Chapter 4: Here Be Dragons
(Past)
Merlin made it to the clearing, to the rise of damp, black-green grass in the center and the stars overhead when he'd collapsed himself down to resting.
Not his stars, though. There had been subtle changes that were casually overlooked in the array of nighttime heavens wheeling overhead, too slowly for comprehension – and yet at the same time, incredibly swiftly, given the distance and scale.
Frogs. Little green tree-frogs stretching their throats for their own reasons, and crickets fiddling away with their legs.
Merlin breathed and existed, part of the world and yet out of place – and surprisingly lonely, for that. Closing his eyes, he drifted into imagining the touch of caring hands, the low murmur of concerned voices in the nighttime noises around him… and yet it was only the wind teasingly plucking at his clothes, only the shuffle of breezes sliding between the leaves of the trees surrounding the clearing.
He missed Gaius, whom he'd gotten a second chance to see, but not for long enough. He missed those he had left behind, all his other friends, and especially... He also missed the sense of confidence, facing an unprecedented magical challenge, that Arthur's faith gave him. If Arthur believed he could do it… then it became possible.
Deliberately he relaxed every muscle, even the tiny stubborn ones in his fingers and jaw and eyelids, letting go of consciousness to sink to a particular level where a meeting of minds was possible.
Kilgarrah, he said, deep enough in the sleeping trance to reach out.
Merlin? A tone of mild incredulity. This is a pleasant surprise – I didn't expect you would learn this method of connection and communication for…
Another year and a half? Merlin guessed, amused. You weren't wrong.
Sense of the great inhuman awareness scrutinizing his essence, and it felt very like the dream of being caressed and cradled by someone who loved him. I see. So it's happened – you have come into your own past to save yourself.
That's the plan, he answered lightly. I suppose you knew all along that things would happen like this.
I was not unaware of your path… or the witch's.
Hm. Merlin was aware that his own choices within the last ten years, after returning with more than a glimpse of the future that lay before them, had given him a greater understanding of Kilgarrah's cryptic words, insistences, silences. Sometimes you just couldn't help getting involved, even when you suspected it was a bad idea, and you knew what would happen anyway. Kilgarrah… do you know where Morgana is now?
It is irrelevant what I know. You do not know.
Merlin couldn't tell if the dragon was referring to himself as the older version, or his missing younger self. Yes, but what difference does it make if you tell me where she was, at this point in my past?
Should I tell you, and send you after her with strictures not to let her escape punishment this time? Do you believe you could win this victory by these means, in this time? Would you spend your time harrying her and neglect the ritual to return your younger self to your rightful time?
He considered it, and it was a very real temptation.
Just as he'd honestly struggled against Morgana in the future, her greater experience and skills than his younger self brought forward with him, so might a younger Morgana struggle to defy the control and strength he'd earned with ten extra years.
Then again, that had never been the issue. He'd held back, again and again when he was young, finding killing distasteful and the impulse to it unsettling. Arthur felt the same way – but the heat of battle and a king's judgments in defense of his people easily allowed him to guard more personal feelings and reactions.
Was it possible that he'd allowed himself to unleash the power and rage against Morgana since his time as a younger man in the future, in all the years he'd had to face her again after coming back – not because he no longer feared discovery and rejection, but because deep in his bones he knew it wouldn't happen? He couldn't defeat her and destroy her again – after he'd done it as a young man, and it hadn't happened to her yet.
I wonder if it would do any good to find her and… try kindness again, he mused, an intellectual curiosity rather than an emotional one. When he returned to Camelot in his own time, ten years from now, she'd be gone. Never to threaten them again; it would be a new age of peace, such as they'd never had before…
If he returned. But it was no good dwelling on that.
That was always your failing. An inclination to soft-heartedness and showing mercy to undeserving enemies.
That was always my redemption, he argued. And mercy isn't mercy if someone deserves it.
You've allowed her words to take root in your heart?
Also true, he supposed. She'd screamed words of blame, snapped recrimination, gloated over his regrets in every one of their altercations since that day in the throne room with the hemlock tasteless in the water he never wanted to give her, even before he knew about her own part in that plot against Camelot and Arthur.
I didn't want to do it. Your choice left me with little other…
And the what-ifs could eat a person alive if allowed.
What if I'd told you about the sleeping spell and its sole remedy…
A hundred and one different reactions that might have been possible, with a young lady so mercurial already, and agitated further by circumstances. He'd had a sampling of her thoughts and feelings over the years, they all had.
~ Arthur. What a surprise to see you. Merlin hasn't poisoned you by now? – he does that to his friends, you know.
~You were just jealous, weren't you. You guessed I would be more powerful, more daring than you could ever become. You knew if magic was free soon everybody and their neighbor would be more powerful than you, and you couldn't stand the idea.
~ What a coward you were! You thought if my magic was discovered, so would yours be! You knew my friends might help me escape, but they'd gladly and disgustedly watch you burn!
There was no reaching her, no reasoning with her. Not for him, or for Arthur, or Gwen, or any one of them. And no one else cared enough to try to reclaim her to the light…
I wish I could change what happened to her, he told Kilgarrah with a silent sigh. I always have wished that. One moment… and everything that came after it.
It was not that moment that decided her fate… nor you.
You've told me that so many times, he reminded his dragon kin, amused again.
And you still resist belief?
I have learned better than to believe in what I think you've said. Startled silence, and Merlin smiled to himself to have achieved that. Never mind. I just thought… if Morgana was in trouble, now, I might be able to…
Reveal your older self in her present, and give her ideas about meddling with time?
Huh. No… But I could do it anonymously. She doesn't know that Merlin and the old man she calls Emrys are the same person, in this time.
And do you know how she discovered your identity?
Yeah. Mordred. He didn't respond, not wanting to hear another I-told-you-so. And yet, he didn't feel any responsibility to discover Mordred's current whereabouts, to try to better the druid boy's life for the next ten years.
Maybe because Morgana's spite, as twisted and black as it had become, had some rationality to it. Her desire to rule, to be the law-maker, meant Arthur was in her way, but it was seated in the facts of her heritage. And Arthur was also the son of the man who'd significantly complicated her life, over and over, without himself offering her any hope of rescue.
But Mordred had no legitimate personal quarrel with Arthur; rather he should have been indebted to the man who'd saved his life as a child. His malice against the king was solely a revenge against Merlin, a deep and venomous desire to hurt Merlin as much as it was possible.
And there were memories. Arthur bloodied, gasping – going still and blank, even if only momentarily. Merlin's world stopping – the universe stopping… It was an ugly, desperate feeling and he hated it.
It wasn't because I slipped up, he finally answered.
That's as it may be. So, young warlock, have you contacted me this time for advice or for aid?
Ah. Neither? I thought, as a courtesy, I should inform you of what's happened. And… damn him, maybe, but he couldn't resist – offer you information about any event in the next ten years you might be curious about, or unclear on?
I beg your pardon?
Merlin received the distinct impression that the ancient dragon had snorted a little fire with the offended smoke. Is there anything you'd like to know about the future? he repeated. I remember the times I asked for your aid or advice, and what you told me, if you'd like me to repeat the words so you will know what to say.
You… have grown annoyingly confident, young warlock. Perhaps that is to be your downfall.
I apologize for teasing you, Kilgarrah, Merlin repented – well aware that Kilgarrah saw into his future, even if not as clearly as he himself had seen the next ten years of his younger self's time. Actually, I do have a question for you, if that's all right?
Silence. Merlin decided that was permission enough, under the circumstances.
Tonight I attempted the traveling spell, and it wouldn't complete – it didn't even begin. Is that due to the exhaustion of undergoing this switch with my younger self, and will it wear off soon?
It may be that the spell of exchange could not have worked upon someone with lesser magic than you, Merlin, or with no magic at all. It should have been beyond the witch's abilities, even in ten years… but if the spell took strength from you, then it is not merely the residual shock of moving through time that exhausts you. The traveling spell you speak of is also very delicate and uncertain magic, and not to be trifled with – I am not surprised that it should not work for you after such an ordeal, and you were very lucky that nothing worse than nothing happened. If you are to complete the ritual returning your two selves to your proper time in a fortnight, you will have to minimize your use of magic, and save your strength for the true trial.
It's not a fortnight. It's a week.
Hm.
It'll be all right, I'll manage, he reassured Kilgarrah. When I was ten years younger, I returned from the future without any problem.
Is that so.
Yes, it is.
Contemplative silence for a moment. In ten years time, young warlock, am I quit of the affairs of men?
Not entirely, Merlin replied gently, and glad he could answer so. That Kilgarrah had not joined Gaius in leaving his life for the final time.
Ah. So I must endure, it seems.
Yes, please.
Very well, my lord. Courage and strength be yours this seven-day as you seek to right the witch's wrongs, one last time.
And, Kilgarrah – thank you for everything. Merlin drifted deeper into slumber, disconnecting from the current of their connection.
In spite of the fact that he laid on the hard earth to sleep, reality rocked and rippled underneath him, lulling and soothing him with scraps of memories – Gwen's smile. Arthur's laugh. Gwaine nudging Leon with an elbow and Leon ignoring him. Percival's blush at the first wink from his lady… All that was awaiting his return to his own time, ten years from now. All that made life and sacrifice worthwhile.
He couldn't believe that he might lose it all… couldn't even contemplate…
The ripples fractured beneath him, hardening as he came aware of just how stiff and sore his body was; sleeping out was a miserable proposition anymore…
Not quite dawn. Everything luminescent with faint pearly gray.
Vibrations in the ground under him that muscles remembered with spiking alarm even before he consciously recognized – the sound and earth-echo of horses' hooves.
He clawed his way upright, scanning instinctively back toward Camelot. A patrol?
A search party.
A hunting party. Snatching up the drawstring bag of his supplies, he rolled to his feet and ran.
…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..
(Future)
Merlin was used to waking at first light, or before the walls and ceiling of his room showed gray to the far corners. He was not, however, used to this room. Not any longer.
As quietly as he could, he pulled his boots back on his feet and tucked his jacket under his arm. If Alice had slept in the main room the way Gaius had always done, he'd slip out and make his way to the well in the side courtyard for a quick wash, before…
Before what?
Merlin paused, seated on the bed, unsure. It had been a very long time since he'd had to ask anyone else, What am I supposed to do now.
But, what was he supposed to do, now?
The duties and routines of his older self, bumping and knocking at every step into things he'd rather not know? Keep his head down and do what he knew needed doing – except, did he still fetch Arthur's breakfast and wake and ready him for the day?
Not if the king had another manservant…
He was wholly displaced. What would he do without-
Merlin straightened, frowning at himself. No one could replace him in his destiny. He still had a responsibility – even if Arthur had repealed the Ban and welcomed magic back to Camelot – didn't he?
Just like he always had. Handle whatever malevolent magic came their way, bear whatever burden of knowledge or necessity was required, that Arthur might go on being who he was and doing what he did, for the good of the rest of the kingdom. And maybe it would be different, when Arthur knew… but Merlin couldn't shy from this and let others protect him.
Gaius was gone. The last one who had protected him as a boy.
Time to face this like a man.
He stood and crossed to the door, but it didn't creak anymore. New hinges, maybe.
Alice's form was a motionless blanketed shape on one of the two cots, just visible beside the three-paneled screen angled to provide privacy from the rest of the room. Merlin balanced his weight on his toes, crossing the chamber. There was water, but if he washed or drank, she might hear and wake, and he didn't want to disturb her any more.
He let himself out of the physician's quarters, and jogged down the tower stairs. He'd visit the well in the side courtyard, then see how things stood in the kitchen – at least they could tell him if he was meant to shop for the supplies for his own meals in the market, or… or if he lived with someone else, now, where he'd be within his rights to raid the larder.
The courtyard was dim, his boots soft on the cobblestones; a pair of relaxed guards and the sounds of other servants were easy to avoid. The corner of his eye caught movement overhead – a cloud? He twisted instinctively, scanning the lightening pearl of the sky, and-
Merlin!
The voice was familiar, and yet not. It was similar to the voice he'd heard his first week in Camelot – Merlin, Merlin, Merlin! – til he ventured far below ground to discover-
That wasn't Kilgarrah's voice, though. The great dragon sounded brittle and bitter; he spoke slowly and deliberately and sardonically, resisting Merlin's pleas as if simply for sport or pastime before grudgingly relenting.
A thought struck Merlin sideways, and he spun on his heel, sprinting careless of the noise he made or the attention he drew, around the corner, out to the busier front courtyard, his heart hammering in his chest. A handful of people scattered, hurrying to make space without panicking, glances curious and wondering, as-
The white dragon, as large as a long-necked, claw-footed horse with a wingspan as wide as a house, settled delicately to the cobblestones, craning his head around to see Merlin. The round scaly skull he remembered was ridged now down the center with regular lumps and he realized with a transcendent joy that Aithusa was going to have spikes marching from nose to neck. Someday, maybe centuries after Merlin was gone.
But-
"Aithusa!" he gasped, jogging closer. "Look at you, you're enormous!"
No one was screaming or pointing, though many had stopped to watch. How long would it take for word to reach those responsible for sounding the alarm bells – how long til Merlin could relax and trust, it wasn't going to happen?
Just inside the barbicon, he glimpsed Gwaine, in a knee-length full-sleeve jacket like the proper noble knight he wasn't – in company with the two young siblings Merlin had met in Gaius'… in the physician's chamber the previous night. They'd noticed Aithusa – and him, probably. Gwaine was pointing an order up the main stairs, and the girl pulled her clearly reluctant brother along, as Gwaine turned his steps toward Merlin.
"What are you doing here?" he continued, addressing the dragon's landing inside Camelot's walls.
"You called me." Aithusa's voice was deeper than Kilgarrah's, oddly enough, the timbre pitched lower, but also completely level, no rise and fall.
"No, I didn't," Merlin contradicted, unable to keep from trying to absorb every inch of the young dragon – the delicate stretch of wings, the gleaming pearl of every scale. The length of talons and tail, and the bronzy depth of his eyes.
"Yes, you did. You called me here." Aithusa leaned forward, twining his neck around Merlin as if to view him from behind.
He watched the white dragon bemusedly over his shoulder, shivering at the hot breath twitching at the back of his trousers and shirt. "How could I?" he answered. "I only just got here myself – I would have remembered."
"You can't remember if you haven't done it yet," Gwaine interjected, joining them. "Morning, Aithusa – he's right, though, Merlin, you did call him here, the first time. Every once in a while since then, and he comes on his own just as often."
Haven't done it yet. Merlin, almost understanding, said, "When did I call you?"
"He came… almost a year after this week, in your time," Gwaine said, leaning into a slouch in Aithusa's direction. A thrill shot up Merlin's spine to see so good a friend so comfortable with the young dragon. "I think you'd been calling him for a while before that, though."
That didn't make sense. If he'd called Aithusa as a dragonlord – he'd have had to obey, and come.
Aithusa bent his head – similar size and shape to that of a horse – nearer Merlin. The darkness hurt and hurt and hurt and the light was far away and she screamed and sobbed until it felt like we were growing into each other – but I heard your voice and I tried and tried and one day I was big enough and strong enough to leave the small darkness behind. And the world was bigger and brighter than I remembered - and it was just me and I thought I would be lonely but then I found you. He stretched and shivered out his wings, claws rasping on the cobblestones and myriad small scales whispering as they shifted along and over each other with his movement.
It was unsettling to hear him speak so eloquently in such a dry matter-of-fact voice. Merlin had to focus beyond the words to realize, "Someone caught you and caged you? When was that?"
"Early. I was younger, then."
Merlin sighed. Aithusa was another regret he carried close to his heart, another fear of a wrong done through careless or misplaced compassion. He had no one to teach him how to be a dragonlord; though he felt he ought to raise Aithusa, it didn't reassure him completely when Kilgarrah discounted that human instinct. In any case, he couldn't have managed it at the time of the hatching, not and meet the demands of his destiny with Arthur also. The thought that he should have saved and protected the egg against the time and place he could have devoted fuller attention to a hatchling dragon was moot afterwards. Maybe he gave in too quickly to Kilgarrah's insistence upon freedom for a new dragon, and maybe waiting for an optimal time would have become an excuse.
Like revealing his magic to Arthur. Always another reason not to.
"But you broke free, and… you're allowed here in Camelot, now?" he said, to be sure.
Yes, it had been ten years, and Aithusa surely never had shown any aggression toward the people, not with Merlin there to stop and steady him, and his size wasn't intimidating like Kilgarrah's was, but… Merlin couldn't overcome incredulity so quickly.
"He's welcome." Gwaine reached out to press the backs of his fingernails against the underside of Aithusa's wing, just where it stretched from his shoulder. A familiar gesture to both of them; Aithusa lifted his wing like a hound leaning into a scratch behind the ear or under the collar. "Arthur likes this one better than the big one, doesn't he?"
"Everyone likes this one better than the big one," Aithusa agreed contentedly.
Merlin choked on a laugh. So Arthur had met Kilgarrah? He wondered if he could possibly manage to avoid that meeting, whenever he went back and lived along to it. Where is Kilgarrah?
He's retreated to a place in the White Mountains, Aithusa informed him. To anticipate the end of his life in a few years…
Bittersweet news. Melancholy satisfaction.
Contemplation and self-examination. He doesn't move from his chosen place, anymore. Aithusa's private voice lowered a single degree. He's old, and ill-tempered. He tells me what to do, but he won't explain why. I get quite impatient with that, sometimes.
Honestly? Me, too. Merlin grinned at the white dragon and added aloud, "So I called a dragon to Camelot, and Arthur just… let me?"
"Well, not exactly," Gwaine hedged amiably. "He didn't stop you. I guess you'd discussed it beforehand."
But Aithusa bent his head and stretched his neck, leaning the skull-bumps that would becomes spikes into Merlin's middle, up his stomach to his forehead, where he rested against the dragon he hadn't seen since infancy.
Do you see the future, Aithusa? he asked. Like Kilgarrah does?
The white dragon hummed through their connection, and it vibrated to Merlin's spine, teeth to toes. I see you.
Really? What do you see?
You are afraid of the future. You are afraid for others to see your magic. To know you. The law in your time might require your life, but… more than that, you fear being left alone. That Gaius is gone, and Kilgarrah – and no one expects their parent to outlive them. But you expect those closest, those heart-trusted, you expect them to turn from you, when they see your magic. When they know what you've done.
He didn't know what to say. How to breathe. Where to turn from the light of the truth – too hot, too bright.
Do not fear to look around you. To see what you will build – to see what is built by those you love. There will be loss – such is life. But do not fear that you can lose this, that somehow you will miss this golden time, through saying or doing the wrong thing – or not saying or doing the right thing. This is, and we are – you can not lose us. You must only be patient to find us again. Do you understand?
You're saying… Merlin was going to sob, or laugh, or both, but he was definitely going to embarrass himself. That I could lock myself in a tower for ten years, and all this would still come about?
Gently – But you wouldn't lock yourself in a tower.
Because I didn't, and I know that? Because everyone told me I didn't, and I have no choice but to obey?
Because you wouldn't.
So – everything I'm going to do and say or not do and say… is exactly right?
Aithusa huffed, rocking Merlin's whole body, and lifted his head just enough that Merlin was able to rest his forehead against the scales of his nose, warm and smelling of wild dragon magic. Of course not. I'm saying even your worst mistakes cannot destroy this dream – for it isn't a dream.
He might have been crying again, involuntary tears seeping one by one. He could feel Gwaine's hand, the weight of comfort and comradeship on his shoulder, and could not help thinking of the last time these two were in such close proximity.
"Gwaine?" he said aloud, not pushing back from Aithusa or lifting his head. "I suppose I have some explaining to do… About the time we went to Ashkenar's tomb?"
"Ah," Gwaine said, sounding exactly like himself behind Merlin. "No, my very young friend, don't worry about that. We've talked it through."
Merlin turned, giving his eyes a quick rub with his sleeve, and Aithusa lifted his head again, setting him back on his heels.
Gwaine grinned ruefully behind the touch of gray in his beard. "If it makes you feel better in the moment, I'm sorry too," he added. "One of my regrets is that I didn't see you as well as you saw me, or understand you well enough. I think we all said that – if we knew about your magic, back then, we could have been better friends to you. We've done a pretty decent job making up for it, I hope. We talked about it, after you got back to your rightful time – and we all got as drunk as lords, after that. No offense, Arthur."
"None taken."
Merlin spun the other way to see that the king had descended the main courtyard stairs at some point during his conversation with the white dragon, and seated himself on the third highest, more comfortable being informal now than he had been in Merlin's memory and time. Less bound to prove himself with adherence to protocol, maybe. It suited him, the lazy manner of owning the stone itself, the courtyard he surveyed, the air he breathed, simply because he was there.
"I knew you felt like he should be the first to know," Gwaine said in Merlin's ear. "You weren't wrong to keep your secret til he was ready to listen. If you want my opinion. Again."
Merlin glanced back to catch the roguish smirk that was so familiar it warmed and steadied him like the sun after a thunderstorm. He wasn't sure he deserved this, actually – such steadfast friendship, after the way he'd inadvertently treated them. Treated him.
"I am sorry," he said.
"I know," Gwaine responded, shifting back as the king pushed himself to his feet, preparing to join them.
Aithusa resettled himself deliberately, curling his wings slightly fuller, and arching his neck. And when the king halted, he bowed head and shoulders just as purposefully.
"Good morning, Aithusa. I should have guessed you'd visit us this week at your earliest convenience."
"I missed him," Aithusa said simply.
The king smiled up at the dragon, sunny boyish majesty because he let the emotion free and didn't pull it back self-consciously. It drew Merlin's attention again to the scar crinkled at the corner of his eye. "I want to speak to you later."
"Whenever you like," Aithusa responded, gathering himself for flight. "Merlin – I'll be close if you need me."
What a promise. The very definition of friendship, and as much as any man had a right to hope for, in life.
Merlin nodded, and the white dragon leaped skyward, wings scooping at the air to lift him, tossing it down to buffet them til he was above the battlements – but Merlin was awed to watch as he climbed the wind and chose to perch atop the third-highest tower of the citadel.
"Gwaine," the king said. "The council is convening. Tell them I'll be there shortly."
"Sire," Gwaine said, inclining his head in a gesture of abbreviated respect and obedience that became a nod of temporary farewell to Merlin. He jogged away and Merlin watched his departure also, gratified to see that the knight moved with fluid grace and confidence. No crippling wounds in his future, then.
"Merlin," the king said.
And that tone, he knew also. Resisted, and avoided.
Merlin's feet moved in the direction Gwaine had gone, and his answering glance noted the king's medallion over Arthur's deep-blue shirt, beneath a knee-length and sleeveless tanned jacket, left unfastened.
"Am I to attend you in the council?" he asked. "I was going to… um, present myself and ask – what exactly are my duties these days?"
The king strode with him, but more slowly so that Merlin was forced to check his pace to match. And maybe the king did that on purpose. "You're not going to be expected to fulfill your regular duties – those you're used to, or those we're used to. I think it would be better for you to avoid the council…" Wry humor in his tone; they'd always complained to each other about those meetings. "And depend upon me or Gwaine or Leon or Percival or…"
He stopped, at the head of the stair, and Merlin wished he had a reason to keep going – a destination, an excuse to holler over his shoulder and pretend he didn't hear, or understand Arthur's annoyance with his lack of cooperation. But he didn't; he could only shift around where he had to squint against the morning sun to look in the king's face, giving him a good reason not to.
"Merlin," the king said again, and this time his tone carried a faint hint of gentle reproof.
And if he knew what Arthur meant to say, probably the king knew him well enough by now to understand his reticence to hear it.
"I wanted to say I'm sorry for last night, what happened in the physician's chamber," the king told him, standing close so they would be private to each other, even though the rising morning meant increasing busyness in the courtyard, soldiers and servants passing in and out. Merlin studied his boots. "I made assumptions I shouldn't have, and reacted badly when I should have… anticipated the feelings you might experience, and… borne some of that burden for you, rather than adding to it."
Oh, it was still awkward. Hadn't the king gotten any more practice in apologies?
"It's fine," Merlin mumbled. "After all, it was my own fault, right? If I told you… when it happened…"
"No," the king said, reaching out to briefly grip Merlin's upper arm. "No, don't. I shouldn't have said anything, I don't want you to think you have to go back and do anything just because we've blundered and told you something like that. Don't try to change too much. You just… be you."
"Mistakes and all?" Merlin said lightly, daring now to squint at the king's face because they were past the moment.
The king's breath caught in his throat and once again that deep inexplicable pain flashed in unchanging blue eyes that looked at Merlin and seemed to see more than should have been possible. Like he hadn't seen Merlin in ten years. Or like he didn't expect ever to…
"Mistakes," the king repeated huskily. "And all." He cleared his throat, and whatever that had been was gone again. "So this council meeting, but then I'm with you the rest of the day. No duties for you but what you choose. Have you eaten? I can have something sent up to my quarters if you prefer – if you're worried you might run into someone or something that will tell or show you more than you want to know about this time."
"No duties?" Merlin repeated lightly. That never happened. When Arthur allowed him free time, Gaius always needed help with something. "But – am I restricted to your chambers?"
"No duties," the king emphasized. "Do what you like. Go where you like… ah, within the citadel, preferably."
"Not to the lower town?" Merlin said, puzzled. Not that he'd particularly wanted to, but…
"You'll be safer here. If Morgana or any of her allies tries to attack you – she will eventually, that's what she's brought you here for."
"Because…" Merlin said, still confused at the thought that the guards of the citadel could effectively protect him from Morgana. Wasn't that backwards? Maybe through sheer numbers, but that would mean casualties, too... "Oh! Because there are other magic-users here? But can any of them match Morgana in a fight?"
The king didn't answer the question, beginning to move away again. "Because abaedath have been placed on the citadel."
Merlin almost choked to hear the term of magic – describing shields or wards, defensive spells or charms - coming so casually and freely from Arthur's mouth.
"I said, why not the whole town – or the whole kingdom. It's something to do with the size of the space being shielded, and the strength of spell needed…"
Merlin nodded dazedly. Somehow they'd managed the entire citadel? Permanently? The idea of casting such a thing, even if it could remain dormant til needed, was daunting.
"We can fit everyone in here if need be," the king ended his explanation, turning to stride away to the council room.
True. But there wasn't always time for evacuation…
Merlin watched the king disappear around the corner – he still didn't wear his crown to council meetings? Maybe for audiences… Uther had rarely removed his.
Then he realized – "Gwaine is on the council?"
…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..
(Past)
Of course Arthur was the foremost horseman. Merlin had no time to recognize any of the others.
Scramble up, snatch his drawstring bag – with appropriate care for precious contents – stumble heavily-stiffly-desperately for the far side of the clearing.
Thunder of the horses' hooves vibrating under his soles, the shouts of the riders-
Incongruously, "Stop! Stop right there!"
And, "Come on! Faster, boy! Hyah!"
Into the trees – through the underbrush – can't trip. Can't… trip. Down that hill, up the next, swerve to the north…
Merlin figured, he was familiar enough with Camelot ten years from the present, he could have lost the tracking party in less than an hour. As it was, he kept-
That stand of beeches were just saplings! No cover - dodge southeast down the bank and splash through the-
Stream that should have been waist-deep here! and he could have ducked below the surface and floated up or downstream, magic aiding a hidden escape because he could hold his breath til he was far enough away. It barely splashed over the tops of his boots, soaking his feet without giving him anything more useful.
Dammit.
Growing desperation burned in his chest, rose in his throat with every panting-gasping breath.
When he stopped, his side burst an entire row of stitches.
When he heard hoofbeats – or voices calling in a search to collectively regain his tracks – and he started again, charcoal spots gathered around the corners of his vision. His muscles throbbed and his skin wept sweat from every inch, dampening his clothing into clinging and chafing.
Diverting and diverting again, he angled his course toward the thickest parts of the forest, where the ground was broken, cracked too widely to leap across, sunken too low to jump down. Places where horses slowed his pursuers.
Magic didn't help much. He could burrow under the thickets, freeze and hold his breath and erase his tracks as far as he could see his backtrail, or cling like a ground-squirrel to the trunk of a tree and veil himself from sight, but he daren't use too much, after Kilgarrah's warning.
But Arthur was good at this. And he brought men who were good at this. He knew his land, and Merlin could not shake them.
It hurt to know he was the reason Arthur wouldn't let himself be shaken.
About midday, he finally managed to gain a quarter-hour lead. Forcing leaden limbs to stretch and climb and ignoring the stickiness and snapping twigs, he made his way up an old spruce, hidden quite comfortably by the thick needles – unless they were keeping an eye on trees that afforded that possibility… But rather than erasing his tracks, he deliberately created more, onward from where he was. Not too obvious, and following the course he would have chosen, on foot.
Then he waited, trying to slow his breathing and calm his heart and rest, feeling through the burlap of his sack that nothing had been damaged through all the bumping and banging about. Sweat slid down his body and his ribs cramped together unhappily.
And there they came – on foot themselves to rest their mounts, their pace held to follow his tracks rather than chase a visible target, but inexorable. Percival was the only one he recognized in spite of distance and branches and needles in the way, but Merlin watched long enough to tell that they were eating, as they moved. Flat-bread, or dried meat or fruit…
His stomach pinched him, grumbling softly to itself. He hadn't had a chance even for the supplies Gaius could spare.
Arthur halted a dozen paces from the base of the spruce, and Percival paused next to him, though the others continued. If they looked up – if they saw him…
They couldn't get him down without chopping the tree, and he could prevent them doing that. They could wait him out, if they had the patience for it. But he had to get down eventually, and if he wanted to do it without being captured or seriously injured, it meant more magic, recognizable magic. Push them back, blind them momentarily, drop branches to make them scramble far enough to break ranks and allow him passage and time for escape – defensive magic often turned into an attack.
Damn that traveling spell and its fickle response. Damn the need to save his strength…
Expend magic, and saunter away somewhere to eat and rest. And maybe get to the end of the week and try to complete the ritual, and he was certain he would be successful, except…
Maybe only half successful.
"…Not heading in a straight line," Percival was saying. "Not to the border. Not to her."
"Because he knows better than to lead us to her," Arthur responded. "She'd be furious with even an ally who gave away her position, being tracked. Until he shakes us…"
"Maybe he has another reason for staying close," Percival suggested. "He was dressed like a noble, but… Sire, we haven't caught him yet."
From above, Merlin watched Arthur's head turn completely to face the big knight. Neither of them said anything further; Percival shrugged, and Arthur strode onward, tugging at his horse's reins. If he muttered something else, Merlin wasn't sure of it.
They weren't out of sight before Merlin began to slide down – wary of any sound, jostling limb or rubbing clothing, that might catch their attention back to him, but it didn't happen.
And he turned his steps down their collective backtrail, holding a slow-jogging pace to cover ground.
They weren't more than two leagues from the citadel, here. When they reached the end of his magically-laid tracks, they'd cast about for a while. Maybe it was too much to hope that they'd blame magic for an actual disappearance, and return to Camelot, but he hoped it would take some time before they guessed what he'd actually done. And even more time before they found where he'd departed again from their backtrail. Arthur would have to be very clever and keen to find footprints facing this way.
They'd crossed a dry stream-bed half a league back. All stones and pebbles, and he could hide his tracks, turning up or down the stream's path. He hadn't before, because that was slower going and haste threatened turned ankles and capture.
Weariness dragged at him, even as birds cut the air with their chirps – warning him or each other, cheer-upping their contentment with sunshine and intermittent clouds, twittering a message of a berry bush, or a particular spread of seeds-and-bugs. The heat thumped in his temples, and each noise generated by yellowhammer or woodpecker made him flinch reactively.
The apple had been bruised by the rims of the bowls, but it was moisture as well as food and he ate it down to stem and seeds, pocketing them so Arthur's men should not find the evidence.
Rustle of squirrels and other small creatures hunting also. Further, subtler shadow of fox or marten. Quick furtive slip of grass-snake…
He drank from his waterskin and turned down the dry wash, in the direction of Glaestig. If it wasn't absolutely necessary to sleep under nothing but leaves and stars, he wouldn't choose it. He ate the bread also; if he was free from pursuit he could forage for more edibles later, and if he was to meet Gaius anyway, he could buy or barter for bread in the lower town market.
Noon was past, so the thistle would have to wait for another day, but lowlands lay just past that shallow ridge. If he'd truly lost the hunters and he was free so long as he remained cautious and lucky… if he was lucky, he'd find yellow-dock there.
Blood and water and earth, six bowls and niwiht geniwian.
I was going to say goodbye. I was going to say be careful, to all of them. I was going to say…
His boots squished through the mire, and tall reeds bent to let him pass, then obligingly concealed his presence. Yellow-dock seeds were contrarily dark purplish-red, growing in a tapering cone and often bending the stalk under their weight. He could uproot a whole plant and try to keep the roots damp in a twist of cloth, or simply – strip half a handful of the seeds and make do with magic later. Mud oozed around his soles as he crouched to balance his sack on his knees, and added the yellow-dock seeds to the same twist of cloth that kept the feverfew seeds safe.
The afternoon was warm, and the marshy low-lands shaded. Every dry screech of the cicadas, every click and chirp of grasshoppers made his eyelids feel sticky and his hands sluggish. Blisters smoldered beneath damp boot leather and socks that never had a chance to dry.
Merlin wasn't so foolish as to sprawl heat-heavy in the middle of the first patch of dry grass he found, but headed into the thicker shade of the woods. Red-orange clay packed and clung to the root-base of a tree fallen victim to a storm, rising to eye-height in a half-arch. There was a hollow just below that, where the earth had been ripped up and flung and lifted as the tree tipped, and he curled up around his drawstring bag there, hidden by tree and roots and earth.
He hadn't been so tired since…
Arthur was speaking to him. His friend looked terrible, like he hadn't slept; he was trying to tell Merlin something important, explain or apologize and he couldn't hear, and Arthur reached out and-
Clenched him with a grip like a pair of maces slammed into front and back of his shoulder simultaneously.
Merlin woke gasping in pain, twitching away – and coming face-to-snarl with one of the royal blood-hounds. Muzzle wrinkled in ferocious enmity, teeth buried to the gum in Merlin's velvet jacket, hostility rippling out from the throat in a menacing growl.
Very clearly, Hold still til the master comes to relieve my hold on you.
"Let go!" Merlin managed, trying to free a hand to grab scruff or windpipe in self-defense without leaving his weight dangling from fangs. "Off! Bad dog! Release!"
If he could only remember what their names had been, the hunting dog-pack from ten years ago.
"Don't you know my scent? Why are you-"
White-hot agony snapped around the front of his shin, yanking his attention down. A second lean blood-hound had a grip on his leg – a younger animal, maybe, it felt less certain of its intent.
"Ah! no!" Merlin panted. "Dammit – no! Turn loose!"
A dark-gray third arrived in a rush to his other side, miserable at the failure to keep up and arrive first at the prey – and blaming Merlin for the situation. It snapped at his bicep repeatedly like it had been flung a chunk of meat from the feast-table.
Instantly more excruciating than a single hard clamp.
Merlin cried out, loosing his magic involuntarily. All three dogs were flung backwards – one tumbling in a roll, one flipping up into the air before crashing down in the underbrush, one driven halfway into the earthen bulwark he'd taken refuge behind. Startled yelps – pained yelps – silence.
He whimpered. Groaned himself upright… Two were unmoving – the third tried to claw its way home, dragging limp and useless back legs.
The hunters would be close. Without the dogs, he could lose them again. Rocky ground, or enough water to wash any trace of his passage away. He searched, shivering with reaction, but saw no horsemen and heard no sound of pursuit catching up with the hounds.
Bloody hells, Arthur. No wonder the king had such difficulty working himself up to addressing any explanation of this week, much harder any details.
We hounded you for the better part of a week…
Was this as bad as it was going to get? It had only been one day.
Time felt like a trickle of water through his fingers, and he cupped them, holding time in place – wind-swept leaves motionless, bird and beast silently still. He'd have as many minutes as he had fingers, til his hands filled and time began to trickle away again, moment by moment…
Limping – though there was only the hot tickle of blood from his left bicep – Merlin headed again for Glaestig, away from the direction of the hunters and the kennel-master following his trail. He adjusted the string of the bag further up on his neck, huddling his arms to his body to decrease the pain that throbbed from elbow to temple.
There was a cabin in Glaestig that should be empty. That would afford him some shelter, and maybe some salvageable supplies. And there he could lay some magic that would shelter him as he surrendered for a second night.
A/N: Just so you know, I'm going to try to keep events chronological, so to speak, as both Merlins live through one week away from their proper time.