A/N: Really, really long. That's why it takes two weeks. You're welcome.
Chapter 6: Alarrum
(Future)
"Twenty knights usually means two of ours," Dusty explained to him off-handedly, leading him down corridors, down stairs. She was almost as fast as Arthur with a mission. "But since we expect to have to counter Morgana along with everyone she can muster against you…"
They'd eaten and discussed location and logistics, Merlin happy to leave details to the king's decision. He did not want to direct this or any campaign; he'd known since the start that he would never envy Arthur this part of his destiny, the responsibility of command.
"How many of us are there?" Merlin wondered.
She'd tied a faded orange-yellow scarf around her head, knotted at her nape to hide scalp-skin but not the shape of her skull, and it was just as unique as shaving her hair off. "You mean magic-users in Camelot, or sorcerers sworn to defense in service of the king?"
They jogged down a second set of stairs, and he felt a little like flinging his arms out at every downward jolt, the momentary swooping sensation of flying, he was so cheerful.
"Do we know how many magic-users, in Camelot?"
She tossed him a grin over her shoulder – the top of her head came barely to his nose. "Not officially, no. But I'd eat this scarf if you – or your older self, anyway – don't have a pretty good idea, who's capable and of what. At least in the citadel and lower town. There's been some guests too, that you've stuck to tighter than a tick on a hound, which makes me wonder."
He remembered a few like that, too. Something tickling in the back of his mind that wasn't quite as simple as curiosity, even if that's what he told himself. And a couple he'd missed entirely, somehow.
"Where are we going?"
"Just here," she said, turning with a flare of crimson knee-length skirt.
It was a door-size arch, comfortable enough for Percival and a cousin to saunter through without crowding each other, and a sort of antechamber the size of his own back room off Gaius' quarters. A padded bench and a free-standing shelf with books and jars of herbs waited at one side, but Dusty didn't pause, leading him through the iron-bound oak-plank door to an inner chamber without knocking. He paused before crossing the threshold, confused.
"This room… wasn't here, before?" he ventured. Which was stupid, and impossible to add a room inside the palace, unless…
She waited for him, unperturbed. "The library is through there." She pointed to her left, somewhere inside the room beyond. "Hidden door? Geoffrey was very unhappy at the thought of your entrance being through his library, so that wall was bricked off, and this doorway was made instead…"
He followed her as she trailed off – remembering and fascinated. The hidden room, where he'd found the goblin – oh, Arthur, the ears and the braying laugh – bald Uther's baldness slapped by the goblin inside Gaius pretending a serious, odd, seriously odd remedy…
"Did Arthur laugh when I told him about the goblin?" he murmured, lingering just inside the door. The goblin inside Gaius had tried to betray his secret to the entire court – and everyone believed Gaius when he was free of the possession and lied to protect Merlin.
The shelves had been moved to the walls, and filled. Everything was clean and organized, save for the top of the work-table, where a comfortably-padded armchair sat skewed. Toward the far wall, a screen like the one used for patient privacy in the physician's chamber, clearly dividing the chamber into halves of day and night. The foot of a bed was visible – the cover gleamed like bronzy velvet – and the blocky shape of a wardrobe.
Dusty snorted, stepping around the work-table to head for the last shelf – knowing what she was looking for, but not precisely where it was. "I don't know, I wasn't there for that. Gwaine told me, and – yes. I laughed."
The entire room thrummed with magic at several different levels, tones and volumes and patterns, some harmonic, some dissonant – none malevolent at all. It was a little like inhaling breath after breath of the airs of the kitchen during the preparation for a feast – deep and rich, tantalizing and overpowering, sweet and spicy.
She shuffled several vessels back and forth on the shelves, opening one to glance inside. Merlin wasn't sure if he should be curious, here and now. No one had said, He shouldn't see Merlin's room…
This was his room. As long as this room had been his, he'd known this switch was going to happen. The Merlin who lived here – who slept here – had told Arthur. Had worked through whatever had come after that, had fought Morgana off for years, had seen magic returned to Camelot.
Merlin stopped at the corner of the room-dividing screen, his chest tight and his vision blurred. Hope expanded, deliciously agonizing, filling all the cracks in his resolve that had opened and weathered, that he'd stitched together by telling himself, someday. Hoping he wasn't wrong, believing in Arthur more strongly than he'd ever believed in himself. Arthur would make it, he could do it, achieve all Merlin had ever dreamed and more than thought possible by the prince who again and again covered with arrogance and superiority the doubts and uncertainties he never denied with complete success, and never quite forgot. Merlin knew he could do it, but…
He'd lost hope for his own place in that Camelot.
One of the shadows, yet. Even if others were free, he'd remain shackled to his lies and his darkness. Service given so freely – but not truth, because he couldn't imagine how Arthur could hear the truth and yet trust him. Yet keep him close without cold wariness and stony caution… and he'd seen nothing like that from King Arthur.
"Are you all right?" she said.
He tried to smile, and the movement of those muscles sent tears down his face. He swiped them quickly with the heel of his hand. "Ten years ago. How would you have felt, pulled into all that your life is today? If you're happy here and now, and content, if you feel like any of your impossible dreams have come true…"
It sounded ridiculous, so he covered his mouth and shook his head at himself. She had an arm around a brass urn, and rested herself on a corner of the work-table without saying anything.
His feet didn't want to keep still, and he wandered his room as he had once wandered Gaius' chamber – this is all new, and fascinating, and strange. I wonder what this is for. I wonder what he does with that. Books and jars of powders and liquids, chunks of stone and wooden carvings, engraved metal pieces fashioned for wearing, folded lengths of silk and oilcloth and wool hiding even smaller objects that couldn't be guessed at. A chest on the floor big enough for a person to be enclosed inside, and a cabinet with doors mounted on the wall. It reminded him of the vaults below-ground, where Uther had kept his most valuable and his most dangerous treasures.
"How many of us are there?" he asked again, coming to the work-table. Pyramid of scrolls, quills and inkwells, books and a wooden box locked for privacy.
"Twenty-two," she said. "And a third again as many we can call in an emergency from elsewhere across the kingdom. A handful of apprentices, here and there."
Merlin thought he might need the chair. "I have apprentices?"
She smiled, lifting her eyebrows in something like apology. "Not anymore? Your apprentices handle the training of the new ones."
He needed the chair. Gazing down at the book open in the center of the work-space before him – his own best handwriting, and half the second page unfilled. A work in progress – he was writing a book.
"I can't do this," he said, trying to swallow joy and fear at once. "I'm not… ready. I'm not ready for this, I can't."
She leaned forward to curl her hand over his shoulder. "Yeah, you can. If it doesn't feel rude to you, I can remind you of many times you've felt like this – you hate anticipating conflict, you're much better when trouble just erupts on us and all that's needed is action. Reaction. But you always, always stand up and do an amazing job of making things work. Protecting our own and not letting our enemies win. And I'm not telling you something you'll have to go back and try to live up to, try to become – I know enough to say, you've always been like this. Back when only Gaius knew – and he always said, he knew less than half of what you did…"
He rubbed his eye with the heel of his hand again, let it flop down on top of the book. "It's odd to have people know," he admitted, not meeting her eyes. "I wonder if I – he – your Merlin, my older self, if I ever miss the secrecy. I mean, if no one knows I'm supposed to handle something, no one can be disappointed when I fail."
The rest of the pages on the right half of the book were blank and empty, waiting for him to come back and add more words. And he'd only just begun thinking, someday he was going to have to re-copy Gaius' book. There were too many added notes scrawled on the pages, scraps of drawings tucked into it, bits that were only in his head but should be written down in case someone else ever needed the knowledge.
"No one is disappointed when you fail," she said quietly. "Just like the king. Just like the knights. Even if you fail, we all know that you tried your hardest and did your best – failure doesn't indicate carelessness or half-hearted attempts. Sometimes you have to try and fail, to see what isn't going to work, til you find what is."
Was he disappointed in Arthur's failures? No – when he felt disappointment, it was when his prince and king had retreated from trying and seeking, back into resting on what was handed to him by his father. When he didn't try, when he didn't look – that was when Merlin was disappointed. Neglected potential.
He was resolved that Arthur would never have reason to be disappointed in him for that.
"Yeah," he said, nodding. "Yeah, I suppose so…"
Words on the last page caught his attention, a name in the first line – a title, of sorts. The Curse of Cornelius Sigan… He remembered bits of what Gaius had told him – he'd written it down, here. The most powerful sorcerer to have lived… a figure of nightmare… He could change day into night and turn the tides.
And there, the next line – Better to serve a good man than to rule with an evil one. Had he written that intending to claim those words for his own? See how loyal I was when no one else could hear me? Didn't that cheapen the moment, bragging on it later?
No, it read like the words were merely a commentary after the fact, a summation and explanation, why Sigan had failed – during his life and after whatever death he had experienced. Power like that – day to night and turning tides – was not meant to enforce sovereignty. It was meant to serve – Arthur had always understood that, too. It was how he'd always differed from Uther, since the very beginning.
It was how Morgana was exactly like Uther.
"I'm not sure I can kill her," he told Dusty softly. She didn't say anything, and he traced the letters, C and then S. He'd never written anything so neatly or carefully in his life. Yet. "Do you know she was my friend, once? And Arthur's. And Gwen's, and Leon's, and Gaius'… Arthur's sister, of course you know that."
"I don't have a sister," Dusty said pensively.
"Neither do I. Gwen is close, though. Just as good as. Do you…" He hesitated, and still didn't look into her eyes. "Do you know I killed Arthur's father? His uncle? And I'm supposed to kill his sister too?"
She kicked a bootheel against the leg of the work-table – his work-table – and he felt the weight of her gaze. She didn't know. Now she knows. She'll be disappointed.
"Odin sent the assassin that mortally wounded King Uther. Morgana stopped you saving his life – that's not the same as killing someone."
He shivered. "Did I tell you that?"
Humor in her voice. "No. Gwaine, again. It's hard to get you to talk about some things."
"How come I told him?" Merlin said, a bit crossly.
"He gets you drunk."
Merlin looked up at her, and she smiled.
"About his uncle, no one knows the details except the king. And I can say, don't blame yourself all day long – God knows I've heard him say it to you, but…"
"Morgana is different," Merlin said softly, turning from even a hint that he'd discussed Agravaine with Arthur.
"Because you liked her? And you never liked King Uther or Lord Agravaine?" Dusty cocked her head. "Or because she's a woman?"
Merlin had killed women before – he was quite certain he didn't carry that kind of prejudice. Was it because Morgana was someone he'd known and liked – or was it because she was another one of his failures, and ending her life meant the end of any chance to put it right?
C… S. "How powerful is she?" he asked, remembering Sigan's goal to conquer Camelot. Very similar to Morgana.
Dusty's fingers curled on the curve of the urn, softly scratching the metal. She did it twice, before answering. "Very."
He didn't feel powerful at all, in the moment. He felt ignorant and unready, like he always did when Arthur dressed him in spare bits of armor and put a sword and shield in his hands and started bellowing commands while hacking at him. Except it wouldn't be Arthur, content with humiliating him and knocking him on his rear and giving him bruises. Morgana was always after Arthur, ultimately, even if she'd decided to go through Merlin, this time.
"Did I ever tell you, how I did it?" he asked Dusty.
"Not even a hint. But if it helps, you were always very definite on, it happened, it's over."
Like having to enchant Lancelot's spear as he galloped toward an otherwise unkillable monster. Or knowing he couldn't let Arthur fall prey to the Questing Beast, tooth or claw.
Her eyes were on him again, watchful and curious – he met them a long time, both of them comfortable regarding the other. That was not something he'd often felt from someone who wouldn't glimpse, there are things I'm not telling you…
"What?" he said, after a moment.
She sighed. "It's odd to think, you've got it all ahead of you. And we're almost done. With Morgana gone, maybe we can finally focus on…"
"What?" he said again, amused that she'd managed to catch herself, that time.
She gave him a wry grin. "Never mind. Borrowing trouble. Let's not."
He agreed, relaxing by degrees into his chair. "So… If this is my room, I should sleep here? Should I pack anything different than I normally do, for tomorrow?"
"What do you normally pack?" she asked.
"Extra shirt if it'll be more than a week. Basic medicines for common injuries, bandages, knife and soap. From the kitchen, my rations – dishes for cooking and serving, seasonings for when and if we've got to scrounge meals. Blanket roll."
"Sounds about right." Dusty hitched herself up from the desk, found and plucked a flat oval stone from the shelf, handed it to him. The dull-gray water-smoothed finish was marred by a symbol scraped into its surface – two symbols, he found, turning it over, one on each side. Numbers – ten and twenty-five.
And it was magic – dormant magic, he felt, something that felt like sitting in the sun for a moment between chores. Lazy, comfortable, stillness in the midst of activity. The river flowing around the stone, which was content simply to exist and wait.
"What is this?" he said. "What's it for?"
She squinted at him. "Um. I thought you might be able to tell, just by… Now I don't know if I should say, in case I'm meddling in your past."
Well. If he was free to practice-
"Iwan," he breathed, closing his eyes.
Saw the stone in his palm, gleam and light. Saw himself set it down in the dust of a dark forest clearing – low campfire, bundled rows of sleepy companions – saw himself retreat to his own bedroll – saw the subtle shimmer of nighttime drizzle over an otherwise-invisible dome rising and spreading – ten paces around, or twenty-five.
"It's a tent?" he said, surprised at the simplicity of the concept. "To keep the weather off everyone at once?"
She snorted, and-
Not quite right. It was more than just shelter from the possibility of bad weather. It was shelter from bad magic, bad intentions-
"Oh, that's brilliant," he said aloud. "That's much better than laying the spells every time – especially if you're too exhausted, or injured. Tie the magic to the stone, and lay it."
"It is brilliant," she said, with a laugh in her voice.
He opened his eyes, ready to accuse her of giving herself compliments, if it was her idea or – no, it felt like his magic.
But in that moment of easy humor and leisure, the citadel's alarm bells pealed out.
Not the clang!-clang!-clang! he was used to, someone pulling the rope to move the great heavy bell as fast as they could – this was someone next to the bell, sounding it with a hammer, maybe – and there was a pattern.
Clang-clang! Clang! Clang-clang-clang-clang!
Dusty straightened like she'd been stabbed with the clangor, eyes going unfocused as she listened intently – he watched her, uncertain of what she heard that he didn't.
"Dammit!" she snapped to herself, hugging the urn as she dashed to the door.
He launched himself from his chair to follow – if his older self wasn't here, then it was his job to protect the king if there was threat of any danger. "What is it, what's going on?"
She wedged herself in the crack of the open door, scowling at him. "You stay here. We'll handle this."
"Not bloody likely," he shot back, his pulse keeping time with the repeated pattern of the bell. "I don't know what that tells you, but it tells me one thing- get to Arthur."
"You're meant to fight Morgana," she reminded him hotly. "If something happens to you now – we're all in trouble."
"Nothing can happen," he declared, with more certainty than he felt. She was clinging to the door to block his passage, but if she was older than he currently was, he was still stronger. "If I have to fight her and win because I've already done it – or whatever – nothing can happen to me now."
She actually growled at him – unhappy and inclined to argue, but losing the door to his grip. "Fine – come on."
Out the door and left at the corridor. Armory, he thought, rather than up to the king's quarters. Where would the king be at nearly-dinnertime, anyway? Maybe she knew better than he did – maybe the king wouldn't wait for Percival and Gwaine to deliver lists of possible companions for the quest to the Isle of the Blessed, maybe he'd go to each man personally.
Dusty was still carrying the urn, though it seemed heavy in her grip – she'd let it rest in her lap, sitting in the work-table in his room.
"Maybe this is Morgana, attacking Camelot," he guessed.
"More likely her people coming for you," she answered. "In which case, better for you to stay here – they won't be able to enter the citadel."
"I won't stay inside the walls if Arthur doesn't," he answered, grimly determined.
Not the armory, but the courtyard, and knights were already assembling. The king was poised on the second-to-lowest step, sword bared in his hand. Not saying anything – focused beyond the wall to the lower town, Merlin noticed as he clattered to a breathless stop beside him.
There was smoke on the air.
Dusty continued without hesitation, joined by two men Merlin had initially taken for servants – not in chainmail, at least. The one with shorter hair scowled up at Merlin under a heavy brow – then checked himself, as if just realizing he wasn't an older, bearded? version of himself. One second only, and all three of them were dipping hands into the mouth of the urn, passing whatever they took out to the waiting knights. Something for everyone, something that gleamed and flashed magic, whether it was part of arms or armor.
"Half a dozen at least, split up and intent on damage," the king declared succinctly to his troops. "Capture if we can – you know your quadrants – move!"
Whatever objects Dusty and the two other men had given them were being affixed to the knights' persons – on the chainmail over the heart, down inside the tunic, tucked into the cuff of a glove – as they spun and jogged, organized but swift, to the barbicon.
Merlin couldn't see Dusty anymore, but the king was right behind his men – surging through them as they made way for a sovereign who was never willing to wait and let others go first into danger. Merlin stuck to his elbow, at the risk of being jabbed in the ribs, out into the common-area beyond the gate.
The knights didn't slow, troops splitting and heading down different streets – each knowing which portion of the lower town they were responsible for, presumably – better preparation under Arthur than Uther, though it was bigger now, and probably that necessitated structure.
The king halted, poised and deciding which way to take personally – twilight falling, smoke high in the air, frightened cries and the noises of damage coming but faintly. This point, though, was always the goal of an invasion. Up to the gates, into the citadel, driving toward the king in his throne room, or-
Or was it different if enemies knew this king would come to them?
His heart was hammering in his chest already.
"Merlin, can you tell if-" the king said swiftly, before looking at him over his shoulder – and stopping himself short, perhaps having forgotten for a moment which Merlin he had. "Dammit, Merlin – you get back behind the walls and the abaedath – and that's an order."
He breathed and breathed and didn't move, even though every sense told him, King Arthur – this is a king much more than mine, who's still a prince growing into his father's role. Obey. Don't disappoint him with disobedience. He knows he can't force you, don't make him feel impotent, because then he's volatile…
Please don't. Don't make me leave you.
The king faced him, stalked two steps to gather a fistful of Merlin's shirt, glowering fit to dry Merlin's spit and words in his mouth. The scar was livid on the king's face, the beard bristled – and his gloved hand trembled against Merlin's heart.
"Damn you," he growled, and the emotion there twisted Merlin surprised. "Fine – but stay close. She didn't give you one of those-"
Someone screamed very close by.
The king whirled away from Merlin, raising the sword as if to parry – the sliver of light that flashed through the air sparked on the edge of the king's blade, sparked and split with a sharp metallic note. Merlin flinched into a duck so deep he lost his balance and had to catch himself with a hand on the cobblestones.
The cloaked man who emerged from the side street made another light-edged flinging motion – knives? – parried more deliberately by the king's sword.
Shing! And the bits of gleaming – metal? – ricocheted away.
Merlin pushed to regain his feet. The cloaked man – bareheaded and narrow-faced, reddish hair wavy to his shoulders – flicked a handful of luminous shards at Merlin. The king spun, extending his blade to shield Merlin, carving each gleam in half.
"He's here!" the cloaked stranger bellowed to the sky, the second word unnaturally amplified to boom out over the lower town.
Merlin slapped a gesture at him, intending to knock him into the stone wall of the nearest building, but he resisted – skidding backwards, but slowing and stopping before he reached the wall, his whole body leaned into his defense.
The king swore again, immediately shrilling a whistle that summoned – his shoulder thudding into Merlin's almost unbalanced him even as he recognized the maneuver. Two fighters, back to back to protect each other against greater numbers. No one had ever done that with him.
Arthur trusted him to guard his back. He had a king to guard his own.
In the surreal giddiness of the moment, Merlin almost forgot that there was a reason for that…
The king swung, deflecting more light-knives from the cloaked sorcerer, and Merlin shifted as another shape launched from a rooftop opposite, floating more than falling – male or female, he couldn't tell, but the hooded figure made a throwing gesture-
Handful of sand?
If it was, every grain sprouted miniscule wings and darted at Merlin at once, a thousand tiny enemies, or missiles, or-
Without pausing to think, he called up the wind from the streets behind him, blasting a gale through the sand-insects, obliterating trajectories and sending them skittering back toward their sender – sending him or her crashing through a stack of crates left at the mouth of an alley.
Merlin held the wind, slinging it around like a slingshot at the first attacker, knocking him off his feet – almost tripping the first of the knights responding to the king's call, returning at a run.
Gwaine, with a knight's chainmail in place of the nobleman's coat, leaped over the tumbling body, leaving the attacker to be dealt with by Percival behind him, stabbing to pin the narrow-faced man in place. Killing blow or not, Merlin didn't see.
"On me!" the king bellowed, and he sounded too far away. "Merlin!"
He turned – right into the bright-eyed glee of a long-haired sorceress whose right eye was milky-white.
She reached for him, empty-handed, grasping his shoulders. "Bedyrne us! Astyre-"
That, he recognized. The plan will be for someone to abduct him…
With a shout, he broke away from her spell, shoving her off-center with magic strong enough to knock her-
Right onto the blade of the knight behind her. Between her ribs, the tip of his weapon emerging from her stomach, and she screamed. Too loud for just a scream, and too long – it lasted and it built and it hurt, and Merlin stumbled away, feelings his veins swell and his eyes swim and his chest was expanding like he couldn't stop inhaling.
Her whole body ignited at once, sparking like red cedar tossed to a small camp-fire. The flames that engulfed her separated, leaping apart to attack those nearest – the knight who'd killed her, two others who weren't even looking.
"Brimstream!" he managed.
Like rain-barrels up-ended from the rooftops. The waves of water knocked the knights to the ground – the witch was a blackened, smoldering corpse.
Merlin turned to check for further threats, and couldn't stop. The sunset was bleeding upward along the buildings, garish red, and the shadows darted close to the ground, too fast to follow but keeping distance at the base of the walls, and then there was the king.
"Are you all right?" Arthur demanded, one hand on Merlin's shoulder to anchor him, tether him, connect them.
He nodded, unable to voice the return query. The king was upright and focused – that was good enough for Merlin in the moment, though he blinked wet moisture down his face.
"Your eyes are bleeding," the king told him, sounding furious and calm, at once.
Merlin wiped his cheek. Sure enough, his fingertips were red.
"Arthur," Gwaine said in a voice that rasped of smoke. "There's fire."
The king cursed with a terrible magnificence, beginning to jog away. "Merlin, please go inside the abaedath," he called back. "It's you they've come for."
The rest of his troop followed him. Merlin moved alongside Gwaine, answering his glance in a low voice, "That's why I can't go back inside."
Gwaine grinned. "We've never loved safety anyway, have we?"
Half a dozen, the king had said. Someone had reported. Half a dozen, they thought – how many sorcerers could make themselves seem like many, or few? Merlin supposed he could manage nearly two dozen attacks or distractions that looked like attacks, on his own. Whoever had brought the report might not know the difference.
But fire like this – like three houses all ablaze together, and spreading like someone wanted it to spread – that couldn't be ignored. Not a one of them could hold and endure and wait out the enemy, not with the townspeople screaming, dying.
They rushed to fight the enemy who'd set the fire – they rushed to fight the fire, to rescue the citizens endangered. Merlin could already hear more than one voice raised together in a spell-call for rain – "Tidrenas!"
Someone rushed out from a house as Gwaine's troops led by Arthur galloped past – right into Merlin's arms, knocking them both over together. Instinctively he rolled, trying to protect the panicked and unlucky person, land underneath the – woman? he thought – but she gripped him, and again-
"Bedyrne us! Astyre us than-"
He shouted, heaving her away from him with magic – which meant upward, past the firelit slopes of the roofs. She squawked, flailing for balance – he had no time to think about catching her, only rolled out of the way as she tumbled to the cobblestones with a dull, sickening thud. And lay still.
"I've got this one!" one of the knights shouted to him, bending over the body. "You go on!"
Gwaine had turned back, was leaning down to haul him to his feet. "They need your help with the rain spell!"
"I've never-" he panted. Couldn't put it out, the last time, there on the Isle and exhausted from worry and uselessness and travel.
The nearest house exploded like one of Nimueh's fireballs – and the king was closest. Hungry flame gleamed on golden hair as he ducked.
Merlin pushed the inferno upward, high into the night, away from anyone on the ground like a rising pillar and an expanding cloud. It made him think of Aithusa, how the young dragon meant to linger in Camelot, to converse with the king. But they didn't need more fire, and Aithusa was not strong enough to fly with the extra weight of a person. And he did not want to draw the young dragon into this dangerous situation.
The king was still moving – past the house it was no longer possible to save, shouting orders to those beyond.
A rough hand grabbed Merlin's shoulder – he whirled, ready to defend himself as violently as necessary, his temper high.
And only just recognize the servant-clad man who'd helped Dusty in the courtyard – the short-haired one with the heavy brow and thick lips and perpetual scowl. Another was beside him, facing the blazing mass of three houses afire – longer hair, higher forehead, as tall as Percival but not as thickly muscled.
"Tidrenas," the short one growled in Merlin's face – and two tears rolled from the sides of eyes alight with intensity. "Come on, you bastard – Tidrenas."
He had no idea what sort of focus the spell took. Spells were always more than simply speaking the words.
But it was a little like listening to three repetitions of Long live the king!before he joined in the call. I can't add anything to the moment, it won't mean anything, it'll feel silly like I'm making fun even though I'm not-
"Tidrenas," he whispered, pouring out heartsickness and desperation.
There had been death and devastation before, but they'd come against Arthur before, against Uther before that and Merlin fought and defended but it wasn't personal really, no one knew about him before, no one had reason to count him an enemy worth planning to attack.
Except Morgana. And until now.
"Tidrenas," he growled at the blackening sky above – rising smoke lit from beneath by the hungry crackling flames. Tidrenas, damn it all to bloody hell because he didn't have time for this, and now he couldn't see the king.
It was clawing the sky open, and drops bleeding down, pouring down, hissing into the inferno, fire and water raging their own elemental battle. More smoke rose, twisting and thick.
The sorcerer released Merlin, who darted down the street, following where the king had led. He'd lost sight of Gwaine, also.
Ordinary people slung dripping buckets toward the fire, tossed empty buckets away to be retrieved by others. Townsmen half-dressed carried water from the nearest wells, shouting to each other, shouting to the knights, stepping back as rain drenched everyone and everything, dousing and darkening the flames.
Merlin slipped on the cobblestones, having to shade his face against driving, blinding rain. Enough? Too much? Is this still my spell? Hard enough to start a rainstorm; how did one go about stopping it – more wind to scatter the clouds?
He tripped again, the cobblestones seeming to lurch up under his feet like a horse bucking for freedom. His elbow caught someone square in the chest – bruising chainmail – and the king steadied him, smoke-smeared and drenched.
"Morgana sends her people to sacrifice themselves," he growled, blowing rain away from his face and blinking under his scowl. "This isn't finished yet."
"They've done this before?" Merlin asked, his ribs clenching around his heart. The road rippled under them again, and the patter of rain gave way to the sounds of distant shouting once again.
"Not for a while." Knights gathered to them as they moved toward the noise of new distress, Merlin staggering, the king stalking. "Her goal now, though, is simple and might seem easy to achieve…"
Me, Merlin thought bleakly. "What would I do, then, if something like this happened?" he shouted toward the king's ear. "I mean – my older self? What would I-"
The king cocked a scarred eyebrow, not even pausing. "This," he said. "You'd do this. No spells to kill the enemies all at once, not without allowing them the chance to reconsider – to escape or surrender. No spells to take the place of our knights serving our people. Just… you and me, throwing ourselves into the thick of it…"
The road threw itself into the air.
The soles of Merlin's boots left the ground for a moment. The king crouched, bracing himself – two knights went flying, rolling, tumbling.
And the two-story tavern just next to them leaned with a groan – with shrieking, snapping timbers and shifting foundation. The men clawed to move faster – the cobblestones were wet – unbalanced, Merlin pushed back, and the tavern's second story began to collapse inward rather than outward.
"Hold it!" someone barked. "Can you hold it?"
Two of the knights – then Gwaine – rushed into the building through the yawning door. Hinges snapped and the door bent – then popped back into shape, clattering over at a drunken angle.
Merlin held – and felt his magic trickle through his grasp, in whatever capacity magic can be measured. Drops, grains, lengths. It felt like when he held time itself, slowing the imminent so he could counter it, because… if there was magic for fixing this, he didn't know it. Making a hundred snapped timbers whole again, shoring up a foundation with two hundred cracks, nails loosened by the score and placed as haphazardly as the builder's whim anyway.
So he held, as raindrops shimmered in the air, sliding slowly down, and leaned into his intention to dash into the structure himself, though he couldn't carry everyone back outside. But someone's arms encircled his chest from behind; it was a fast hold, and he'd never noticed.
And time, more dangerous than magic, trickled away from him, coming faster and faster – creak shift snap rumble – the magic slipped away as well, but someone else was there, dashing into the corner of his vision like a knight in skirts, wielding empty fists like a broadsword.
Gwaine came skidding out the door in the grip of her magic, boots stuttering and arms wrapped around two half-grown children – babies Merlin had seen delivered in the past few years of his rightful time, maybe – whirling the width of the street careless of his own limbs and locked around the children.
The king let go of Merlin to catch the three – one child staggering loose, and steadied, Gwaine himself quick to catch his feet and balance.
"Help me!" Dusty gasped to Merlin, crouched and reaching back into the depths of the collapsing tavern.
He held the tavern like a broken shelf with his shoulder, like a slamming door with his knee, leaving incorporeal hands free to find and snatch at the people still inside, yank them roughly but alive out into the street while the weight, the weight of the whole structure trying to fall down, trying to obey the demands of the earth, crushed and crushed him.
They were out, slipping and tumbling like Gwaine, cries of pain and fear, terror and loss spiking through Merlin – splinters and shards tugged from his hands – and he let go.
Half the roof slammed down into the second floor – chips of wood and stone mortar shot out, dust billowed into the continuing drizzle, and the earth rolled again.
Everything light as a feather for a moment - but moments don't last.
Down with a crash like a child jumping into a play-house built of twigs and soft mud. Merlin was knocked to his knees, coughing into the crook of his elbow, eyes stinging themselves functional again. He heard Gwaine behind him, tones indicating he was speaking to the strangers rescued from the tavern, maybe the children.
"It's like a leap-on-back," he said, and Merlin's mind caught up a moment later – his friend interpreting the foreign words of the magic spell as they sounded to an ordinary person. "Only in reverse, you see. Dusty has a helluva leap-on-back."
Merlin put a hand down to assist him turning on bruised knees. The king had the smaller child up in his arms, little limbs wrapping his chainmail, tousled head tucked right in his neck – his eyes were on Merlin. The other knights, and those who'd just caught up with them were helping half a dozen others – a white-haired man, a teen-aged boy, women in night-dresses.
Dusty gave a choked cry, kneeling into him in a rush, curling her arms around his neck. His own were too heavy to hold her; his knees were in the way.
And the effects had been dealt with, but not the cause. The ground rumbled again, shaking like a wet dog, and Dusty was bumped away from him, back onto her rear. The old man and two of the women fell down in the street again, and the king staggered, thumping back into the wall of the opposite building to avoid dropping the child.
Gwaine passed his own charge to one of the women, and turned to take the king's precious burden. Arthur's attention was past them, over the buildings, searching out the origin of the threat – in his mind already dashing ahead to personally meet the enemy.
Dusty flung herself at Merlin again, kneeling over his lap, finding his wrist and lifting his hand and burrowing her face into his filthy palm. He didn't resist, and as his fingertips brushed past her ear, nudging aside sodden head-scarf to shorn scalp-
He stood at the edge of a long boat-dock, anchored to the ground beneath the pond that spread, green-gray serenity in the late afternoon, heat and the promise of cool. On the opposite side, the same dock without a boat to tie to it, and Dusty waiting at the edge, far enough that he'd have to heave it high and hope for luck if he was going to throw an apple to her. She didn't wait, however, launching herself gloriously ungraceful, out into the water of the pond – splash, and shower of displaced droplets, and waves and expanding ripples – the whole still surface of the pond disrupted. When she surfaced, a second set of crest-trough-crest erupted. What do I do. What do I… Independent of thought or intention, he felt his body dive forward, cleave through water, creating ripples of his own that met, and checked, and diminished those others disturbing surface serenity.
Dusty let go of Merlin's hand, one instant of solution and explanation conveyed.
I can't – but you can.
More than just this one building in danger, more than just the dozen people sheltering here.
Merlin lunged forward, hands spread wide on the cobblestones, snarling as he sent his own tremors of magic through the earth – meeting, obstructing, dissipating.
"That way," he said to Dusty, freeing one hand momentarily to point. "Twenty-five – thirty paces."
She scrambled up, dashing off without so much as a glance for the king or Gwaine, though both men took off in the same direction – hearing Merlin or taking their cue from Dusty, Merlin didn't know.
The ground trembled again, and he focused on answering – countering – negating. How long til Camelot's defenders reached this enemy? Merlin gripped the street, head up to watch the king slow to round the corner, then disappear out of sight.
That made him shiver.
But after all, the king wasn't the target tonight, it was him.
Rain trickled down his face, down his already-drenched clothing; the wreck of the tavern continued settling. The children were crying – some of the women, too, huddled together for comfort in their shock. Huddled over the young boy, the old man – one other man stared at the ruin of the building, hands clasped helplessly behind his head.
Devastated. Nothing could be done.
The ground was quiet. Was this part of it over, then? Merlin pushed to his feet, avoiding everyone's attention, and trotted around the corner, following the king.
Something massive and white swooped out from behind him, and he flinched, lifting defensive hands before realizing – "Aithusa!"
"Merlin!" The white dragon hovered, beating his wings, finding no place to land where he wouldn't trap himself in too-narrow lanes. "I found you! Can I help? I can help!"
"Can you sense where magic is being used?" Merlin asked, slowing but not stopping. "And can you tell our defenders from an enemy?"
"I can! From above?"
"Of course! If you can tell me, how many more, and where they're at-"
"Consider it done!" Aithusa's wings buffeted him with ash and the smell of raw wet wood.
He quickened his steps, seeing his companions in the light of the round-lanterns, surrounding a plainly-clad man in the middle of the road, down on his knees, empty hands raised. Stocky, and light shone from bare skin on his head.
Surrendered, then.
Except, as he trotted up, the man shifted his gaze from the knights before him, to Merlin approaching. Recognition cleared a sullen expression, and the man surged up from his knees, fingers clawing at Merlin as he spat out the spell-
"Bedyrne-"
"No!" Merlin responded heatedly, shoving the man back like one of the straw training-figures, before there was any danger of them touching one another.
The man groped empty air as if he could swim to Merlin, forced backward – and he realized, right toward Dusty. Merlin released the magic – but instead of sprinting forward to Merlin, as he expected, the sorcerer whirled round with a gesture and a spell, knocking Dusty sprawling.
And Gwaine thrust his sword through the man's flank.
He screamed, lifting on his toes to die.
The king was already past them, kneeling over Dusty, who moved sluggishly. Merlin felt the same; the air was nightmare thick and he was damn slow – but she was upright and being helped to her feet when he reached them.
"Are you all right?" he asked, his voice trembling and hoarse. "I'm sorry. I didn't know he was going to-"
She put out her hand and caught his forearm for balance, answering him without words. I'm not dying. I don't blame you.
"We're too exposed here," the king said grimly, glancing about. "We need to get back to the gate. Re-group, reassess-"
Gwaine joined them. Dusty turned to follow the king, and swayed like she was going down. Merlin snatched at her, catching an elbow and a handful of ribs on her other side.
"You got her?" Gwaine said to him. "You need any help?"
She gripped Merlin's shoulder with bruising strength, and moved quickly enough that the king's backward glance turned forward again. "Sorry," she said, not looking at Merlin. "Ss…sorry."
"What did he do?" Merlin asked. Helpless was a vicious feeling, and he hated it. Almost as much as responsible. "You are all right, aren't you?"
"It was… an evisceration," she mumbled.
Merlin almost tripped.
"Spell. A spell. I blocked it – I blocked the intention, but…"
"Are you bleeding?" he demanded, hoping his legs would hold them both. They would hold. "Are you-"
"Bruised, I think. Like being punched in the stomach." She coughed shallowly, hunching over.
Beyond her, Gwaine made a skeptical noise. "You better go right on to the infirmary when we reach the gate, Dusty. You don't always tell him the truth when you're trying to spare his feelings – bit ironic, innit, Merlin?"
He didn't try to understand what Gwaine meant. The streets were clear, but more than one citizen stood in a doorway to gauge the level of danger for his family hiding within, and some few of them called out, recognized the king in the lead.
"My lord, is it an attack? Who's attacking us? Is it over? Ought we to-"
"Stay where you are," the king told them, more than once. "Just stay where you are…"
They'd taken the shorter way back, Merlin realized, bypassing the burned street, and no other enemies appeared. Where the end of the street broadened into the gate-yard of the citadel, Aithusa waited, facing inward but twisting his head on a sinuous neck to keep watch on them.
Leon met the king as they emerged from the lane, but Aithusa gave his report to Merlin first.
"There's one," he said. "There might be one – one left, maybe. He's in the shadows, though, and moving, too fast to be caught."
"In a pattern, like he's searching for Merlin?" the king said immediately.
"No. No pattern."
"Causing damage?" Gwaine asked. "Trying to draw us out?"
"No. None at all. Hiding, more like." Aithusa shifted, wings fluttering with agitation, watching Merlin for some decision he didn't comprehend.
"Watching," Leon offered. "Observing our men, our response-"
"Observing Merlin," the king said.
Aithusa shifted again, shaking out his wings and not answering.
The king turned, scanned the area. "Declan!"
It was the short-haired heavy-browed sorcerer Merlin wanted to call a druid, though he didn't wear a cloak and was anything but calm and collected. He hurried to them, carrying a bucket of water though there were no fires in their immediate vicinity.
"Aithusa says there's one left," the king told him without preamble. "See if you can scry him."
"Bastard," Declan growled, squatting over his bucket of water.
Dusty squeezed Merlin's shoulder, making an involuntary noise of pain. Merlin wondered if he ought to ask Gwaine for help, or just nudge Dusty over to the knight. Alice was surely capable of making sure Dusty was all right, but he needed to stay with Arthur.
"What do you see?" the king said.
"I don't…" Declan gripped the edges of the bucket.
He doesn't like me, Merlin thought disconnectedly. And heard Dusty's voice in his head–
"He doesn't like anyone. Only the king is above Declan's name-calling…"
"He's… there, but…" Declan growled again, intense effort frustrated to the point of pain.
Then a gasp of fear and release – Aithusa's wings unfurled reactively, and - Merlin went skidding away across the gate-yard like he'd taken a run at a frozen pond, boot-soles skating with impetus out of his control.
Shadows solidified into a figure, cloaked and hooded, smooth chin and small, satisfied smile. Merlin thought of the Cailleach – the outstretched fist jolted, and he stopped still three paces away from the other.
"Why not come with me?" the mouth whispered. "Are you really so content to hide behind your friends? Do you sleep well at night, knowing the names of those who've died for you? Those you've killed… Step out, Emrys. Prophesied light to my lady's darkness." The sneer smeared Merlin with the taint of humiliation and cowardice. "Stop hiding. You merely delay the inevitable. It is foretold. It is prophesied – it is destiny. It is doom. You cannot hide – come with me now, and no one else will be hurt because of you. Dare to come, brave warlock. Mighty Emrys."
Merlin struggled to find an answer. Don't be provoked to stupidity – they've fought to protect you – the king has a plan…
But I've got to face her anyway. And it's true that the damage done tonight was my fault. Any casualties, wounded or… worse. Because of me.
Was it hiding to let the king shield him, or was it canny strategy and deferring to his sovereign? Coward never hurt when strangers thought it, when enemies thought it, but… when those of his own kind thought it, enemy or not…
The mouth smirked. The hand, outstretched and waiting for him to take hold, snapped the fingers in arrogant impatience.
Merlin straightened, deciding – and readying for a fight.
Someone's wordless war-cry rang out from behind him, and the cowled figure reacted, shrinking back in something approaching abject terror. He was already beginning to dissolve into the wisps of a traveling spell when a full-length sword came spinning through the air, cleaving the shadow's shadow.
Cutting nothing corporeal, and clattering impotently to the ground beyond.
The sorcerer-druid was gone.
The air was heavy with ash and rain, and fine involuntary tremors explored Merlin's muscles – his legs, his fingers.
Behind him, Aithusa huffed and took to the air, the thud-thud-thud of his wings scooping him higher, to a point where forward trajectory was possible, and kept him aloft. Merlin turned to watch him go, his departure another final indication that the attack had been resolutely thwarted.
Everyone seemed to be watching him – Declan crouched over his scrying-bucket, Gwaine with an arm around Dusty's waist, Leon beside the king. Who straightened and lowered his hand from the cast of his sword; he was nearest Merlin, and strode forward.
"What did he say?" the king demanded, not even slowing to pass Merlin.
He twisted to follow the king's path – one of the other knights present at the periphery of the gate-yard had retrieved the sword, and returned it to the king hilt-first. Arthur came back to Merlin, still clearly waiting for an answer to his question.
Merlin gestured lamely. "He said… we're going to die and Camelot will fall and he and his fellows would be victorious in the end. What they always say."
The king stopped dead, staring at Merlin. But the rain-clouds made the night dark and torchlight small and uncertain; he couldn't clearly see the king's expression. Arthur filled his lungs in a slow inhalation, and seemed to collapse a little on himself when he breathed out, turning away like they had suffered a defeat.
Maybe they had. How did Arthur count victory or defeat, anymore?
"Leon!" the king said, his voice as rough as wet gravel underfoot. He stalked away again. "I want a report – casualties, then damages. Double the guard for the night, settle the people. We'll take stock again when it's light."
Merlin supposed that the plan to leave at first light was going to be re-evaluated, also. And after any kind of altercation, his responsibilities didn't lie with Leon's men, or an uninjured Arthur, but with-
Dusty wilted like a swath of grass before a mower's scythe, Gwaine catching and supporting her. But then turned to shout for him – "Merlin!" – and waited.
Merlin wasn't the physician, in either time. Alice surely knew more about injuries dealt by magic than he ever would, and if Dusty needed to be carried, surely Gwaine himself was a far more logical choice-
Unless Gwaine himself had suffered some injury that prevented him being able to carry someone else.
Merlin arrived beside them in a rush, bending to gather up her legs, boots dangling, skirts awkward, and Gwaine shifted to allow him to pass his other arm under her shoulder-blades. Dusty murmured something, sounding like she was in pain, but was aware enough to draw herself up and cling to him, which was more helpful than flopping bonelessly through his grip.
"Have you got her?" Gwaine demanded. "I'll go with you… Arthur, we'll be in the infirmary!"
Dusty wasn't light, for all she seemed made of bone and sinew, only. Her fingers dug into the muscles of his shoulders, the sharp discomfort serving to keep him alert and moving fast.
"Hey," he said to her. "Can you hear me? Dusty?"
"She'll be all right," Gwaine said, keeping pace behind his left elbow.
The courtyard was agitated – the citadel's inhabitants alarmed by the bells, ready for anything and waiting on news. Merlin caught snatches of Gwaine's reassuring of those who approached them – the king unhurt, the enemy captured or fled – but his world had narrowed to one more step, one more step.
One more step. He was as heavy as both of them, now.
Couldn't see any blood, but her head was down, tucked into his neck. He felt her ribs expand with the irregularity of her gasp-and hold-and breathe in his grip, and – damn him if he didn't think of Freya, light as a bird with a broken wing, listless from loss of blood. Carried out of Camelot, carried to the lake and he couldn't save her and she wouldn't let him try.
"You're going to be all right," he told her, words clipped with effort and exhaustion. "Gwaine says so. Did you hear? Don't make him… a liar."
She caught her breath – a sob, or maybe a laugh that hurt.
He was nearly to the statue mounted at the base of the stairs and stumbled, not so much dropping her as his knees dropping both of them.
Like Uther, trying to carry his son, senseless after facing the Questing Beast. A time of great upheaval, the magic of life and death, the defeat and execution of a high priestess. Merlin had almost lost Arthur – and then his mother – and then Gaius.
And destiny would not accept his sacrifice of his own life.
Merlin gripped Dusty tighter, gazing at the stars rising above them, barely able to push his legs upright and lock them standing. I won't lose someone else – I can't lose someone else-
Two servants came rushing down the stairs, an unoccupied carrier tilted between them.
"Oh good – that's good," Gwaine said, relief spilling over in his tone. "Steady there, boys – Merlin, lay her down."
"Please… please, Merlin…" She resisted him letting her go, didn't want to relax and straighten out, and ended curled awkwardly on the mat of the carrier, unbalancing the servants and ready to tip over the side if he didn't maintain position beside her, letting her keep hold of his hand. His entire forearm.
"You'll be all right," he told her again.
Gwaine leaped up in front of them, two steps at a time. The servant lower on the stairs hoisted the carrying poles to his shoulders, putting Dusty level with Merlin's chest as he tripped up one stair at a time beside them. Her eyes were half open and hazy with pain.
"I'm sorry," she said thickly. Blood oozed from the corner of her mouth to dot the stain-scrubbed carrier – and all of his drained right down to his feet at the sight.
"No, don't say that," he said. "You'll be fine."
At the top of the stairs the servants jostled her again rearranging the carrier for level ground with slowing; Gwaine glanced back but didn't stop.
"Careful!" Merlin snarled, not looking at the two. "Dusty – Dusty, do you know what spell he used on you? Maybe if I know what he said, I could-"
Through a doorway, and three stairs up to the infirmary – kept closed, he thought, except in times like this, when the greater space was needed, and everyone who could wash a wound or wrap a bandage or offer a drink or a willow-bark infusion came to take orders. Dusty cried out as they lifted her up the stairs, and let go of Merlin's hand; Gwaine was already inside, shouting for Alice.
Merlin had to drop back to let the servants carry her through the doorway – and found he couldn't move further.
Nothing new about the sights, the sounds, the smells. Someone weeping – someone vomiting – someone shrieking around whatever object had been given them to bite against the pain of being tended. Someone calling orders – oh, that was Alice, alerting to Dusty's arrival and Gwaine's explanation.
Come with me now and no one else will be hurt because of you.
Arthur came. Times like these, after a fight, and Merlin's tension was different – not worrying about Arthur's safety any longer, but worrying for the wounded. Gaius' patients, and the longer he was with the old man, the more he knew, the more he could do, the more the old man depended on him – the busier he was, which both suspended and increased the exhaustion. But Arthur came to lend a clumsy, inexperienced hand whenever he could, raising spirits, giving encouragement and praise and sympathy and reassurance.
Did he feel like this, when he did that? Did his stomach twist in knots, knowing the blood and pain and loss and fear of death, fear of imperfect recovery from crippling, maiming wounds that changed life forever – knowing it was all for him.
Merlin couldn't breathe. The air was too thick, a soup of agony and stench, a battle of another kind, fought because of him.
Alice lifted her head from an initial examination of Dusty – looked right to him, across the room. She gave him a firm, confident nod, as good as saying, it'll be all right now, I'll take care of her.
It didn't help. This wouldn't be left behind him, ever again. He'd go home, and… someday he would tell Arthur, I have magic. Someday Arthur would listen, and magic would return – but so would Morgana. And other enemies. And people would die for Merlin – for Emrys – just like they died for Arthur.
No. No, I don't want this! My sacrifice – only mine! He's king, he knows how to do this, he's trained for this, to endure the deaths of those serving him, but not me! Why must I be someone who has to allow others to sacrifice for me – I'm nobody, I'm not special, I'm not even that powerful…
"Oh!" A sharp cry of gladness pierced the raw misery of the infirmary – and a girl with two wheat-colored braids bound together down her back came flying down an aisle between beds.
Gwaine, who was halfway back to Merlin, turned in time to catch the girl, wrapping his arms around her tightly and completely. He swung her for a moment before lowering her to her feet, smoothing a gloved hand over her hair in an attempt to tidy strands that had come loose from the braids.
Another one of the helpers passed Merlin in the door. Tareth, he recognized the boy, but his eyes were dark and distant with shock – controlled and contained but threatening to overwhelm. Tareth put an armful of bandages down on someone's bed, heading for Gwaine and the girl – and Gwaine freed an arm to gather Tareth close without hesitation. The boy clung to the knight like he'd never seen the infirmary house multiple injured with battle wounds – or like he hadn't expected to see Gwaine again.
"It's all right," Gwaine told them, his gloved hand cupping the back of the boy's head, holding him gently – the other circling the girl's waist as she stretched to hold him round his neck. There was no trace of levity in Gwaine, anymore. "It's all right," he repeated. "I'm fine, I swear. Old joints and bruises, that's all. You can put me to work helping, in a minute."
Neither appeared inclined to let go their hold, and Gwaine noticed Merlin watching. Tears glinted in his dark eyes, and Merlin had never seen this knight cry.
"This has to stop," Gwaine said to him with a sort of hoarse desperation that frightened him with its unfamiliarity, its possibility. "Dear God, we're almost there, but… oh, this has to end."
Merlin couldn't bear it any longer. He turned from the infirmary and fled.
…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..
(Past)
A measure of awareness returned to him when someone touched his face – drifting and imagining caring hands, the low murmur of concerned voices in the night around him – and he turned his face slightly into it.
Mumbling, "What?"
"Just checking you for fever. Can't have you dying or going out of your head on me, now can I?" Dusty murmured.
He hummed agreement, turned a little further so that his lips brushed her hand for a kiss of gratitude.
It might have been her thumb.
Yes, he was silly at times, they both knew it; she pulled back and he drifted away again.
…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….
(Future)
With those inside the citadel focusing on the infirmary, Merlin chose to take refuge in Gaius'– in the physician's chambers, but he didn't sit idle. Even if he didn't know where things were kept anymore, they weren't hard to find, and he still knew what he was doing with comfrey and boneset.
Concoctions to cleanse a wound, infusions to stem blood flow, ointments to prevent infection and stimulate healing, poultices to ease bruising or mend bones, and potions to dull the sense of pain. These things didn't keep well in a finished form, so they had a limited supply readily to hand; he knew they'd need more, tonight. And bandages, washing rags, slings and splints… His hands shook on the grinding-stone and bowl and he had to stop to shake out his muscles and lean over his palms on the work-table.
All because of him. And if he believed the others, he couldn't change it, couldn't avoid it – could only return to his own time to endure ten more years of this.
Could they endure it a little bit easier if he could tell them, I ended it. It's only a matter of time… And at least he knew who Morgana couldn't kill, either.
The door wasn't closed; Merlin heard the approaching steps of someone trudging up the tower stairs and lifted his head to meet the startled gaze of the young girl who'd flung herself into Gwaine's embrace – Tareth's sister, carrying basket over her elbow and recovered enough to make herself useful, again.
"Oh – Merlin," she said, glancing about to comprehend his occupation. "We've been worried about you – people have asked where you were."
"Alice is the physician," he said, lifting the grinding-stone and letting it fall back into the dust of the elder flowers he'd been crushing. "I'm not her apprentice, am I?"
"Tareth is," she answered, coming to the table and setting her basket down. Her shoulders were slumped, and she stretched and rolled her head to ease the ache of overused muscles before beginning to pack the rolled bandages and folded rags he'd heaped there. "And me. Only I'm not so keen on doing it all my life. I might marry, though my uncle says-"
"Sorry," Merlin said, wincing a bit. "I don't… We've not really been introduced."
She paused in the act of examining a vial of hazel-decoction. "Oh. No, I'm sorry, I didn't think – I'm so tired. It's Taira – my name's Taira."
"It's nice to meet you," he said, feeling the awkwardness of the situation. "Are you in a hurry? You've been sent for-"
She named off her list of supplies, and Merlin nodded.
"You know what Alice wants them for, right? I've already done these." He pointed, naming the uses of the little bottles, though Alice could surely tell what they were if Taira forgot.
"You're not coming down?" she said, slumping onto the edge of the table as he began to pack his work into her basket, safely between bandages and rags. Her hands had been scrubbed, but there were still faint red smears up her wrists and lining her nails; they trembled on the rough fabric of her equally-smeared apron. "Alice likes you available for emergencies – the strength of your magic behind the spells she casts for healing have saved lives."
Something lurched behind his breastbone. "Are there emergencies tonight?"
Her lips twisted in a dainty grimace. "No… No one's died – I don't think anyone will, though I'm only the apprentice. And… she says Dusty will be fine. She'll have to sleep most of the day tomorrow… I think I will, too."
He couldn't find a smile for her, and avoided looking at her by pushing the dishes and utensils he'd used to the end of the table for washing up, later. "Then it sounds like you don't need me."
"It sounds like we need you to defeat Morgana," Taira said, curling her arms through the basket's handle so it could rest in the bend of her elbows in front of her waist, and pushed herself to her feet again. "That's the most important thing. They've been waiting for that ever since I can remember – ever since my brother and I came here to Camelot to live with our uncle." She turned to head for the door again.
"I swear I'll do my best," he assured her around the lump in his throat.
She gave him a weary smile over her shoulder. "Your best is always good enough."
And he was alone again. And no more ingredients to be prepared, and the patients in the infirmary mostly settled to rest and begin healing by now. Sleep impossible… the only other thing he knew to do was-
Go to the king. Check on Arthur.
No one noticed him on his familiar journey from physician's chambers to king's quarters – there wasn't anybody to notice him. They'd entered the quiet gap between initial necessities and the hard work daylight would bring. There was a guard at the end of the hall from the king's room – he was young, and yawning – and Merlin thought he was glad after all that neither Gaius nor Gwen nor his mother was here, now.
They might worry for him, and he couldn't bear that much better than he could bear the weight of others sacrificing for him. It was Will, doubled or tripled. It was Lancelot a dozen times over. It was his father – and he'd vowed that would be the last death for his sake. Ignorantly and rashly, it now seemed.
The door of the king's chamber wasn't closed, either, and the voices Merlin heard halted him with knuckles upraised, ready to knock for permission to enter.
"…Don't know if he's coming back, and how can I say that to him? How do I say something like that, Leon? I look at Merlin, and… dammit, I've forgotten what it was like for him. How could I forget?"
"It's been a long time, sire," came Leon's voice, tired but calm.
Merlin dared to push the door a little further open – slowly, unnoticeably, and shifted to be able to see through the crack by the hinges.
The king leaned back against the desk, gripping its edge to brace himself, head hung low. No chance he'd see Merlin by the door – and Leon was out of sight, a shadow on the wall behind the king. Arthur's chainmail had been removed – someone would have to oil it against the drenching they'd all received; someone else, Merlin remembered – but his clothing and hair was still damp and draggled.
"The things I did – the things I said. The way I treated him – so dismissively, Leon, even when I knew better. And he came back – he always came back, but this time… This time…" He shook his head wearily.
"Merlin will come back, sire. I could swear to it, if you like. That ride we took the other day, when it happened and we were taken by surprise? Gwaine is certain Merlin meant to talk to you about this switch, tell you anything he felt you should know. Maybe even say a proper goodbye – and in that case, you know he'd have promised-"
The king made a sound of involuntary pain, and Merlin's gut clenched.
"Do you remember how we hounded him? How I reacted?"
"You've changed. Just as this young Merlin has grown and developed into the formidable sorcerer we ride with now."
Behind the door, Merlin shivered to hear Leon say so, and calmly.
"And our Merlin knows that. He forgives you much, you know."
"Too much, I sometimes think." The king scuffed his bootheel on the floor, let go of his grip of the desk's edge to cross his arms tightly over his chest. "But in this case, Leon… I don't know if it's occurred to you. I hope it hasn't occurred to him. I don't know if he'll be able to come back."
A cold chill trickled down Merlin's spine.
"How do you mean?"
"You remember the day he and I came back from the Isle?" The king glanced toward his most senior knight without raising his head.
"Mm." Leon's wordless response brimmed with audible but confusing emotion.
"So you know as well as I do, our young Merlin will return to his own time, only a little the worse for wear. Hardships of the journey itself."
"I suppose so…"
Merlin's fingertips gnawed at the wood of the door. Did that mean he'd defeat Morgana unscathed?
"But no one, not even Aithusa, can tell us if our Merlin completes the switch, unharmed. I was with him when he did that spell-"
Ritual, Merlin thought, hearing an echo of Gwaine's voice, but it wasn't really humorous anymore.
"And he vanished," the king continued. "But that's all we know. And if… he doesn't… if I never…"
If I don't return from the past, Merlin thought numbly.
The king sighed heavily, freeing one had to rub at his forehead, just above his scarred eye. "I mean, should I say things to this young Merlin that I've wanted to say to his older self? That's not right, is it? That feels too selfish."
Merlin retreated, emotions of his own swelling uncomfortably in his chest. Arthur never worried for Merlin's peace of mind, sharing the burdens of the concerns weighing his heart. Did the king try to lie to him now, for his own good? Or was this just more of protecting him from the knowledge of his future?
It made sense that they wouldn't know yet if his older self came back, and he was beginning to glimpse how they'd come to depend on their knowledge of future events, incomplete as it might be. How it might be unnerving to come to the end of that knowledge, and move into more ordinary uncertainty. What might be considered a comfort for him now was running out for them.
But if he gave his life, more or less, in removing Morgana as a threat to Camelot – if he had ten years left and no more – he'd always been willing for that.
Not at all willing for others to give their lives.
So he knew what he had to do, didn't he? Take some food from the kitchens, and a saddle from the tack room, and if Leon was here that meant an established guard in the lower town, but all efforts suspended til the morning.
He'd ride to the Isle. No one would stop him.
No one else will die because of you. Dare to come, brave warlock. Mighty Emrys. So he would, on his own terms.
…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..
(Past)
There was clatter, and there was urgency.
"You've got to go. You've got to leave, now. Do you hear me? Hey!"
The room was dark and musty-smelling – but there was lavender. Lye, and beeswax. It hurt to breathe, and the shapes, dark against the dark, wavered in and out of focus.
Far away, Dusty cursed, tears breathless in her voice. Then she swooped down on him, pushing and prodding at his bare skin, fingers fluttering in agitation so strong he gasped and tried to sit up.
"What is it?" he mumbled thickly. "What's wrong?"
"You have to go. You have to go now."
She jerked at his hand, which dislodged something in his shoulder, which flared with white-hot light, illuminating the inside of his skull and the backs of his eyelids, banishing sleep. She was bundling the sleeve of his shirt over his hand, up his arm and over the bandage roughly - he hissed and tried to yank his hand back
"Fine, get it on yourself. I put the rest of your shirt in your pack. I'd give you food but we don't have any to spare, and you have to go."
He pulled fabric and the collar slid over his hair. Illumined by the glow of not-yet-dawn, she stood two feet from him, staring out the front door of the cabin, nearly vibrating with anxiety.
"What happened?" he said, organizing the material of the shirt slowly, feeling lethargic and disconnected.
"They're coming," she insisted intently.
All apathy burned away like fog before the sun. He hitched himself off the box-bed to the floor and almost blacked out, reaching down for his pack.
"How close?" he said. "Are they here?" Maybe he could hide or distract – he wasn't going to be able to make the traveling spell work, he knew that already. And he wasn't going to be able to run with any speed for any length of time. Hobble, maybe.
"Quarter of an hour," she said in a small pinched voice, not meeting his eyes.
He rested the pack on the table, looking at her again. Seeing her for the first time – seated with her back to him, sound-scry crystal glowing against shorn scalp – wide-eyed with apprehension at the back of a crowd lining the street of the lower town to welcome back their victorious king.
"How do you know that?" he said softly. Though he knew already, didn't he. Did she realize she was magic, even now? Did she suspect?
"I can hear them." Subtle apprehension, but rising – and focused now on him, not whatever she was listening to. "You have to believe me. You have to go – if they find you here we'll be in more trouble than if they don't. Someone recognized your jacket, or asked questions, or gossiped to the wrong person, but the knights are coming here. My father told them about you – he's leading them here."
"You'll be in trouble for warning me," Merlin guessed, ducking stiffly into the knotted loop of the bag's drawstring. It would be misery for the better part of an hour, trying to move fast.
"I won't be here when they come," she told him with certainty. "I'll let them find me, maybe, and then I'll lie. Like I never saw you, you were never here. Like my father met you in the woods and took the jacket from you, or traded for it, or something."
He cast a glance around, to make sure he wasn't leaving evidence – and realized he was wearing the better shirt again, washed and dried and mended, neat lines marking the tooth-tears in the left shoulder. And she'd torn the extra shirt he'd borrowed from his younger self for the bandage.
She moved then, suddenly and toward the back of the cabin – there was another door there, he remembered. "Go this way, he'll lead them to the front."
Unlatching it, she shoved it open and stepped back out of his way. Merlin stopped on the threshold, and his heart pounded. The light on her face was pre-dawn, the sky overcast beyond the treetops – her skin smudged, her hair tangled. Her eyes…
"Come with me," he blurted.
This wasn't the way it happened. Unless it did, and she never told him. Damn Gaius for making him question everything he thought he knew.
Startled, she looked at him as if seeing him again for the first time, and he wondered what he looked like to her. Wild and disheveled and filthy, himself – the only clean part of him his hands and his wound. Gnawed shoulder – no civilized outer garment at all.
"You hate it here," he said, trying to persuade without coaxing her into suspicions. "I know people who would help you – give you a place to live and worthwhile work to earn your way…"
She drew back uncertainly – then completely misunderstood, giving him a bitter smirk. "I'll bet you do," she said sarcastically. "I'll just bet you know people who'll help me earn my way."
"Not like that," Merlin said, dismayed. "My mother lives in a farming town, there's always-"
"Need for one more girl?" It was written all over her – the devil she knew was preferable to those conjured by fear. Fear of the unknown, fear of risking hope and trust and the cruel disappointment that optimism made possible. "Go. Go!"
"You could go to Ealdor and ask for Hunith," he said swiftly. "You could go to Camelot and ask for Gaius – or Guinevere. I know you don't trust me, but-"
"You barely have time to get out of sight, now," she told him, distress imperfectly smoothed by the careless demeanor she affected.
"I'll go. I'm going. I just…" It hurt him physically, almost to the point of nausea, to leave her here and like this – but if they caught him, it might be worse for her. And if he said, I'm Merlin, remember me in two years time when you do come to Camelot – did that mean she'd deliberately kept things about her past from him, or that he was truly unremarkable? "Good luck, D- ah, Yana."
"Yeah. You too."
Five steps away, he looked over his shoulder, pulling damaged muscles. She swung the door shut, paying attention to the fit of the lower edge over the threshold, not looking at him at all.
She'd already forgotten him. She might lie today, but – next week, next month, next year? It might be the truth for her to say, I have no recollection of ever seeing…
He filled his lungs - they were tight and it was painful – and turned resolutely away. He'd see her again… in five days, and ten years.