Chapter 9 - Cathbhadh
Early August
Arthur stood in Merlin's former room staring down at a corpse. Though, how small the room was distracted him far more. When was the last time he'd been in here?
Did Merlin really only have three shirts?
He… was paying Merlin, right?
A clatter from downstairs, in Gaius' main chambers, meant the knights were badly preparing to shift Gaius' cot upstairs. The temporary plan of shoving two cots together so Alice and Gaius could be a happy couple was sweet, but also sad. The carpenters they'd hired better make that doublewide bed soon.
Merlin clomped up the stairs, and Arthur found a spot where he could maintain some dignity when Merlin got here. He was practically leaning out of the window. Seriously, Merlin lived here? For years?
Merlin's magic swung open the door. He was holding two of Alice's bags, which he subsequently shoved into the dresser. "You good?" He asked. "I'm ready to get out of here, honestly."
Arthur nodded, gripping Excalibur and Merlin's shoulder. He'd done this now, on purpose, a grand total of one time. But he felt prepared. Still, it hit like a mace– the bodiless creepiness, the time out of time feeling, floating, then the lurch as his guts caught up with his feet.
He gulped down three mouthfuls of air, stomach rolling, and squinted at the trees around them. Wendol's body hit the dirt at his feet. He couldn't see the turrets of the castle, nor could he see a lake. "Where are we, Merlin?"
"About a third of the way to the Isle."
Arthur nodded. Saltmaw, when Merlin had jumped them from there, had been further than the Isle. But he must be conserving energy– smart of him. "How likely is it that the mystery sorcerer, the one from that pirate boat in Saltmaw, is at the Isle now?"
Merlin frowned, then shrugged. "A middle-aged man, pale with dark hair. He could be anyone. But we should keep an eye out while we're there."
Arthur nodded. They also had a few clues from Wendol's attack they could leave like rumors. Perhaps if Arthur listened close enough, he'd get hints out of those.
He settled down to wait near Merlin, and an hour or two passed while Merlin replenished his strength and jumped them to the next spot where they repeated the sitting around. It was mid-morning when they finally landed in a tower room.
It was nearly fully round, and a single desk and chair, freshly made, had been shoved beneath a window. Arthur moved to peak out at the grounds below. How many people had come– one hundred, more? Many worked down below, cleaning rubble and tending cookfires.
Merlin hooked a finger and drug the desk forward, draping the corpse across it. Wendol's feet hung off in an embarrassingly undignified way.
Merlin leaned against a wall, furrowing his brow. Seconds passed, then he frowned. "She's not answering," he said.
Morgana, he must mean. Perhaps this was the worst case scenario. She had turned again, and they had to prepare for a fight.
He clicked Excalibur out of his sheath and nodded, ready.
Merlin blinked away in a slip of magic, and Arthur waited silent seconds. Wendol's legs still swung in barely perceptible arcs, desk creaking underneath him. Maybe it had been foolish to come nearly alone like this. Though, he and Merlin had done more dangerous things.
"–orders from you!"
The air popped, and Merlin and Morgana appeared, glaring at each other. Merlin's long fingers went around her entire bicep.
Voice low, Merlin growled, "I'm never here for witty banter, Morgana."
She yanked out of his grip, and looked down her nose at the corpse. "What kind of gift is this?"
Arthur cleared his throat, and Morgana looked at him, green eyes blazing. Shock coiled at the bottom of his heart. It was still hard to behold her.
She looked a mess, dark bags under her eyes, but fierce as always: an enemy he'd learned to dread but also a sister he'd forgotten to stop loving. And she wore trousers!
"This man was a Druid," Arthur explained, repeating the story he'd learned from Merlin last night. "He was a leader during the Purge, fighting against our father and his allies. He died nearly thirty years ago. But yesterday, we found him alive, spreading a plague of Eancanah. They are black slugs that–"
Morgana had paled. "I know."
"Someone raised him as a Shade," Merlin's voice was sharp, accusing.
Morgana crossed her arms, backing away defensively. "And you think I summoned him?"
"Who else has the skill to do it? You're the only person I know who's done this before."
The two stared at each other a long while, long enough for Arthur to suspect Morgana had not been involved in this attack on Camelot. He almost wished it had been her; he understood her as an enemy.
Morgana narrowed her eyes, "You're the only person I know who's tried to take my magic away, and succeeded. Amassing Eancanah sounds like something you would do."
"Morgana… what?" Merlin said.
She glanced between them both, and she seemed to read something on their faces. "I didn't send that Shade to Camelot, same as I didn't–"
Merlin's breath caught. Arthur spoke for him. "Didn't what?"
Morgana sagged. She searched behind herself for the desk chair pushed against the window, eventually pulling it over and draping herself into it. She moved slow and methodical, with the grace of her upbringing, then she crossed her arms tighter, almost hugging herself.
Merlin surged forward, each of his hands on either side of her temple. In seconds the smell of ozone filled the room, then Merlin stumbled back. He looked stricken.
"What happened?" Arthur asked. Like last time, they barely glanced at him.
"Gone?" Merlin asked. "Completely?"
Morgana laughed, brokenly. "I spent all last night praying to the Triple Goddess. She didn't answer."
"Merlin," Arthur asked stiffly. "Explain what's going on."
Merlin blinked at air, then in hollow words said, "The Eancanah got her. She's lost her magic."
"You mentioned it ate magic– I saw it happen myself– but I thought it would be temporary."
"Well I suppose it could be," Merlin said faintly. "Most died soon after. From what Gaius said it's supposed to last forever."
"Forever?" Morgana echoed.
Merlin's eyes bugged. "I don't know, I think so. I'm not the expert."
"Is anyone?" Arthur asked.
Morgana covered her eyes. "No one alive."
This was foreign to him, anything with magic was, but he was trying his best. Trying to be understanding. But he felt so lost.
The slug had taken Morgana's magic. He'd known it could do that, it was why they'd had to protect Merlin to such extents during all of the brain surgery.
It was heavily unlikely she would have caused the plague and then taken her own magic with it.
But who had done it then? "Are many magic users capable of raising a Shade?" Arthur gestured at Wendol's body. "Or birthing Eancanah?"
"It's dark magic," Morgana and Merlin said simultaneously, then glared at each other.
"Very dark magic," Merlin said as Morgana added, "I've met no other besides Morgause… but…."
She yanked open a drawer on the desk, rooting around until she revealed a small, leather journal. This she extracted, thumbing through well worn pages. She stopped at one page near the end, staring down at it long and hard, before snapping the journal closed.
She held the journal to her face, covering her emotions, then stuck the journal out towards Merlin.
"Morgause's spellbook was stolen. And whoever stole it, left this." Merlin reached out. "It appears I ran out of time to track them down."
Merlin's fingers closed around the binding of the small journal. He looked grave.
"Trade?" She said, mouth quirking upward in a sham of a smirk.
Merlin gripped the book tighter, but exuded earnestness. "I will find a way to protect the Isle."
Morgana released the journal, and as Merlin's eyes bled gold and traced over the leather bindings, she sighed and whispered with the reverence of a prayer said countless times, "I don't give up as readily as you. I will return my magic. I will restore the Isle."
Arthur had promised himself he'd find out for himself, today, if this Isle was a threat to peace. And he hadn't forgotten, but it seemed decidedly bad taste to dig into that at this moment.
Morgana closed her eyes, hugging a small quake of her body tight under her skin. "Triple Goddess, I will restore you. I will restore the Isle, the priestesses will live again."
Though perhaps she begged for something that had abandoned them all. Perhaps all three of them had waited too long to do right by magic.
"I work in your name," Morgana whispered.
If a goddess existed, if she was there…
"I honor you, please, hear me."
...she wasn't listening.
Morgana's gut swooped as if she'd leapt from a roof into darkness, and she jerked awake.
She'd prayed herself to sleep, and Merlin and Arthur had abandoned her.
Falling asleep in either of their presence had been foolhardy, especially now that she had no defenses. It was a stupid mistake.
But she was exhausted.
The Eancanah had snuck in as an assassin, struck her cowardly while she slept, and she hadn't slept since. She'd never rest well until she had her soul back. She had to get it back. There had to be a way.
Maybe Mordred, she should have him check the Crystal again. But no, he was just a child, that was terrible of her and he looked so exhausted and sick after, but she needed answers….
The Leshy of Avalon's forest likely hadn't been completely truthful; she could go back, make larger threats. And do what, burn down half of the Isle's protection? Anger the spirits even more?
What, what, what to do? What hadn't she thought of? Think harder!
Maybe the goddess would give no more gifts to her until she'd reciprocated. What gifts would the Triple Goddess desire?
Morgause would know, if only there was a way to speak with her. Was there one? A way to commune with The Spirit World beyond the Veil?
Yes, of course, she'd done it before. The Calliach held one of the doorways at the blackened Pool of Nemhain. From its depths she'd risen Lancelot the Shade, how apropos.
But the spirits of the Priestesses had risen from this lake, the Lake of Avalon, and attacked her! The lake had to be another doorway. But how to get in? How to walk through?
She stood and her vision blackened, dizziness draping over her. She stumbled but hurried her step out of the tower. When was the last she'd eaten? She pushed for a thread of healing magic and–
And panic ate her from her stomach to her toes, gods her magic was gone, it was gone!
The darkness settled deeper, the hall faded to a point, then went black.
After Morgana had drifted to sleep, Merlin had taken them to the opposite side of the lake. They sat near the shoreline, Wendol's body encased in ice between them. Hopefully they made it to Iseldir's camp with it before too far after lunch.
Merlin looked out over the blue waters of the lake, face forlorn.
What was bothering him? Arthur almost asked, then reached for the journal instead. Better to let Merlin think it out first.
The pages were filled with names or words he didn't recognize. Spells maybe, or people. He came upon one that had notes about temperatures and gestation cycles. It would have been nonsense to read a few weeks ago but with the knowledge he had now– the person with this journal had been researching the Eancanah. The owner of this thing had set them upon Albion.
He flipped through the other pages– were there any other clues in here? Nothing stuck out to him.
Closing the book he looked back to Merlin who had stopped looking out over the lake, now frowning down at his hands. "I don't know what to do, Arthur."
"What do you mean? Take a break, slowly take us to Iseldir. Drop off Wendol and show him this book, see if he recognizes anything. Then take us back to Camelot."
"You make it sound easy. But what are we going to do about this sorcerer? They're working against us and winning. And me… something's happening to me. I have to be careful."
"It can be easy. Look, we just take one step at a time. Do what we can each step. Eventually we make it to the end."
Merlin watched him, trying to turn those words to hope it looked like. "Okay," he said, still solemn. "Take the journal by Iseldir, then by the librarian, Gaius, Alice, and anyone else who's willing to think it over. If everyone's thinking about it maybe we get another clue. We'll figure out the next step later."
"You also promised Morgana protection of the Isle." He held up a hand as Merlin started to open his mouth to argue. "I agree that she has nothing to do with all of this. I also think some blame lies on me."
Merlin tilted his head, confused. "How?"
"She was praying about restoring the Isle, but how can she when I destroyed the Horn of Cathbhadh? Isn't that a relic of this Isle?"
The waters of the lake lapped on the shore, calming and peaceful. They'd laid Lancelot to rest somewhere around here, and Arthur hoped Lancelot truly was at peace. Hopefully becoming a Shade did not hurt someone long term.
"It is a relic," Merlin said, "but since when did the Triple Goddess help any of us, if she even exists? I don't see how having it would help anything."
That was more bitterness than Arthur had expected. "It wouldn't hurt, either. I want you to promise me something."
Merlin eyed him warily. "What?"
"I want to go back to the Isle later, alone. I want them to trust me, and I want to trust them. But I can't take that step unless you trust me to handle this."
Merlin definitely looked worried, but he did eventually nod. "I have to trust you, otherwise I don't know who I am. One step at a time, right, Arthur?"
He nodded. "One step at a time."
Morgana dreamed.
Merlin was kissing her neck.
His hands burned up her sides, and he pressed her against a dark bend of the stone tower. Wendol the Druid's body still hung limp on her desk, and Merlin wore the shirt he'd been wearing today, a tight royal blue of fine quality that she'd wanted to touch–
His magic tingled up her spine and swirled down her thighs, and she spasmed awake.
Her cheek pressed into the grass– she was outside, in the main circle of the Isle, the sun having long warmed both her and the soil beneath.
Nearly two hundred magic-users worked on daily chores and struggled to make the Isle more habitable all around her, and Mordred, who's soft presence she'd only just noticed at her front, had likely thought he'd try dosing her with another surge of magic in the hopes it would take.
She doubted it had. Dreams were one thing, but precognition was another. And deep in her heart she knew that dream was anything but the future.
Mordred was kneeling before her, and staring as if he were trying to telepathically speak with her.
"Yes, Mordred?"
He offered her a bowl of broth. She wasn't hungry, but she was too exhausted to fight it.
It tasted like half an onion and lots of carrot greens in salted water, but it was something to warm her, and any offering of kindness was a gift she'd learned to take.
Expecting to see Aithusa sleeping nearby– the dragon had hardly left her since the Eancanah– she instead found nothing. "Where is Aithusa?"
"She flew off near after we brought you down here," Mordred said. Out hunting, Morgana assumed.
"How long have I been out?"
He checked the sun, then pointed at a spot in the sky. By his angle she guessed four hours.
She gulped the rest of her soup, then set the bowl aside. "I need a way into the Spirit World. I'm going to open a doorway in the Lake of Avalon. Any ideas?"
His eyes widened and tracked to the half-broken faerie circle they'd yet to fully repair. It emulated the Great Stones of Nemeton which had been a safe place to call forth spirits of the dead, often used with the Horn of Cathbhadh. But she and Morgause had never tracked down the Horn. The continuation of that search had been part of her future plans here, but if she could find it, call Morgause forth, maybe she could get some answers….
"We could make you a small circle in the lake, to keep you safe."
She nodded, it was a good first step. Mordred moved off to find a team, and she forced herself to stay cross-legged. As much as she wanted to huddle in on herself, she didn't want to look broken.
A beast roared. Its depth trembled the ground and the decibel rattled her bones.
A Druid leaned from a watchpoint, mouthing words she couldn't hear. His eyes were wide.
She stumbled to standing. What could she do? "Somebody, sword!" She'd be rusty but she could still fight, she could always fight.
A golden dragon crested the walls of the castle. Its wings were large enough to span the distance between two towers, and when it breathed fire, it burned brighter than the sun. What new dread terror was this?
"Sword!" She yelled again.
Aithusa spun in a white spiral around one massive foreleg, and the large dragon dove for the ground. It swiveled its head to find her, and she lost her breath. She could not look away from its great, gold, angry eyes.
It skid to a stop, claw digging a great furrow of dirt in its wake. From its other leg, it tossed Arthur into a trap of his own red cape.
It rose to full height, puffing out its chest, and snorting soot-like smoke through two black nostrils. It sneered at her, and in a male voice said, "Witch. I enjoy protecting you about as much as I enjoy being treated as a carrier pigeon."
Aithusa, spinning happily in the draft of the great beast, offered no help.
From the ground nearby, Arthur groused, "Merlin sent him. He's a dragonlord, did you know?"
"Aithusa thinks of him as her father," she knew that. Of course Merlin had sent a dragon in the most dramatic and uncommunicative way possible. She should have guessed that earlier. Hopefully it hadn't heard her yelling for a sword.
"Will you be able to protect the people here from further attacks of Eancanah?"
"Of course," the dragon sneered. "I can watch for their emptiness. None can slip past my vision."
"And is it possible to restore the magic of those it has taken?"
Its laugh shook up its long neck, its deep bellow vibrating through her toes. "The chances of your magic being restored are far, far less than you causing the death of hundreds."
"But–" But there was a chance.
"No more questions, I tire also of being treated as a book." The golden beast spread its wings wide, and beat them against the ground in a thumping one, two, three. "Aithusa, come, we must continue your training. You are far too old to not be speaking."
It launched, flying for the top of the largest remaining tower. Aithusa, drooping in a way that could only be a teenage pout, drifted after.
Arthur, still unrolling himself, said, "Are there any more of those?"
"Not that I know of," she answered. If there were, Merlin had sent the angriest. She eyed Arthur as he finally got a boot underneath himself. His hair was tousled, and his cheeks reddened from flight: the perfect cherub, as always.
He dusted his knees, unhooking the cape where it had caught under Excalibur's sheath. In his left hand he held a bundle of rough cloth.
"Have you brought another gift? This time is it, perhaps, a corpse's head?"
"No," he said.
"We aren't quite ready to start decorating, but if you leave it on a nearby spike I can promise–"
He groaned, muttered a curse to himself as if regretting all of his, albeit selfish, life choices. "Here."
He shoved the bundle in her hands, and she picked at the twine until she revealed broken pottery. It had a smooth, metallic sheen, with organic, rigid bumps that reminded her of knots on a tree. There were large shards, but they curved in a way that may have formed a spiral.
"This is a strange skull you've brought me, Arthur."
"It's the Horn of Cathbhadh, or what's left of it."
Oh no. "What happened?" The embodiment of the Past, one aspect of the Triple Goddess, destroyed. Her magic, gone. The Rowan Tree, dead. How was she to restore the Isle without this too?
"It's my fault." Arthur's lips pressed together, and he placed a hand over his heart. "It was not my place to use it, or to break it. On my honour I will help you restore this piece, and pay that penance to the magical community here, and hopefully help to gain my share of the Goddess' forgiveness which you seek."
He looked about at the Druids who had expectedly gathered to watch the drama. He nodded solemnly. "I swear it."
She wanted to snap at him. What was she supposed to do with a broken Horn and no magic? "Mordred," she yelled into the crowd, "finish that stone circle."
One step at a time.
And keep everyone here in the castle walls, distracted and far away from watching her looking foolish on the lakeshore.
The lake splashed over the tough leather of Arthur's boots, but his socks remained dry. The light shone clear through to the large well-worn stones underfoot.
He waded forward, putting himself within the small stone circle, hastily created it appeared, but so far steady enough for the lapping waves to not topple.
"We're sure this is safe?" These rocks barely rose to his knees. The ones inside the Isle had been over eight feet tall.
"We're making do," Morgana said.
He'd promised Merlin he wasn't going to put himself in danger. He wanted to do this alone, and without her magic he could fight her off if it came to it. And Arthur had his sheath with the halfpenny tracing his location, so Merlin was only a breath away if needed.
Now all of that seemed stupid.
But he wasn't going to back out now. What king would he be if he would face deadly challenges for some of his people, but not all?
"How do I know when you're starting this? Do I need to do something?"
He and Morgana were alone on the shore, and she was glaring down at the broken Horn in the bundle he'd brought her. "I already started."
"Doesn't look like it."
"Oh, are you a Priestess of the Old Religion?"
"I'm no sorcerer but maybe you should try saying something out loud?"
She glared.
And she didn't speak to him for over an hour.
His toes went numb.
"Morgana, I don't think this is working."
"I bet it needs a sacrifice. I need one to call the gatekeeper."
He checked his intuition– he hadn't felt anyone sneak up on him. No one in his periphery. No archers above. "What kind of sacrifice?
"The first and only time I did this, I offered a magic coin. A schism of my destiny."
She had to be kidding. "I have a magic coin. Merlin made it."
She looked at him, curious, and he unbelted his scabbard. The sturdy metal was covered in a silvery gold of finely crafted gilding, artistically representing what he'd always seen as the Castle's pillars. He dug out Merlin's halfpenny from where it hid in the artistry.
This he held out proudly, though the dull copper bent and chipped did not look sacrifice-worthy.
She tried to grab it for inspection, but he yanked it back. "What did you mean by a destiny schism?"
She shrugged, "After the offering I got this vague feeling that some of my future had disappeared. It felt like forgetting… forgetting something that never happened." She paused, then said more poetically, "A chance at my destiny was sacrificed for the chance to affect someone else's."
"That sounds like a big sacrifice."
"You broke the Horn."
True, but he didn't see her sacrificing anything here. "Do you think it'll take an offering from both of us, or just me?"
"I don't know. It may just plop into the water."
He tightened his grip on the copper, so small he couldn't feel it in the folds of his hand. In a way it represented Merlin protecting him from the shadows. He willed the destiny he sacrificed to be that one, to instead leave his destiny more open to a future filled with stronger, trusting friendships and alliances.
The halfpenny caught the light, twinkling as it flipped into the water beyond their stones.
"Be ready," Morgana said, "The Calliach was dark and dangerous, and the Crone was more so. In her madness she nearly killed me. She is the likely gatekeeper and–"
A fair, youthful hand, gripped tight in a fist, thrust from the water. It stuttered Morgana, and would have him too, if he'd been speaking. A pretty young woman rose from crystalline depths, with soft brown hair and doe eyes.
"That's my dress," Morgana said, taken aback. "She's wearing my old dress."
The girl opened her fist, and the halfpenny laid within. "Your offering has been accepted."
Their short stones shot into the sky, but no... they weren't growing, he was falling. The sky above turned black, then white, then mute grey. Color bled from him, leaking upward. He yelled but had no breath, gasped but had no air. Grey mist flooded in. With skeletal fingers he gripped Excalibur which burned brighter, whiter, then gold.
There was a short span of time where something shifted, but the vastness and strangeness of it slipped from his mind, incomprehensible. Eventually his awareness sharpened, and he came to find he was standing.
The world was a muted series of greys. He stood again on the shore of the Isle, but the castle itself had a misty look to it. Its various forms– youthful, strong, and broken– all taking up the same ghost of space.
"Can you see through this?" A male voice said.
Arthur turned, and beheld Lancelot. But of course it was not Lancelot, it was Morgana.
"You're the gatekeeper," Lancelot– Morgana– said.
He looked down and, yes, that was definitely a woman's body. Where was his sword?
"It is with your soul, which I hide within me," a female voice, who must be the gatekeeper, said directly into his mind.
"We're here to repair the Horn. Gatekeeper, can you help?" he asked.
"My name is Freya. I hope this meeting goes better than our last– I am the soul of one you killed. I will protect you from the other dead."
In a Druid raid probably, and he didn't even recognize her. "Can he hear me too? Lancelot?"
It was odd to look at Lancelot's face and see Morgana's haughty expression. "He wants me to tell you, yes, he can hear you."
Last night, as they'd discussed the Shade Wendol and Morgana's potential part in it, he'd heard the story of Lancelot's false return and apparent suicide.
He'd spent years thinking about the things he'd wished he'd said to Lancelot before his sacrifice. But now there was so much else to say.
"Lancelot, you will always be remembered as the man who gave his life for Camelot. You are one of the most honorable, heroic knights Camelot will ever know. And a dear friend. We miss you."
He wanted to shake the man's hand, see the understanding in his eyes, anything. Instead Morgana half rolled his eyes. "If he had a face I'm sure he'd be crying."
"Lancelot died in my place. I never had a chance to properly thank him."
"He's a duty-bound knight, he didn't have a choice. What was he supposed to do, shrug and head back home? You and Merlin had far too many intentionally suicidal adventures, I don't know how it is I didn't kill you when I was trying."
Watching Lancelot sneer was difficult, even with Morgana irritating him.
Looking away, he noticed the stone circle had disappeared into what seemed like clear glass, and the smoky mist slid along it. At their feet, the hazy version of the lake seemed both high and low and frozen. The frozen version, since it did not move, he could track away from where he stood now. The more he looked, the easier it was to make out the ice.
"Fine, fine," Morgana said, "say it slowly. I don't want to repeat myself."
She was going to let Lancelot speak? He looked up, hopeful.
Morgana had Lancelot's hip jutting out. "We have the choice to pass on into peace, but I refuse it. I swore to uphold the knight's ideals until I died, but I'm proud to uphold them now, until you die. Perhaps one day we can all find peace together."
She stuck Lancelot's tongue out. "Cloying, truly. Let's get out of here before I melt from disgust."
"She is correct, despite being rude. You must leave the safety of the faerie circle. The Lord of Spirits will not meet you here."
A lord sounded like someone who knew what to make of this situation. "Can he heal the Horn?"
"The Horn is of him. We go to see Cathbhadh, Avalon's Spirit Lord."
Morgana watched Arthur approach the edge of their crystal. To her, each stone of their faerie circle had become an edge of opaque white walls, all peaking above their heads.
Arthur stumbled over the hem of the gatekeeper's dress. "A little less heel-toe, Arthur. Kick while you walk."
He raised a tentative hand to the crystal hiding the rest of the world from them, then he turned back to her. "Cathbhadh is a Spirit Lord. The gatekeeper said we can go this way to find him."
This gatekeeper had such a soft, overly sweet look to her. Morgana didn't think she'd met her, but the doe-eyed wonder was wearing her purple dress. She'd liked that one. How'd the girl get it?
Then Arthur, in that woman's body, pressed more firmly against the crystal, which bubbled around him. He moved through as one might mud, but once he passed the barrier, he vanished.
"What's out there?"
"The Spirit World," Lancelot responded.
Helpful. It's what she should expect from someone she killed, twice. And just spent recent moments taking the piss out of. She should probably put some reins on that.
But she'd never learned how to fake her feelings. Why start now?
She also put a hand to the cold, white crystal. It was hard as rock. How had Arthur passed through this?
She pressed, then shoved. Nothing budged.
"You seem to be more here than Arthur is. You may have to actually break the circle."
"How?" She got down on her knees and searched blindly for the real-life stones that had become this trap. Even the floor was crystal, she didn't see a way to get to those rocks if they even existed here. "Is there a weak point?"
"No, spirits and fae can't escape faerie circles–"
A low boom then shrieking crack flinched her eyes shut, but an edge of crystal had shifted and left a triangular opening.
"The rock must have shifted in the waves," fascinating the way it affected this world so massively! They'd have to re-measure the stones they were fixing in the Isle. Look at what just shifting one after a spirit was trapped could do. "Lucky! I don't think I've been lucky in years."
She crouched, squeezed through the crack. It wasn't easy, Lancelot had broad shoulders.
As she stepped out, she missed. The floor of the lake was a full foot beneath her. She fell after her foot, landing on her rear.
Her moment to mourn the mud disintegrated, because spirits it was beautiful here. The lake dazzled turquoise, and looked clear and clean enough to swim in for hours; she wanted to see if she could dive deep enough to run her fingers along the sandy bottom. Small horse-shaped water faeries frolicked in the spray of waves– she swiveled for the castle.
Grand, silvery stone, lush with ivy and blooming lavender flowers framed long green grass leading out to a bustling market and the Isle's squat docks. Hundreds of spirits chatted and traded, some human, most not, and a trilling child yelled to her, "Silly, Lancelot! What are you doing sitting in the lake?"
She hadn't paid close enough attention, had her voice sounded like Lancelot's?
The answer didn't matter, because the child ran off, chasing a little blue Sidhe.
She stood, to look less conspicuous, and basked in it. "It's a paradise. Why stay alive, in the present, if this is what awaits us?"
"It doesn't change. Your life cannot grow. And those that remain are those clinging to something, waiting for something, unable or unwilling to find peace. They are not always the best company."
Sounded like Morgause. Where was she? Would she have stuck around the Isle after death, or gone on to more powerful locales, searching for ways to affect the present?
"It is difficult to leave the Isle, Cathbhadh is powerful. Many souls have found peace here."
Seemed an incongruous description.
She walked Lancelot's long legs out to the shore, and his trousers dried quickly. This place was literally perfect.
Maybe she could speak with those milling about the market. If one of them had their magic taken by an Eancanah, they could tell her what they'd tried to get it back. Maybe one had spoken with the Triple Goddess herself.
Oh there must be priestesses here that knew all of the old rituals! They'd lost so much in the Purge and the information could be right here….
She'd brought them to the edge of the market, boots bending grass soft enough to sleep on. Everyone was smiling, laughing.
The sun shifted, throwing her into the shadow of the castle's outer wall.
Maybe she shouldn't enter that market. It'd be a distraction, and each spirit likely had their own problems, they wouldn't want to help her. Besides, it was probably dangerous for a living soul to mix too much with the dead. She'd give away that she wasn't Lancelot.
Morgause could answer all of her questions, she'd always been the one to help her. Where was she? Morgause had died within the shadow of the broken tower. Not died. She was killed. By me.
Morgause had told her to do it, but maybe, after death, Morgause had grown to resent her. Maybe Morgause had abandoned her too. Maybe that's why she wasn't here.
"I need to get inside the castle," she whispered. "How do I do that if the gate is closed?"
"You could wait for it to open. That could be minutes, or days. Or you could gamble, and convince the stones to change."
"We don't have time for patience." The stones were smooth underhand, not even a pockmark or rough weathered edge. She tapped with his nail, and they pinged. "Is it a music thing? Hit the right stones, or play the right rhythm?"
They were all different sizes, some made soft sounds, some dull, some hollow.
"Ask them politely, and try to be quiet."
She frowned, looked at the ivy and wondered if she could climb it. Then leaned in close, whispering in case any more children decided to run past and tease her. "Stones. Please open a doorway."
Nothing. Out of luck, it seemed.
"Ask for less."
"Beautiful silver stones, strong and proud. Thank you for the shade and protection you provide but now I ask of you one more thing, a small opening, so that I may meet your sisters within."
She felt a little stupid, but then Lancelot's skin prickled, and baby hairs rose along his arms. Something poked at her presence, spying on her.
"Too loud. Don't shy away," Lancelot said.
Too loud how? She was whispering.
This presence pricking at her though– it was strange. Slips of emotions passed through it. She had the perception that this emotion was vast, that what pressed against her could swallow her. She feared sinking, feared the ground she stood on because once sunken she would become it.
"This is death," she whispered, terrified.
"This is peace," Lancelot explained. "It is what we become when we're ready."
"This is nothingness." Upon her death she wanted the spirits of this realm as friends, wanted to explore the market and swim in the lake, but she did not want this final death, never.
"You should be careful what you ask for, I think we've been too conspicuous. Cathbhadh is watching."
She just wanted a door. She wanted to get inside the castle.
Instead, a grey-blue scream of energy rent the air before her. The Veil between worlds, she realized, had she reopened that somehow?
None of the other spirits reacted. In fact, looking around, she was alone.
"Not alone," Lancelot said.
To her right Arthur lay, knocked out on the ground, in his real body. Merlin crouched next to him.
"Why do you fear peace?" Lancelot asked. "Would you not want it for your friends? Your cause? Your country?"
"It's not peace, it's giving up."
Merlin twisted, trying to read her expression, stilling in shock as he realized something.
"It can also be trust. Trusting in the people you love."
I don't trust anyone. I'm alone.
"He's seen us, Morgana."
"This is your death. Why am I living it?"
"I can't hold on. For your own sanity, find a reason to pass through on your own accord. Learn to sacrifice."
No, she couldn't. She couldn't kill herself over this stupid mission, the Isle needed her. She needed to refound the priestesses and bring back the rituals and provide safety for magic users….
But the people of the Isle didn't need her. They governed themselves. She was likely the only one who cared to renew the priestesses. And without her magic she couldn't protect anyone.
But that didn't mean she would want death, or choose it. She fought, it's who she was.
She turned her back to the Veil. The rest of the Isle had vanished.
"Hear me, spirits. You will not take my soul. I will be there to defend the Isle in the coming battles," she yelled, and the Veil shrieked. "I expect an even trade, so if you demand sacrifice, let's barter."
Long, hairy fingers curled around her neck.
"Trade?" A rasp crackled, "With a priestess?"
The peace pulsed, and she was gone.
Arthur focused on the solidified mist, testing with toes before sliding Freya's foot, as he'd do for a frozen lake in the real world.
"Am I going the right way?"
"Yes, I reckon any way will work, as long as it feels right to you."
He tested the next patch of ice. Don't ever lose focus, that was what his old swordmaster had taught him. Distraction meant death.
"I don't hear Morgana or Lancelot. Are they behind us?"
"No, but they'll catch up through another route."
He paused, heard no cracking, though wasn't sure if the mist-ice would make sound here, and looked for the shoreline. "How much further do you think?"
"Look for some trees."
He squinted, tried shading his eyes, but that was silly. There didn't appear to be a sun, just a diffuse glow.
Oh but there, the currents of the mist were more stable. It shifted back and forth, almost like leaves in wind. It reminded him of standing in Iseldir's camp, where the breeze chimed with the music of small hanging trinkets.
"Were you a Druid?"
"Yes."
He didn't want to know, but running from the truth in cowardice would only cause him greater struggles in the future. "I'm sorry, but I don't recall which raid I killed you in. Or if you'd been a prisoner in our dungeon."
"I was captured by another, and brought to Camelot for execution. It's strange, because although I knew death was coming, I'd never experienced happier days."
This must have been during his father's reign, Arthur hadn't burned anyone since he'd begun his reign. Why had she been happy, though? If she'd been thrown in the dungeon during his father's reign, she would have seen dank conditions and maybe a visit from Gaius.
"I had hope. I fell in love. For the first time, in a life of fear, I'd been held and felt safe. Even if it had only been for a moment."
"Did I kill him too?"
"No."
He edged between shades of misty trees, walking through what he suspected was a game trail.
"I can bring him a message once I'm back. Is there anything you'd like me to pass on?"
"Tell him I'd like more than a coin or a sword every few years."
The diffuse light dampened, and the mist grew dark. This must be this place's version of night. The light clumped in a circle far overhead, which he took for the moon.
"Merlin's been here many times now, and hasn't come to visit. Instead he's only ever here to speak with her." She paused. "I apologize, that was unexpectedly bitter of me."
So she'd fallen in love with Merlin. For the love of Camelot, had Merlin loved her too? I killed her? Why hadn't Merlin said anything?
"He's always focused on the work to be done. Can you please convince him to give a fresh sweetheart a rose again? Remind him that it's okay to hope for a family. Tell him I release him, that he's free to fall in love again."
"He loved you, and I killed you? How? When?"
"It hurts at first, but the mind numbs you. It'll go quickly."
The game trail and the trees faded away, he could make out only the moon overhead, and darkness.
His father's death had hurt, but it was talking with Guinevere and his friends, and Merlin never leaving his side, that helped him heal.
Arthur suspected Merlin had never told a soul about Freya. Or of Balinor's death. In those worst moments of grief, where reaching out for comfort was natural, where that tiniest bit of selfishness could have been forgiven– to tell someone, like Gwaine, the whole truth just so he wouldn't have to be alone with it– Merlin had not done it.
Merlin hadn't trusted others above Arthur. Merlin trusted no one, not completely. It was so, so sad.
Nausea rolled from his gut to his throat, and his skin prickled.
"Close your eyes for this part," she said.
Their skin was turning black and leathery. It itched as it grew in folds, draping off of them in some areas, stretched taut as their bones extended.
"What's happening?" His voice garbled as it left her mouth. Their teeth felt sharp.
"It'll be over soon."
Their hip cracked, reversing itself and the pain– it took over. His mind conjured images of fire, of burning serrated knives sawing against him. It tore through his legs, his back, and he believed them bleeding.
He came to awareness gasping, in the body of a massive panther with bat wings stretched far to his sides. The castle wall protected his back, and before him was himself, Arthur, and a whole platoon of knights with swords out.
I remember this. I remember you! The girl that escaped and became a bastet.
His past self looked determined. They'd refused to let her go when she'd begged them, and she'd become this. He'd thought she'd cast a spell on herself. But that was ridiculous. No one would put themselves through that pain willingly.
"I was cursed to kill."
The knights, wary, fanned around him. It was an adaptable formation, and was a good call against a beast with a range of motion.
He could see himself, defensive, but sword high. He'd always been so eager to please, or protect.
And, spirits, that was Merlin right there. Hidden, but watching. He'd seen the whole thing.
A sword bit like warm flame into his side, and he locked eyes with himself. That Arthur had been proud to make that strike, and he was focused and prepared to make another. There was no mercy on his face. They were just another beast to slay.
This is how you die. Is this how I die? Did I just kill us both?
"Maybe. But death is the only way any soul can meet Cathbhadh. My death should be sufficient."
The bastet's wings beat down, launching them airborne and into the night sky.
I'm… so sorry. You must have been so afraid. I'm frightened and it's not even my death.
"I wasn't alone. Merlin was with me, as I'm here with you. Stay strong, don't forget who you are. You'll be great."
Thank you. You've been more than I deserved.
The sky tore open in a screaming whirling wind, and through it he blew, into darkness.
Again time stretched, something foreign and unknowable occurred, his world blurred and when he was again conscious, he stood in front of two doors.
They were twice his height, wooden, and stained a deep red. He knew these doors. They led to the Throne Room in Camelot.
He had his own body back, his armor, his cloak, and more importantly, Excalibur. He put his hand on the hilt, and it hummed against his palm.
"Freya, are you there?"
Silence in a way that meant she wasn't ignoring him. He was alone for this last challenge.
"Do you see Camelot too?"
Morgana, at his right, had surprised him. She was dressed as she'd once been in the long past, delicately put together, bejeweled and fashionable.
"The doors before the throne room, yes. How long have you been standing there?"
"I don't know, are we dead?"
"I don't think so. Freya explained that we needed to die to see Cathbhadh. And her death should be sufficient to get me here."
She nodded. "Were you really knocked out when Lancelot sacrificed himself? Were you really planning on closing the Veil with your own soul?"
"Yes, I probably need to get with Merlin on the details though. You saw Lancelot's death?"
"I just don't understand you, Arthur. Merlin was there, only a peasant and your servant to your knowledge. You were the future king of Camelot. Your death would have caused a lot more trouble than his. Why not have him go instead?"
"There's no point being a king of people I'm not willing to die for, I wouldn't be worthy of the task. It's why I'm here, now, Morgana."
"But you would have died," she shook her head and muttered, "you don't make any sense."
The double doors creaked, popped open a crack.
That was their cue. It felt a little like years ago, walking in to face his father. "Together?"
Her hand was already raised to slip into the crook of his elbow. Old comforts.
They pushed, and the doors opened on smooth hinges. The hall stretched deep and forlorn. No humans filled the space save for a man at the far end, sitting atop a golden throne, grinning with a goat's face.
A regal, dark purple doublet swaddled him, and hooves poked out of the sleeves. He wore dark trousers and boots, and around his head a crown of thorns, but really it was the head worth looking at. He had one, large, curling horn growing above his right ear. And above his left, a shattered stump.
Cathbhadh, because it must be, reached into the air at his side and plucked out of it the bundle of white cloth Arthur had carried to the Isle. He unwound the bundle and let the shards spill onto the ground.
His voice rasped and growled, the words not quite clearly formed. "How pleasant that the humans that caused this have come to visit me."
Morgana audibly gulped. Arthur said, "I've come to make amends."
Cathbhadh bleated, and settled back into the throne. "I don't think killing you will make up for the loss, but I'll make it slow."
Not going well. He put his hand to Excalibur, and the scabbard buzzed in anger. Not yet.
Morgana stepped in with a distraction, as he knew she would. "Why are you lounging in Camelot's throne room? Where are we really?"
Cathbhadh trailed his gaze from the stained glass windows through to the arched ceiling. "Why be somewhere I've always been, when I had all of your memories to choose from?"
"If you have my memories, then you know I've lost my magic. If you return it, I can heal your horn–"
The room grew. Or they shrunk. Soon the both of them were no taller than a boot, staring down the length of the throne room to a giant who sneered down its snout at them. "I have power. If it could be healed, I'd do it, fool girl."
"Then accept my sacrifice," she burst. She dropped to one knee. "You helped the Priestesses once before. Help us again. Offer another Horn to help bring the Triple Goddess's blessing back to the Isle, and I will give you my afterlife."
Cathbhadh rolled his head to the side, its pitch dark eyes staring her down.
Arthur and Morgana grew slightly, slowly, approaching the height of a small child, while Cathbhadh blinked at them.
"In this proposal, you gain everything, and I lose my other Horn. And I trade it for a servant I'd tire of in a few centuries?"
It must need something. Arthur was no trademaster, but if he could find what Cathbhadh needed, then perhaps it would give them what they wanted.
What did it need? They knew so little about it.
The Priestesses had gotten a Horn from it before, though it didn't look like a clean break.
Cathbhadh had created this throne room from their memories, and had said he hadn't seen it before. Maybe it couldn't leave and see the world. Maybe it was trapped. "I have another proposal."
Cathbhadh's large goat eyes turned to him.
"Spirit Lord of the Isle is an important and enviable position, but perhaps you'd like to visit the present world? Your Horn can pull souls from the Spirit World. If you gave it to us, we could call you forth."
Cathbhadh stared, then its goat face smirked. "Exactly what I was promised the first time." Its hoofs clacked softly as it tapped them together. "Well, as always, I enjoyed hearing what my dead souls will bargain for their lives, but the time for bargaining is over."
"Think carefully on my offer, Cathbhadh," Arthur said, grabbing Excalibur's hilt. "I won't make it a second time."
"Gutsy," Cathbhadh said.
Arthur unsheathed Excalibur, and gold light streamed off of the blade. It shook in his hands, screeching, furious.
The throne room began to rip apart, melting into the mist he'd spent so long walking through. He had no idea what was going on, but felt he had to trust Excalibur. "Keep hold of me!"
Morgana grabbed his cloak, and they sprinted forward, sword raised as Cathbhadh was forcibly shrunk back to their height. Its goat eyes widened and Arthur swung– swiping for its head, Morgana diving. The throne room ripped the rest of the way apart.
Mist flooded the chamber and Arthur's gut swooped as something yanked him into the sky.
The goat's raspy growl screamed after them. "You will never enter this realm again!"
His body forgot time, life went dark, then in a stomach-churning slam his body caught up with his mind, and he was falling to his knees in a pool of water.
Morgana toppled next to him, holding the freshly hewn Horn.
And Merlin, glowing gold in the shadow of the Isle, turned to him in fury. "What were you thinking– ah!" He winced, hard, clutching at his skull.
Gold swirled not just in his eyes but about his body. Patches of skin shifted into tightly wound golden chords, his fingers shimmering and disappearing into air.
"Are you alright? What's happening to him?" Arthur turned to Morgana who looked just as confused.
"Shut up, just shut up," Merlin groaned with his eyes squeezed shut, and Arthur felt that hadn't been directed at them.
"If he just ripped us out of the Spirit World using your sword," Morgana guessed, "Then I doubt he's doing alright. Only a gatekeeper can do that."
Merlin bled, slowly, back to his normal coloring. He winced, but was able to open his eyes and stand straight. "I think I made it worse, I had to use Albion's magic to jump straight from Camelot to here, and to tear open the Veil."
Merlin grimaced, perhaps remembering why, and leveled a glare at Arthur. "What were you thinking? You could have died. You promised you weren't going to do anything stupid, and that you'd have the halfpenny no matter what." He kicked at the terrible faerie circle, which was in near ruins now, likely due to Merlin. "So you immediately get rid of it and waltz off to the Spirit World. I couldn't find you. I thought you were dead."
"We were perfectly safe," Morgana said primly, "Though we thank you for your unexpected, but timely, services."
Merlin couldn't roll his eyes hard enough. He swiveled, stomping away, splashing up water as he left them in the Lake of Avalon.
Morgana chuckled in delight, clutching the Horn to her chest.
"Can you help him?"
She turned to him in surprise. "He's just a bit peeved, Arthur, he'll get over it."
"Not that, this issue with magic he's been having. It's something messed up with the Veil, apparently." He put finger quotes around that, still not quite understanding it.
Morgana frowned, tapping a chipped nail on the gleaming bone of the Horn, reminding Arthur of that furious shriek that had followed them out of the Spirit World. I better be sure to die far away from here.
"He's shown me magic before, it's beautiful, and definitely nothing any magic user has seen before. And he just ripped us out of the Spirit World. If he's ripped into the Magic Realm then he could be simultaneously in, or near, all three realms."
"And what would that mean?"
"I have no idea." She looked down at the Horn. "But with this, as soon as we have the proper faerie circle fully repaired, we can start interviewing the dead."
Arthur nodded, and got to his feet. "Just don't interview Cathbhadh."
"I might just so I can laugh at that goat."
"Morgana," he nearly argued, but saw the twinkle in her eye. In the back of his heart, his old fondness for her warmed. He tried to crush it, kill the trust, but it was hard at this moment. Having just torn through the Spirit World on an impossible mission with her, and seeing her staring gleefully up at him hoping he'd share her joke, it was too easy to want her as an ally again.
Before he could think too much, he reached a hand out to help her up. "Come on. Let's head him off before he sets the dragon on us."
Losing My Religion sung by Bellsaint
Footnotes:
(1) The Horn of Cathbhadh is used in the show, and I use it again in Part 2. The last we hear is Arthur smashed it to trap Uther's soul again. The fact that Cathbhadh is a fae that is half goat, half human and Lord of the Spirits is me making things up.
(2) The halfpenny, mentioned so many times in this story starting from the very first chapter of the first part. Its a spell tied to another halfpenny Merlin has that he carries in his boot.
(3) The concept of a faerie circle is nothing new, and the show uses a Stonehenge style circle of stones as a faerie circle. The idea that the faerie circle is making a physical crystal in the Spirit World and likely a magical spell in the Magic Realm which is what traps them, I enjoy.
One of my favorite chapters, for sure. Thanks to Linorian for the body-swap idea! She has these fantastic dice connected to a list of problems that she can roll when we need some writing juice. A random dice roll and it became such a cool aspect of the story!
Small things that didn't get limelight for plot reasons, but that I enjoy: Mordred is still unsure about speaking aloud, and is soft-spoken and quiet. I think that's a likely transition from the mute little boy he was, to the normal young adult from Season 5. I like that more and more magical folk are showing up at the Isle and slowly cleaning and building it back up. I also think Arthur would be very broken up about what he learned about Freya, and would have a long conversation with Gwen about it tonight. I also like that Morgana was attacked by the Eancanah in almost exactly the same way Merlin was in Season 5, then found herself trapped in a crystal later on.
Next time: Devoured. Whatever's chasing Merlin is getting very close now.