The Dragon of Avalon

by darklydreamingdoctor

When Merlin is wounded at Camlann instead of Arthur, the two journey to Avalon in a final attempt to save the sorcerer's life. They receive help from an unexpected source, leaving Merlin battling a strange condition. Morgana pairs with a new adversary, who strikes frighteningly close to home, and in the face of a rising dark army Merlin and Arthur must defend the future of Albion.

9. Morgana

As he lay in the clearing, Merlin watched a small bug climbing over a leaf. Distantly, he observed that the insect was at least 30 yards away, and yet he could count each individual spot on its back. He would have been confused, even curious, but the pain had only abated enough for him to stop screaming. Instead, he rocked slightly, his arms wrapped about himself as tightly as he could muster. An occasional moan broke the silence—or rather it broke the silence for a casual observer, but for Merlin, the world was loud. The leaf groaned as the insect scuttled across it. There was a squirrel in a tree several feet to his left, and its heartbeat was fast, nervous. And he could smell it, too: smell the musk of its fur, and the nut it had just buried. And he could smell the trail Arthur had left, a trail of sweat and fear.

It was getting dark outside, and quite probably cold, but his skin still burned. The tip of his nose, if he crossed his eyes, was dimly lit by a golden glow which he could only assume came from his eyes.

"What did you do to me, Kilgharrah?" Tentatively, Merlin rolled onto his back and breathed out slowly, deeply. The stars were half-hidden, visible through gaps in thick clouds which warned of rain. Somehow the sight of them calmed him, but only for a moment. Arthur would be gone for days, maybe even a week, and even turning onto his side had felt like a terrible chore.

He paused in his musings, turning his head to frown into the tree line. He hadn't tried using his magic since Avalon. He had no idea if it would work in his current state, but with Arthur gone, he had no way to fend for himself.

"Ongebringan," he murmured, hesitantly raising his hand towards a stick on the opposite end of the clearing. A surge of pain brought the taste of bile to his mouth, but he ignored even this as the stick rose with disconcerting speed and splintered, disintegrating in thin air. His magic was there, but it had been amplified too greatly for him to control.

"Ongebringan," Merlin tried again, gritting his teeth and forming fists with his hands. There were spots of darkness in his vision, but he still saw another stick levitate and then shoot across the clearing so fast it was barely observable before it buried itself in the trunk of a nearby tree.

"Ongebringan," he panted, but his eyes had shut before the third stick had even begun to rise.

When he awoke some hours later, it was the dead of night. The clouds had multiplied, blotting out the moon and most of the stars, and Merlin could see better than he had the day before. Everything was pale, in different shades of grey, and he could still count every knot and whirl in the surrounding trees' branches. He could also see the striations in a stick lying across his chest.

In his fever-addled state it took Merlin far longer than it ought to have to remember what it was that had knocked him out in the first place.

"Forbearnan." A torrent of flame burst from his hand, a blazing column which jetted almost a hundred feet into the sky. It was still far too powerful, and painful, but still he smiled.

He didn't remember falling asleep, but it was almost mid-day when he opened his eyes again. His pupils shrank to slits against the sun and a blinding headache which had seemingly been dormant while he slept woke up with him. Something had roused him, something important, but he forgot it in a flurry of panic. He had swept his arm over his face, to shield his eyes, and had seen a mass of bruises on the side he'd been sleeping on.

His breath coming in shaky pants, he lifted both arms so that he could see the undersides.

They were mottled with ugly patches of black and purple and blue, the edges phasing into an unhealthy, shining green. The surrounding skin was almost translucent in its paleness, colored with delicate veins like spiderwebs. Feeling sick, Merlin gently pressed his fingertip into his wrist. There was barely enough pressure for him to register, and yet when he pulled away he saw the darkening tones of a rapidly forming bruise. The skin had felt papery-thin.

Gently he settled his arms back onto his chest and tried to get his breathing back under control. He shut his eyes, about to drift back to sleep, when he realized with a start what had woken him in the first place. A scent. Familiar.

Morgana.