Arthur does his best to pry more information from both manservant and knight, but neither seems terribly forthcoming. They are both sentenced to loiter outside Arthur's rooms as he goes inside to dress. Guinevere's quiet voice warbles through the door, followed by Arthur's low reassurances.
What was that thing, Emrys? Mordred asks.
While Mordred fidgets and fights the urge to pace, Merlin stands facing the door with his hands clasped behind his back, head bowed. The perfect servant.
Merlin doesn't answer, so Mordred presses. Emrys. Do you know what Achlys is? What did it want with you?
Merlin sighs. I don't know, Mordred.
You don't know what it is, or you don't know what it wants with you?
Either, Merlin says, his tone impatient even with his face and posture remaining unchanged. Pick one.
Mordred is quiet for a moment, then responds, Do you think the king is worried for you?
The king is always worried, Merlin snaps. He's a king.
More so than usual, then, Mordred replies.
I don't know, Merlin tells him. Ask Arthur yourself if you're so concerned.
Mordred glances at him then, his constant moving and bouncing on his feet stilling.
Are you worried, Emrys?
I'm always worried, Merlin tells him. Then, Merlin's eyes flicker over to Mordred, who is looking back at him with such concern and fright and hope, that Merlin tacks on, But yes. Achlys… worries me.
Why not use your magic? Mordred asks him.
Merlin's gaze falls back on Arthur's door.
I couldn't, Merlin informs him.
Arthur easing the door open and sidling out from his dark chambers interrupts their conversation. The king nods at the two of them and leads them down the corridor toward the Round Table.
When they arrive to the doors which protect the room of the small council, they see Gaius has just arrived. The physician gives Arthur a bow and raises an eyebrow at the other two.
"Thank you for coming, Gaius," Arthur tells him. "I believe Merlin and Mordred have a report to give you."
Gaius inclines his head in a nod of acknowledgement and leads them into the chambers that house the Round Table and meetings of the Small Council. A fire is already burning in the hearth, candles already lit on the table, and torches in the sconces on the wall.
Mordred gave his own account of the events, heavily editing to avoid implicating himself and Merlin more than necessary. Nothing about desperate, telepathic calls or the inability to use magic.
When he was finished, all present turned their heads to Merlin. Merlin shifted beneath the weight of their gazes, the cast his own eyes to some nondescript point on the table and began his own tale.
"I was asleep. Then I woke up and couldn't move. Not anything but my eyes, anyway. So I opened them to see a shadow on the wall and something behind me. Then Mordred burst in. I think the… paralysis ended after the creature disappeared."
"That's all?" Gaius asked.
Merlin gave him a brief look, one that to Arthur must look like, that's all, Gaius, and to the other three obviously meant, no, but I must tell you later.
"That wasn't the first time you've met this Achlys, was it?" Arthur asks in a low voice.
Merlin shakes his head. "The day you found me tearing apart my chambers."
Arthur nods, leaning back in his chair. All present are quiet for a long moment.
Then, Arthur asks, "What were you looking for?"
Mordred looks between the two with poorly-disguised interest. Merlin's blue eyes flicker up to meet Arthur's earnest gaze, then go back to fixate on the table.
"Signs of enchantments or curses," Merlin answers quietly.
"And you found none," Arthur concludes. He slumps in his seat, drumming his thumb against the side of the arm rest of his chair.
"No," Merlin confirms.
"We had been looking for such things earlier than the other day, however, sire," Gaius informs him.
Gaius's own watery eyes raise to meet Merlin's incredulous and slightly betrayed ones. Gaius gives Arthur a deferent nod.
"In the interest of providing what may be the full story, sire," the physician says.
Arthur's own stare remains on Merlin, passively observing him. Merlin considers that Arthur must think his expressions unfathomable. The perfect impassive king.
Merlin can see right through it. He knows the other man too well now. And Arthur's eyes–the way they fold and turn downward ever so slightly at their sides, the narrowness of them, the way they shine ever so slightly in the torchlight–speak of deep concern and a broader worry.
But the manservant isn't a mindreader. He doesn't know what that broader worry concerns. If it's the king's manservant, or the creature, or what it may mean that the physician and his apprentice had been searching Merlin's rooms for charms and poppets for more than a few days.
"What else may the full story entail?" Arthur asks generally.
Merlin wants more than anything to send Gaius and quick and warning glare, but the king's eyes are still on him. Observing.
"Nightmares," Merlin answers shortly. "Nothing more."
"Nightmares enough to make you think you had been cursed," Arthur responds flatly. "How long?"
"How long what?" Merlin snaps, at the same time Gaius responds, "At the time, over a week."
Arthur finally turns to look at Gaius. "So now almost a fortnight and a half."
"Yes, sire," Gaius responds.
"Did you dream of the creature?" Arthur asks, turning his attention back toward his manservant.
"No," Merlin says defensively. "At least… not at first. I still don't know if I–no. I didn't."
Arthur gives the other man a slow nod. "What did you dream of, then?"
"Nothing," Merlin says, waving a hand in the air. "I just remember waking up… out of sorts."
Arthur chooses not to press the subject. He knows, at this point, that Gaius is more likely to win something akin to a true account over himself. Some part of him acknowledged that long ago. When it came to things Merlin truly cared about–Morgana, Guinevere, the king–it is kept close to the manservant's chest, and only Gaius could stand to pry and guilt and wheedle long enough to win the truth.
"Okay," Arthur says finally. "Gaius, have you heard of a creature called Achlys before?"
"No," Gaius responds. "But it will help to narrow my research. Many creatures are called things, but few have names. Even fewer give them."
Arthur nods. "Begin searching as soon as you are able then. Merlin, you're to get some sleep and then aid Gaius in the morning. Mordred, I thank you. Your quick action helped shed some light on this situation. You can return to your post."
Mordred, Merlin, and Gaius give Arthur short nods. Arthur and Merlin begin the long walk back to the hallway with their rooms. When they reach Merlin's chambers, Arthur turns around. His blue eyes search Merlin's face.
"You know you can talk to me, right?" Arthur asks, voice quiet and breathy, as if trying to laugh through the question.
"Yes, sire," Merlin says, looking toward the ground again.
Arthur sighs. He looks Merlin up and down, as if expecting his manservant to say something else. But Merlin just stands there, hands behind his back, shoulder square, staring at the floor. The perfect servant. The perfect physician.
"Merlin…" Arthur begins again, then presses his lips into a line. He nods at his servant, then disappears into his chambers.
Merlin goes to the new antechambers. When he enters, he casts his eyes about, trying to find some evidence of magic or, gods forbid, Achlys again.
Nothing jumps out as suspicious. And Merlin knows that Arthur had decided only earlier that day to move Merlin in. Merlin knows that Mordred's story had been more than possible because only Arthur, Leon, and Merlin knew that the manservant would be using these rooms.
Merlin settles onto a chair next to the dying fire, bringing his knees to his chest. He stares into the fire for a few hours, mind kept carefully blank, waiting for the dawn to come so he would have an excuse to be awake.
Arthur, Merlin, and Gwen are all quiet through the morning. Merlin serves them both breakfast and dresses Arthur with a quiet efficiency foreign to them all. Then, Arthur dismisses Merlin to go and help Gaius with research.
Gaius quietly assents when Merlin implies his intent to go and consult with Kilgharrah. Consulting with one another openly is difficult, crowded as the chambers are with two separate mourning families. Instead, Merlin drops a few careful insinuations that he was thinking of visiting and old friend, and Gaius had told him that it may be an advisable course of action to take, given the circumstances.
Merlin helped feed Amanda, then left. His path to Kilgarrah's clearing is almost visible now, given the amount of times Merlin had gone down the same trails to visit the old dragon. It doesn't take long after Merlin's call for the beast to touch down on the long grass of the clearing.
"Young warlock," the dragon intones, "you look unwell."
Merlin scoffs. "Sure, if that's what you want to call it."
"What troubles you?" Kilgharrah asks.
"Dreams," Merlin responds. He is aware that it echoes his answer to the young druid before, and fixes the dragon with an indecipherable look. "Is destiny mutable?"
"Destinies such as yours are written in the stars, young one," the dragon responds, tone almost haughty. "They are foretold long before the persons who embody them walk the earth."
"Age does not mean accuracy," Merlin snaps. "Are destinies subject to change?"
Kilgharrah fixes the warlock with a searing, scrutinizing stare. "Why do you ask? Are you thinking of abandoning your own?"
"Would it matter if it did?" Merlin asks bitterly. Then, he shakes his head and continues, "No. Of course not. I want to know if others can abandon their destiny."
Kilgharrah shifts, his golden scales glinting in the late morning light.
"What has happened, young warlock?" he asks.
"Like I said," Merlin answers bitterly. "Dreams."
"That is not all," Kilgharrah guesses.
"No," Merlin says. "I was visited by… a being. A sorcerer or creature or… or something else, I know not. When it was present, I could not move. Could not speak. Could not use my magic."
Merlin looks up at the great dragon, eyes shining.
"It gave Mordred its name. Achlys."
The great dragon stills. "Achlys?"
"You know the name?" Merlin asks.
For a moment that must last a century, the dragon sits quietly on the grass, scrutinizing the warlock.
"No," the great dragon finally responds.
"No?" Merlin asks. "It certainly seems like you do."
"Impossibilities are not worth discussing," the dragon says. "There is only what will be and what will not be."
"Ah," Merlin says. "Yes. Will it be or not be? That is the question. And how, in your infinite reptilian wisdom, do you determine that?"
"The gods," Kilgharrah responds simply.
"\We answer to the gods, and the gods all answer to the god of gods. But to whom does she answer?"
"To no one," Kilgharrah responds.
Merlin cocks his head to the side. "But that isn't quite true, is it?"
"I see not your meaning, warlock."
"In encouraging me to shun Morgana, you nudged Destiny along a certain path," Merlin says.
"I simply told you what was foretold."
"But then you told me to kill the Druid boy," Merlin says, taking a step forward. The dragon matches his pace, moving backward across the clearing. "You must have thought it possible to circumvent destiny. To go against prophecy, against the Triple Goddess. It is, in your estimation, possible to change destiny."
"Perhaps," the great dragon answers eventually. "But it is not common, nor encouraged. The goddess of Destiny works close with her sister, Order, and so determine the Order of Things."
"What do you mean?" Merlin asks, eyes narrowing.
"The Fates take direction from Destiny," Kilgharrah responds. "The Three Sisters are subject to the whims of their elder sister. Their cooperation produces the Order of Things, the path the world treads."
"And who does Destiny answer to?"
"Not the whims of mortals," Kilgharrah answers derisively. "The Triple Goddess herself."
"But you," Merlin says, taking a step forward, "you encouraged me to shun Morgana. To kill Mordred. You thought I could avoid Arthur's fate, did you not? So you must believe destiny to be a malleable thing. You thought that Destiny and the Fates may answer to my whims if I were to successfully dispatch the witch and the Druid boy."
"It was an impossible ask, but I deemed it worthwhile," the great dragon grinds out.
"Why?" Merlin asks, taking another step forward. The huge beast, despite its might and size, matched Merlin's pace backward.
"To save you the pain of the prince's death," Kilgharrah responds.
"Then why not encourage me to embrace Morgana and Mordred, rather than distrust them? At the very beginning, when they were still mine to save from fear and isolation? That course of action would have surely saved me pain."
"The witch has had hate etched into her heart since the beginning," Kilgharrah spits. Fire licks between his teeth, but does not interrupt the air between them.
"As have you, I see," Merlin responds, venom lacing his words.
"Were they worth saving?" Kilgharrah asks.
"Am I?" Merlin asks, backing the dragon up another face with a staggering step forward. "Are destinies subject to change?"
"Destiny answers to the Triple Goddess," Kildharrah responds.
"And the Triple Goddess?"
"Merlin–"
Merlin sighs, a frustrated, broken-off sound. "The Triple Goddess. Where does she come from? To whom does she answer?"
"Creation itself," Kilgharrah answers.
Merlin looks the dragon up and down. Slowly, ever so slowly, his shuttered gaze lifts. His narrowed eyes widen, the hard line of his mouth slackens, his very posture opens.
"You don't know," Merlin whispers. "You don't know, do you?"
"Merlin–"
"Enough, Kilgharrah," Merlin snaps. "I've had enough of you."
"Young warlock–" Kilfharrah says.
"No," Merlin says. "You have misled me and tricked me enough, you heinous beast. I will be a slave neither to Destiny, nor the Triple Goddess, nor you no longer."
"My lord," Kilgharrah tries again.
"Do not presume to appeal to our kinship," Merlin commands, voice rising in volume and vehemence at once. The air whips into a breeze, throwing the grass and surrounding trees into a manic dance.
"I have only tried–" Kilgharrah says.
"You have had your fun with destiny too long, Kilgharrah," Merlin intones. His voice becomes deeper, more authoritative, more of a growl. A dragonlord's voice. "You have had your fun with me too long."
"Destiny–" Kilghrarrah starts again.
"No more," Merlin says. "Salnes. Anforlætan."
Kilgharrah gives Merlin one last, long, pleading look, then takes off into the air. Merlin stays where he is until the sun begins to set before he begins the walk back.
The gates are closed when he returns. He shouts at them for entrance, waving his arm tiredly over his head and waving the empty herb basket he had left with that morning as a cover for leaving the city.
Finally, the outer drawbridge is lowered. Only to reveal Arthur, flanked by four armed guards.
"Arthur?" Merlin asks, squinting at the king. "What are you doing here? I thought Gaius would have told you he sent me for herbs."
Arthur's eyes flicker to the empty basket before returning Merlin's questioning gaze.
"Where have you been?" Arthur asks quietly.
"In the forest," Merlin responds, but it sounds more like a question. His heart climbs into his throat as he takes in Arthur's stony face. It's Arthur's trial face. His execution face.
"In the forest," Merlin responds.
"You have not been in the town all day?" Arthur asks.
"Not since this morning," Merlin answers slowly.
Arthur sighs, then gestures to the guards.
"Be careful with him, please," Arthur orders.
Merlin looks on in horror as the armed guards advance toward him. Arthur looks on with an expression that could easily be interpreted as either apologetic or reluctant. Merlin isn't sure which is worse.
One of the guards present claps Merlin in irons. A pair of them take him firmly by each arm. Merlin drops his empty herb basket, gaping at Arthur.
"You are under arrest," Arthur informs him, "as a suspect in the murder of Gabriel Smith."
"Who?" Merlin demands, tugging uselessly against the grip of the guards. "Arthur, what are you talking about?"
"I'm sorry, Merlin," Arthur tells him.
The guards begin dragging him up the road to the citadel. Merlin tries for a short time to wrench around in their grasp to look at his king, but quickly finds it too painful to manage.
"Arthur?" Merlin calls.
But suddenly he is too far away, and the people of the lower town are studying him, suspicious and superstitious. Merlin squares his shoulders and marches along with his captors, placing on his mask of impassivity, learned from Gaius and perfected over years of practice.
It is only hours later that he gets some semblance of a reason Arthur had him arrested.
Rather than the king appearing on the other side of the iron bars, it is Leon, curly red hair plastered against his forehead with freshly thawed snow, and expression apologetic and nervous.
"Merlin," Sir Leon begins.
"Leon," Merlin says, moving toward the door. He hesitates outside it, his conversation with the dragon replaying in his head. Did someone overhear? Did someone inform the king?
But Arthur had mentioned a murder. And the name had been unfamiliar, and something had been implied about the lower or upper town, Merlin is sure of it.
"What happened?" Merlin asks.
"There has been a murder," Leon answers, obviously unsure of what he should disclose. "And you have been implicated."
"How so?" Merlin asks, his worry now shifting from a revelation of his magical prowess to the actual problem at hand.
"The victim left a message," Leon tells him. "He wrote something in his own blood on the wall before expiring."
"What did it say?" Merlin asks.
"It read," comes a voice from down the hall, commanding and low and suspicious and regretful all at once. Merlin turns toward it, unsure if the familiar voice rings salvation or damnation.
Arthur comes into sight, bathed in the dancing firelight of the torches burning in their sconces along the narrow hallway of the dungeon.
"'Come home, Merlin,'' Arthur says.
The leaden thing appears again with a sudden and ferocious weight in Merlin's stomach.
Come home, Merlin.