he fought to center himself. It was hard enough to attempt to fix his balance but what was worse was his body's returning penchant for being unable to remain in his own form. The process itself was not as painful as before but still, he could distinctly feel the claws shrinking and growing on his hands and feet, scraping uncomfortably on the floor and walls as well as his own canines elongating to the point that they poked out of his mouth, dripping saliva. His vision kept blurring and changing, disorienting him and making it nearly impossible to move in a steady manner.
All too suddenly, Merlin felt a sensation in his gut that knifed through him, nearly knocking him to his knees from the intensity. He gasped for breath, doubled over as the hunger threatened to overtake him, coming in waves so large that Merlin was fighting for control under the onslaught of the primal need to satiate the hunger. The next wave of hunger was so strong that Merlin needed to use both hands to prop himself up in his kneeling state, and he belatedly realized that he was salivating to the point that puddles of it were gathering on the floor mixing grotesquely with his own blood.
As he watched, helpless, Merlin saw the transformation push through to completion, hearing his ragged breathing turn into the beastial panting of the wolf. The switch, however, only served to make the hunger all the more crippling, making him dizzy with its ferocity. His body continued to grow until even the wide cavernous room he was in felt cramped for him and to his own mounting horror, and against his fighting will, Merlin could feel himself shuffle towards the prone corpses of Circe and her minion. The sorcerer tried his utmost to resist, to divest himself of the beast he had become but it was no use, the creature had succeeded in pushing Merlin into the farthest recesses of his mind, cowering in fear.
In utter agony, the young warlock felt something within him give completely and his mind went blissfully silent, sinking into oblivion.
When he regained consciousness sometime later, Merlin was aware of a feeling of fullness and as he opened his eyes, he realized that he crouched in a pool of congealed blood. A feeling of utter revulsion engulfed him as he took in the ravaged forms of his former captors, gagging as he scrambled away as fast as he could, backwards, until his bare back collided with the rough, cold, stone walls of the cave,. His human form not all that different from the primal one he had become earlier, as his bare chested body, now considerably larger, exerted all the effort it could to keep itself as far away as it could from the devastation of the beings that lay before him. Merlin was suddenly too aware of his own breathing, ragged and strained, and ultimately lost the fight against his gag reflex, vomiting with such force. Chest heaving with the effort of it all, Merlin's eyes widened in horror when his eyes landed on a partially digested bone in his sick. All too soon, Merlin was retching again, tears streaming down his face, as he suddenly understood a truth he not yet confronted.
He was completely and utterly alone.
In the hours that he was sure had gone by, no one had come to look for him, and if they had, they clearly had not found him. Even if they had found him, Merlin was in no state to go back to Camelot. This new creature he had become, this beast that could not resist the meal of human flesh in the face of hunger, this thing he had become, he could not let those he loved see him in such a wretched way. Merlin slammed his head against the wall in futile anger and sorrow.
No more would Arthur come wielding his sword and yelling his name. No more would he stand at his King's side, vanquishing enemies to the far corners of the Kingdom. Merlin was now a prisoner unto himself.
Living as an immortal man-beast. The were-wulf within that Circe had forcibly thrust upon him that wound chase him, clawing at his heels as he fought to outrace it for an eternity.
Forced, in the end, to live, when death would have been the sweetest of releases.
. . . .
Three Years Later
. . . .
"My Lord. My Lord? My Lord!"
Arthur found himself jolted out of his thought by the maternal woman standing next to his throne, holding a tray of pasties and wearing an expression of quiet concern. For a split second, the King was struck dumb as he took in the wide smile, and familiar jet black hair, until he realized that she was waiting for a response, tapping her foot expectantly.
"Ah, my apologies Lady Hunith, I was thinking and didn't hear you speak." He smiled at her, glad to see her timidly smile back at him.
"Sire, you really shouldn't call me that," Hunith looked around furtively as if afraid someone would overhear them. "Just Hunith is fine. I don't want anyone thinking I'm getting lofty ideas just because you brought me here from Ealdor."
Arthur stood from the throne, stretching and wincing as his bones cracked audibly as a result of his sitting for extended periods of time. He grinned when Hunith frowned and tsk'd at the noise, handing him a pasty to eat.
"Honestly, they're going to drive you to an early grave they are. Don't they know you have more important things to do than decide which of the two town drunkards are more drunk so they'll win the village betting pot?"
Arthur couldn't help but snort a little at that. Clearly she had been watching the morning audiences closely. He could see now where Merlin had developed his habits, he certainly was his mother's son.
"That's the job of a King, I suppose no matter how inconsequential, it is my duty as their King to hear them and resolve it if possible. As for the name by which I address you, Lady Hunith, I;m pretty sure someone told me I was King around here." He pointed cheekily to himself as he munched on the pasty, now half way through. "Which means, I get to call you whatever I very well please. In regards to the others," Arthur gestured around the big empty hall, "let them talk. You are Merlin's mother and with him -"
The mood suddenly became quiet and Arthur finished the pasty silently before continuing, looking down and clenching his hand around the red kerchief wrapped tightly around his wrist in stark contrast to the paleness of his skin.
"With Merlin gone, it is my job to make sure that you are safe Lady Hunith and you were not safe in Ealdor. So let them say what they will, you and I are aware of what is the truth."
Hunith took to following Arthur as they moved from the Great Hall to his chambers in the upper floors of the palace.
"I am aware of that Sire, still you must remember, there are images that must be kept and it must look strange to others that you specifically came to my village and brought me here to fill the empty post at your side."
Arthur had a hard time looking Hunith in the face as she said the words, choosing to focus on the sunlight streaming through his chamber windows and unwillingly remembering that day, three years ago, 4 months after initially informing Hunith of her son's death. He still recalled the overwhelming grief that caused Hunith to crumple to the ground like paper, pale as snow in disbelief and screaming as she pounded weakly on Arthur's chest that he should have protected Merlin, should have saved him, should have brought him home. It unnerved him, hearing those wails and sobs, recognizing the sounds of grief as remarkably similar to his own. Arthur had been dry-eyed then, knowing that if he allowed himself to fall a second time, he wouldn't have the strength to stand again. And he couldn't do that, not as Camelot's King, not as Merlin's friend and not in front of Merlin's mother.
It hadn't occurred to him after that, the guilt of it persisting in keeping him away from thought Merlin's mother, alone in the world after the passing of both husband and son, to check up on her, until Percival had suggested it, expressing concern since Merlin had mentioned in passing that his mother was not well received in the village she lived in. Arthur knew it had something to do with the fact that though Merlin had a father who he referred to as his mother's husband, the two had not been legally wed.
So off they had set to visit Merlin's mother in the tiny village of Ealdor, nestled in the base of the mountains that had taken Merlin from him in the tail end of the winter season. What had awaited them was something Arthur had not even considered possible. Hunith had been harassed verbally and physically as she went simply to get water from the well on the right of her own tiny home.
His blood boiled as he watched her resiliently take the pelting she received, scraps of waste and dung hitting her squarely in the back and on the temple of her head. Before anyone had a chance to process what was truly happening, Gwaine had alighted off his horse, furious.
"How dare you?"
The sheer volume of his words and his sudden appearance caused the villagers to halt their derisive name calling, to stand still in surprise at the influx of visitors to their homes.
The man who had thrown the scraps bellowed back at them to identify themselves and quite abruptly found himself facing the point of Gwaine's sword.
But Arthur had paid no mind, instead hopping off his own steed to use his crimson red cloak to wipe the dirt and mud from the woman's face, shushing her wide-eyed protests as she fussed that cloak was much too nice to be cleaning waste matter.
"My lord?" Hunith had looked worried at his silence, cupping his ice cold face, warming it with her hands, ignoring the filth that covered her own face. Arthur was overcome with guilt at the sight of it.
"I'm sorry it took me so long to come see you." Hunith shook her head immediately, scrunching her shawl tighter around her shoulders as a particularly vicious gale of wind cut through them.
"No, no, I've never expected you to come at all, Sire!"
At that moment, the man who Gwaine had just let go from sword point, grabbed a handful of dung and lobbed it, aiming for Arthur, whilst yelling.
"OI! How dare you come here to our good village, and threaten us while attending to that harlot!" The projectile never reached its target as Leon had finally stepped in and Arthur heard Elyan sigh in annoyance.
"Honestly. People have to realize, that if Leon's around and you insult the King, you're as good as dead."
Arthur had ignored it all, and continued to speak to Hunith.
"Sire, honestly, this isn't necessary - "
"If I gave you the impression that I didn't care, Lady Hunith, then it is a grave error I have made. I was too busy grieving on my own."
Here he had rubbed the fabric of the kerchief tied around his wrist, feeling the sharp piece of crystal through the layers of cloth.
Arthur had swept Hunith away from Ealdor then and there, letting the villagers watch in awe as they had placed Hunith behind him on the horse and Gwaine had taken possession of her meager belongings and set off toward Camelot, leaving Ealdor behind, never glancing once at the ominous frozen peaks that no doubt held the corpse of the son of the woman clutching back.
He came back to himself suddenly, sitting motionlessly on his bed as Lady Hunith organized his closet.
"Images can be broken and remade to represent whatever you want, and I have never been one for upholding that, though whether that's good or bad, I have yet to see." Arthur yanked his shoes off and hauled his boots on, waving off Hunith's protests that helping him put his clothes was her job.
"I'm fine, I can do it myself. I would actually like if you could go down and see if the preparation for the Noble's feast if going according to plan, and then, if you feel up to it, I would greatly appreciate you joining me at the banquet tonight."
Hunith raised an eyebrow at the invitation as she placed Arthur's discarded shoes in the base of his closet and used a basket to collect the clothes meant for washing.
"I have a choice?" Arthur stood from the bed, adjusting his clothes and swiping a hand through his hair, grinning at her.
"Of course. I only meant to invite you as the entertainment tonight might lift your spirits." Hunith though for a moment, a twinkle that Arthur didn't understand, in her eye.
"And I can wear my own clothes?" The King gave her an odd look as he poured water from a pitcher on his desk into a goblet.
"Wear your own clo- of course you can wear your own clothes. I would never force you to wear anything you did not want to."
"Really?" The tone of Hunith's voice was carefully casual, "because I recall receiving six or seven letters from Merlin complaining about a specific uniform that you made him wear to banquets."
Arthur had chosen that exact moment to gulp down the water he had poured, promptly choking , dribbling water inelegantly down his chin. His mind flashed back to Merlin in his first few days as a manservant in Camelot, dressed in that ridiculous feathered had and red pants in the first banquet he had attended. His heart clenched painfully at the reminder that he was never going to see the fool smile that big toothed grin at him ever again. His hand went, unbidden and unnoticed to his wrist where 3 years after the fact, Merlin's kerchief still kept its place.
It was a movement that Hunith didn't miss, and in a moment of motherly affection, she laid a hand over his on the fabric, feeling the rough material under her fingertips.
"This is Merlin's isn't it?" She said softly, glancing up at him. " I recognize it, I sewed it for him the night before he left for Camelot."
Arthur gripped his wrist tightly. He knew, logically, that the noble thing - the Kingly – thing to do would be to return the kerchief to Merlin's mother. He knew this. However, his body somehow wouldn't let him remove it, to separate himself from it, this last remnant of Merlin's existence. This last thing that made him real.
"It is." He hated how stiff his voice sounded. How closed.
Hunith's eyes flicked to his face and her eyes softened at the underlying panic in the King's eyes. She patted his wrist twice before letting go.
"It's alright Sire, I'm not asking for it back." Arthur refused to acknowledge the relief that swept through him before she spoke again. "I'm asking why 3 years after my – my darling son has passed on, why do you posses a keepsake of a manservant?"
"I -" Arthur was stunned. Stumped by his inability to answer the question. He barely refrained from retreating to his desk in defense. In truth, in the 3 years since his passing, Arthur rarely, if ever, removed the Kerchief containing the crystal from his person.
He couldn't explain it, but late at night, when he was awake and plagued by the ghosts of the past, he could swear that he could feel him. Arthur could feel Merlin with him like a comforting presence.
Hunith smiled at him, as she backed away, taking a moment's liberty to pat the King's head like a child, a motherly gesture that threw Arthur off guard in its foreign nature.
"Someday, you'll understand what your actions mean, my King, even if you're not ready yet, one day you will be. Sometimes, the only way to love someone is to realize that they may be lost."
