Chapter 7: Free and Alone
(Future)
There were two ways to reach the Isle of the Blessed, and Merlin had traveled them both, different times in the past.
Or at least, one way he'd traveled twice, and the other he'd traveled most of…
One way led through the Valley of the Fallen Kings. Over the White Mountains – over the pass between the tallest and the last peak, north of the Sea of Meredor. It was the shorter route by several days, and could be done in a night and a day, pushing a swift horse. That was the first and most obvious reason Merlin chose it.
It could not be done without magic.
That was second reason for taking that route. Because the other road was the one Arthur and the knights had traveled to seal the veil, every night gripped by the threat of the shrieking dorocha. Every step willing to give his life that Arthur might live… every moment completely unaware that Lancelot meant to do the same, that he might live.
The second route was the one the king would take, coming after Merlin, angry with his decision to travel alone and ahead, thinking it the only way.
Five days along the length of the second route, and didn't the king consider that any delay meant they wouldn't reach the Isle by the end of the week, in time to face Morgana before his older self in the past switched them back? Seven days, wasn't it – to the exact hour? Possibly, possibly not…
Merlin was out of the Valley of the Fallen Kings before daylight, without incident. As the land rose to the high grassy foothills of the White Mountains, he dismounted to give the horse a break from his weight as he munched some of the provisions he'd packed, for a breakfast on the move. He'd mount again as soon as he could see the pass clearly, and doze in the saddle til he reached the mountains.
It was cloudy and cool, wind gusting against him as he toiled upward. Roots of the waving grass and last year's long dead blades caught at the toes of his boots, inclining him to stumble.
Why was he rushing? He had four days left to him to complete this step of his destiny. Merlin stopped and squinted up along his lonely, empty path; his mount showed no intention of continuing without his prompting.
There was no fear of attack, either. He was doing exactly what his enemy wanted, after all, coming right to Morgana.
He sighed, achy and shivery inside. Once having paused his forward momentum, it seemed an insurmountable task to begin climbing the hill again.
"You wouldn't mind a bit of a rest, would you?" he said to the chestnut mare he'd taken from the royal stables. "A few mouthfuls of grass, hey?"
If they'd realized he was gone, that he'd left the citadel entirely, they'd follow that second route to catch him up. Around the ominous Valley, not through it. And even if they began to suspect they were not following him – no tracks, no signs of his passage – they still had no alternative but to follow the path they knew, to the Isle.
His knees cracked, lowering himself to the ground, but the mare, loosened reins trailing, didn't so much as twitch an ear as he groaned to spread his limbs on the dry grassy hillside. It was cool and windy, and it might be nice to have the weight and protection of a blanket. It was cloudy, but he tipped his head to the side and propped his forearm over his eyes for some twilight dimness.
Now, if the ants would only leave him alone for an hour or two…
…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..
(Past)
Merlin headed northeast through the Forest of Glaestig, away from Camelot.
His leg felt tight and hot, but it obeyed his sense of haste well enough, and soon eased nearer the comfortably worn feeling the rest of his unusually-exercised muscles gave him. His right shoulder was troublingly purple, but he stretched it methodically as he moved until it was decently serviceable. It was the other, the chewed left bicep with torn skin, that throbbed out of rhythm with his step and threatened to spread its muted agony across his back and up his neck to his skull.
At least he didn't have to run.
For an hour he kept a watchful eye on his backtrail, and saw no signs of pursuit. The skies leaked a steady drizzle above him, dripping through the trees, so the rest of him was just as wet as the boots that found relatively stable footing following the stream. Pebbles and rocks more than mud, which would sooner erase the signs of his passage, and maybe the knights would believe Dusty rather than her father.
Never saw him. Nowhere near her. Misinformation…
They used to be so easy to mislead.
If Arthur was with them, he wondered, would the king be so easily put off? To his knowledge, Dusty had never dared to lie to Arthur…
After the first hour, Merlin dared to rest for a bit, tucked into the rocky outcropping of a hill that rose above the treetops. No one could discover him without getting quite close, and he'd see any pursuit still a league away. Hear them, too, if they were tracking and not stalking. And if they brought the hounds again… well, he'd deal with that if it happened. He hoped it wouldn't; those dogs were good and loyal friends.
Moisture gathered in his hair and trickled down the back of his neck. Good thing it wasn't later in the autumn.
He took out Gaius' second apple and fed it to the growling thing lodged under his ribs. Which would pacify it, he knew, only an hour or two. That meant scrounging – and he still had several ingredients for the ritual to find – and that meant moving.
Well, the rocks weren't that comfortable anyway.
Leaving the high ground, Merlin circled back toward Camelot, ever wary of meeting a patrol or hunting party. If Arthur had lost his trail, what might he do? Interrogate Gaius, maybe. Return to the Valley of the Fallen Kings, maybe. Search Glaestig, maybe.
The gray drizzle continued, soaking Merlin eventually to the skin – which made the bandage awkward and uncomfortable – and making him think about the wormwood and watercress in his pack, the dried calendula petals and huddled feverfew seeds.
Two days to get to the Isle. That meant he had today and tomorrow; if he tried Camelot today, he might be too sick and sore and weak to escape again if he was discovered, and there was a chance Gaius had not yet been able to gather the supplies he'd promised.
Camelot tomorrow, then.
Noon came and went, though that was based on faith more than sight, and so, even though he passed ditch after patch after ditch of purple-headed thistles, they were of no use to him. Had to be plucked at noon for the magic to be effectively present. So instead he watched for the distinctively-colored leaves of belladonna, and wove a tight basket-nest of plucked reeds to keep the harvested cherry-like berries safe and safely separate. He found comfrey and carried it til he came upon a tall stand of mallow, their long, edible – medicinal – roots stretched deep into the muck below to provide stability for the tall thin stalks and pale flowers. Pretty bitter raw, but if he boiled the flowers the taste would dull sufficiently to make them palatable, and the roots were bland anyway.
Used to be he didn't care about how things tasted, as much – food was food. Merlin huffed wryly at himself, shoulder-muscles pulling tenderly as he harvested – judiciously choosing plants with some spacing, some firmer footing that wouldn't hold his boot-print. Just in case.
And because he never saw so much as a gleam of silver-and-crimson in the distance, he ventured close enough to tended fields to pluck a double handful of nearly-ripe wheat-stalks, rubbing them gingerly together to husk the grain, and crunched it raw between his teeth.
Nowhere near as good as the baker's bread.
Wild carrots and parsnips could be eaten without being cooked, and at least there was no danger of him starving. Plenty of water to wash the harvested food and to drink, too, dripping all over and collecting in runnels and puddles. And no sign of the knights.
And by midafternoon – or thereabouts – he'd reached his destination, a place of shelter for that night and maybe two before he struck out for the Isle of the Blessed.
The cave wasn't deep, so there were several places where the ceiling cracked open to ground above, and sky above that. Avoiding the puddles and trickles of rainwater seeping down, he stacked three armfuls of scavenged sticks and branches which could be dried by magic or by the heat from already-burning firewood. Whatever smoke rose to find those cracks in the roof of the cave would dissipate in the rain or blend with the fog that would rise afterward.
Soon the cave was warm as well as relatively dry, and quiet. He closed his eyes to feel the ordinary magic of the fire on his face, hunkered down but favoring the bruised shin, and mused for a moment on the ironies in life.
When they were last in this cave…
Maybe it didn't matter.
Merlin unpacked his bag and laid everything out to dry, taking special care of the one irreplaceable ingredient – the neckerchief folded and balled around the stain of his own blood, damp through but preserved in place. He stripped and hung his clothing where the fire could work its will on that, also. His garments could be dried with magic, but he meant to conserve energy whenever possible. Hopefully his luck hadn't kept him from running into Camelot's defenders all day only to betray him now with nothing but his skin and his magic for defense…
He stripped a long slender branch and used Gaius' borrowed knife to sharpen it. Two birds with one stone – fish in the stream for as much roasted dinner as his stomach could hold, and wash himself thoroughly also. He washed the bandage made from ripped shirt-fabric, sticky with honey and liquid oozed from the wound, and he'd leave it open to the air, overnight. Gaius' knife did a fine job preparing the brown brook-trout he caught in the stream, which washed away guts and gills to leave no trace of his presence.
When his trousers were mostly dry and only damp in places, he put them on and settled himself by the fire for a long leisurely evening smoothing seamlessly into night.
The last time they were in this cave… he remembered helplessness and hopelessness and defeat. Nothing he could do, save encourage his other half to do what must be done… without telling him why there was yet reason for faith. Why he could and should trust in Merlin the way Merlin trusted in him. Hope that his hope and his magic – even roundabout and fictionalized – would be enough, this time…
That his hope and his magic, determination and however much courage it took, would be enough, this time.
He didn't remember loneliness here, before.
Had that been what Arthur felt? The weight of destiny that seemed impossible to bear, impossible to fulfill – and yet unthinkable that it remain unfulfilled. Alone because no one else felt that, not the responsibility of it… because he hadn't known that Merlin felt exactly that.
He couldn't have said, I know. I'm with you. Not if Arthur didn't understand Emrys. And Arthur hadn't been ready, then, to struggle through the implications of Merlin and magic sharing his destiny.
Merlin picked through the bones of his dinner, pliable and invisible in the steamy white flesh of the fish, bland but filling and therefore most welcome, then unfolded his blanket next to the fire. Pine boughs for a mattress might have been nice, but the trimming of them would alert anyone searching the area. He was tired enough it probably wouldn't matter til the morning, when he might be stiff again.
He'd carried water in all three of the bowls Gaius had given him – two small and one larger. From the largest bowl he tipped water for rinsing his hands after his meal. One small bowl he drank from, and the other he placed close to the fire so the water would warm, saturating the fibers of the mallow-root that could steep all night and be ready for application in the morning – when he'd have to clear all evidence of his stay from the cave, being uncertain where he'd spend tomorrow night.
The flickering flame played light and dark over skin left bare and warm, and one particular ridge-and-shadow caught his contemplation. A scar on his wrist, regular and deliberate – he rubbed his thumb over it, the mark that was proof of what he'd told Arthur more than once before the king realized what it meant.
I've saved your life.
He closed his eyes and settled into the least-uncomfortable sleeping position, hoping that his dreams wouldn't be filled with those images and memories – Arthur and blood, gasping and stillness, eyes desperate and empty. The fact of life saved once again didn't always dispel the nightmares of failure, unfortunately.
Even Arthur felt the fear of death – his own or one of his men – when someone was dying and conscious of it, and the king had no solution.
I'm your solution, Arthur. Always have been, always will be. Whatever it takes, for however long I'm with you.
He rubbed his fingertips over the ridge of the scar, and fell asleep.
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(Future)
Sunset reached Merlin high on the side of the tallest peak – not yet halfway and still an hour before he entered the pass, but when he squinted back into the dazzling array of gold and pink and orange, the sun showing momentary brilliance between the edge of the heavy cloud-cover and the rim of the inevitable earth, he could see over the wind-tousled tops of the grassy foothills to the gilded crowns of the forest's thousands of trees.
Not all the way to Camelot, though.
His legs and back ached from leaning forward in the saddle while his borrowed mare labored up the mountain trail – nothing so easy as a straight line, of course – or trudging on his own soles, and his head ached dully from not enough sleep and too much uncertainty.
He dismounted, letting the reins trail a bit, and eased himself down on the sloping dirt - the snow-line was higher than the pass, and he was glad of it – and let his body relax completely, watching the colors shift and spread as the sun sank.
It made him think of Arthur, somehow. Most things did, in the end.
Had they discovered his absence from the citadel? Had they packed and set out – and had they made it to Daelbeth, which the ancient dragons had ruined? Would Arthur remember that journey, shuddering at the screaming on the wind, jumping at moving shadows, and believing that sacrifice was inevitable?
In his own time, Arthur had ten years ahead of him – good times and bad, and now Merlin had glimpsed both kinds. Less than a year as king, and that was the sunrise, wasn't it? Rising light and greater illumination and growing productivity… and clouds in the sky overhead – Morgana's whereabouts unknown, though now he could report she still lived and would definitely return to threaten them multiple times. Would that ever-present and undefeatable threat make them feel that skies were always stormy, always gloomy, always dark?
And when they came out from under that perpetual overcast – when Morgana was dealt this final blow, in the next few days – how long would Arthur's brilliance blaze across the kingdom, before…
The last sliver of pure light slipped behind the darkening horizon. Warmth fled the air and Merlin shivered, every muscle in his body tightening involuntarily.
It seemed an ominous sign, and for a moment Merlin wished for the power of the sorcerer Sigan, to turn night back into day.
There wasn't a spell for it, that he was aware of.
He didn't always need a spell. He'd done plenty with his magic before coming to Camelot; Gaius' book was the first one of its kind he'd ever seen, the old physician the first other magic-user he'd ever met. It always worked alongside his wishes and needs, all his life, even when he tried to hold back and hide it.
What would it take? Could he reach into the sky and grasp the sun, grasp the moon and stars all at once, draw them back along their paths, handle and reposition them like the flames of a candle, like floating a candle across the room?
Could Sigan do that?
Legend wasn't always truth, he knew that.
What about turning tides, then? Merlin knew spells to manipulate water in small quantities, push the edge of a lake or pond backward for a few moments, but… the tides.
How far did the tides spread, along the coast? Thousands of leagues. And not only, hold back the tide for a moment or two, but turn it completely. All the waves, all the depths, uncountable buckets-full…
Could Sigan really do that?
Merlin had seen things that, up to that moment in time, he might have declared impossible, but these things… He could not even fathom.
Although…
Might it not be possible to alter a person's perception of day and night, high tide and low tide? Those absolute markers of time… And wasn't he living proof – living, breathing, lying on the cooling side of a very high mountain – proof that time itself could be affected by magic?
He could slow time almost to a standstill and move through it at will – for a few seconds, at least, when his emotions were high and danger threatened and lives were at stake. Perhaps Sigan's powers were more like that. Perhaps he could step forward or backward from night to day, high tide to low tide, a few hours at a time. Perhaps he could take people with him.
Morgana could manipulate time with magic.
Evidently in ten years, Merlin would be able to, also – send himself, and bring someone back.
Too bad he hadn't left instructions for that – or for anything - lying about his room. Dear Merlin, this is what you need to do. Your Self, Merlin.
He huffed a laugh, startling moisture into his eyes and needing to blink them clear.
Sitting up, he bent his knees to bring his soles into contact with the ground, one palm down to push himself to his feet. He needed dinner and his blanket, and the mare would travel better on the morrow if he unsaddled her for the night.
Through the pass that required magic to clear, and to the lake and the Isle to face his future.
And kill his friend.
…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..
The nighttime noises of cricket and tree-frog, faint rustle of wary nocturnal creatures, had lulled Merlin, twenty paces into the cave and around a bend, all night. He'd slept hard and fast, waking twice to adjust aches and bruises to a new position on the rocky ground, and it lacked an hour or two til dawn when he became aware of his inability to find another position or sleep itself, again that night.
Early morning, rather.
The nearest crack in the roof of the cave allowed light to seep in like the rain, clearer and paler than the light pooling around the remaining coals of his fire.
Well, if he was going to attempt to enter the lower town and encounter Gaius going about his evening rounds…
Merlin rose by groaning, uncomfortable degrees. It was too dim to check his bruises – they'd be spectacular today, he was sure; bruises that deep might take a fortnight to begin to yellow to green and brown, and fade. His fingertips found heated, sensitive skin between the hounds-teeth scabs around his left upper arm, puckering and ready to crack open and bleed again.
He rolled and tied his blanket, gathered the rest of his dried supplies into the drawstring bag; his socks were warm and dry, and his boots near enough to make no difference. Then he poured the tincture of mallow-root over half the bandage, discarded the remaining root-fibers, tucked the bowl inside his pack, and rewrapped his arm for the day.
It should be washed and left open to the air again tonight, and tomorrow re-evaluated. Possibly several days of the same sort of treatment – scabbing was good, but that natural covering for healing flesh beneath must be kept sufficiently softened for a time before it could be trusted to begin to peel at the edges on its own. What he wouldn't give for a polished-metal mirror to be able to see the marks for himself…
Unease prickled along his skin, raising the hairs of his arms and tugging the tips of his ears toward the mouth of the cave.
He froze, fingertips on the last fold of the bandage, eyes wide and breath held to focus every sense on answering the question – what had alerted him?
It was too quiet.
The insects and creatures held their silence, wary as he was of… something big enough to alarm everything within hearing range.
Men. More than one. He didn't need to See to guess that. Tucking the last edge of the bandage under, he tossed his shirt over his head, finding the sleeves as hastily as he found the string of his bag, knotted for carrying.
Boot-soles touched and rubbed the rock at the mouth of the cave, out of sight around the bend.
There was no other easily-accessible outlet that he knew of – but they hadn't seen him, yet. No matter who it was, bandit or knight, he had no business with any man but Gaius today.
Merlin swiped one hand above the coals to kill them black and smokeless, securing his bag around his body with the other. It was a cave and newcomers might light torches, depending on their purpose, but-
He took half a dozen light-fast steps, soundlessly on his toes – two on the floor of the cave, four up a steep crack in the wall behind where he'd lain for the night. Reaching a place where he could roll himself into a high narrow crevice, he went completely still, breathing between his lips to make no sound as his heart thundered in his ears and his bruises throbbed to protest the action.
They wouldn't look up here. They wouldn't see him. They'd see nothing but rock…
Footsteps. Torchlight flickering, stretching up the walls – touching his sleeve and probably the leg of his trousers but he was part of the rock and they wouldn't see – reflecting unevenly from the cave-roof.
Men, more than one. They didn't speak, they moved swift and light, roaming the edges of the cave as far as Merlin was aware it spread, beneath the earth.
One torch lingered, just down from Merlin's hiding place and mere paces from him, just where he'd killed his fire.
"Still warm." The voice sent skitters of reaction along Merlin's nerves, and he held still with an effort. Arthur. And did he think about that last time he'd been in this cave – despairing of ever regaining Camelot, certain he'd been abandoned because of unworthiness… "Someone was here. It could have been anyone…"
"Here." Leon's voice held all of Merlin's memories and more. "Hiding himself here - and in that hut where you said you and Merlin found the old-" Sudden silence, Leon cut off by look or gesture from his king.
The footfalls seemed less careful to Merlin, and his left hip and elbow began to ache under the burden of his motionless weight. Other steps approached, having lost their caution also.
"There's no one here," Gwaine's voice reported. So he was back from – where was it, the north? Merlin couldn't remember now, where Gwaine had been sent, last week. Ten years ago. "No sign anyone's been further back than this point in quite some time."
Silence. Shuffle-scuff. Merlin's breathing wouldn't slow, and his heartrate was high.
"Fish bones," Gwaine added. "Someone's dinner. Enough for two, possibly."
Hidden, Merlin allowed himself a wry grin. Plenty of fish. It was satisfying to eat his fill without feeling sick to his stomach on just a few bites.
"All in one pile," Leon countered. "One man."
"Or two sitting close," Gwaine said, without conviction. "This, though…"
"What is it?"
Merlin frowned. What else had Gwaine found?
"A splash of something, dumped or tossed, it looks like. It-" pause – "smells like something you'd find in Gaius' room."
Dammit. Maybe should've dumped the rest of the steeping mallow-root in the fire-ashes.
"It's fresh. Recent. Not dried, anyway, like the fish bones."
"We're going to assume it's him," Arthur said in a low, firm tone. "He spent the night here – he can't have gone far."
"We didn't find tracks," Leon said.
"He's being careful. Hiding himself with magic, like he did before."
Leon said, "That doesn't mean it isn't-"
At the same time as Gwaine began, "Gaius says he's satisfied that it's-"
The king interrupted him with a tone Merlin knew well – one he remembered and which made his heart ache, to think that the king considered it necessary. "Not another word. Spread out and search, all of you. Keeping in mind the possibility of magic. Be wary – and thorough."
No one else spoke, but the scuffling movement spoke of obedience, and soon the last footfall faded, echoing back from the mouth of the cave.
Merlin kept still, in case anyone had lingered – Arthur often did that after issuing orders, to collect himself before he joined the efforts of his men. There was no sound from below, but he remained in his position, waiting and listening.
What would they do when they could not find him? Search the cave more comprehensively? Leave men on guard in case their quarry returned for another night?
He could not waste this day, this middle day of the displaced week. On foot he'd need time to travel, time to prepare the faelg – it was nighttime when he'd switched back to this time as a younger man, but he couldn't recall if it was soon after dusk or just before dawn. And he had more ingredients to secure, a foray into Camelot to accomplish, before then. He couldn't waste this day wedged into a cave-crevice waiting on dubious luck…
If he could get out and ahead of them, they could search the area the rest of the week without result – and then he needn't fear these knights his friends discovering him entering Camelot.
Would they expect that? Would they be watching and waiting?
Still, silence.
Merlin leaned out carefully to check that he was alone – he was – and his attention was caught by that break in the roof of the cave that let his smoke trickle out and the rain trickle in. It looked wide enough to allow him to squirm through, from his new angle. They'd be searching the valley floor, not these higher places – if he could manage it, and then sneak away…
He used to be very good at sneaking away. But there hadn't been need for that for years. Wasn't he out of practice.
Adjusting his position slightly, Merlin secured the drawstring of his bag over his right shoulder, under his left arm. The crevice he'd chosen for a hiding place angled up and into that crack in the cave-roof, though it narrowed too much to retain a man's body. He tested his muscles – left arm too sore to hold his weight, right arm too weak on its own – and chose to use a little magic to hold himself up, scrambling spider-like to the top of the wall and into the break in the roof – it was nearly choked with damp earth and roots that loosened and pattered around him-
Into his face. He shook his head and tried to blow dirt away, so he wouldn't sneeze-
Down to the cave floor. Maybe it would fall into his fire and be mistaken for ash, or into the puddle of rainwater collected further down, and dissolve innocuously. Maybe no one would enter the cave again to notice, or assign significance to a new layer of dirt just under this crack in the ceiling.
His fingers gripped grass. Bracing himself, he shoved his right elbow up and out and found the ground solid enough. His left arm protested painfully, catching his breath in his throat for an unexpected moment, making him worry it wouldn't hold him.
But it did, and he was able to pull his head forward and up. The sack caught, the string tightening around his neck, but he couldn't stop with his weight dangling this high over the cave-floor, magic strained and precious. Hoping he wouldn't crack the bowls or crush the ingredients – or strangle himself – he braced his boot in the crack and turned to rub his chest along the edge of the opening, worming his way out.
The sun had risen in a golden glow of dawn. Would it traverse the curve of the sky in full visibility, or would it rain again today?
He hoped the knights hadn't alerted to his movements. Just what he didn't need, to manage this squeeze-through escape, and look up to find himself surrounded.
Merlin's upper body was over his good elbow – no danger of falling back through the crack, anymore. He let go of the magic and crawled forward, bending a knee to shove his boot-sole against the inside of the crack, getting stuck and having to turn sideways to free his other knee from the awkward angle.
And his boots cleared the opening without falling off his feet – requiring magic to levitate them up to him again, if the sound of them falling to the cave-floor didn't bring knights running to discover him.
Merlin lay on the ground struggling to pant silently, doing his best to scan the hilltop – to listen for men moving nearby – to remember the lay of the land, and the best path to choose. It had been a long time since they'd been here, and he didn't remember having climbed this hill before.
He rolled to his stomach, away from the bag whose string still tugged at his neck.
Diffuse sunlight filtered through the forest, nearly even with him at the horizon. Leaves of the underbrush trembled over his head. The hunters weren't calling out to each other – they were being stealthy.
If they had come to this cave because of a guess or a hunch or a possibility, did it mean someone was beginning to believe him? Or because Arthur still thought he might have stolen young servant-Merlin's memories, and might try to maintain his claim even in the face of royal disbelief and rejection?
He wished he knew.
Best choice was away from the mouth of the cave, he figured, rather than around and down where they might be searching for signs of his passage. The ground in this region was different from where he'd run and hidden and run again from Arthur's men, the first day. Here were great gorges, deeper than a two-level house, some with streams at the bottom, some valleys wide enough to ride a troop of horses through. Here were steep rises and abrupt drops, ridges narrowing away to nothing, and everywhere great old trees to obscure judgment and thwart expectation, bushes and seedlings. Horses were good for travel on known paths, through this forest, but useless in a chase, if the quarry was clever. If he kept to the higher ground, he could probably see any of them before they spotted him.
Merlin pushed to his elbows, leaning to his right, glancing all around himself. One knight – unrecognizable from the back and from the distance – continuing prowling forward, out of his sight.
He gathered his knees underneath him, cautiously looking behind himself also. Nothing – and no one.
To his feet then, and adjust the drawstring bag. He moved away from the mouth of the cave, which was obliquely toward Camelot, several hours distant.
The ground tilted, and he angled to keep to the ridge. If he didn't see any of them for… half of an hour, say, he'd figure he was clear of pursuit.
It was so quiet, though. That made him nervous – a man could expect a bubble of wildlife going warily quiet to travel with him, but that should be much smaller than the full range of earshot. That only happened when there were many men, spread out all around.
How many had Arthur brought? Specifically to this cave, or randomly happening upon the area in the course of a wider investigation?
To his right, a branch cracked – and a pair of wings heavy enough for an owl or eagle or hawk rushed away, higher into the trees.
Merlin froze, reaching to grip the smooth skin of a young birth trunk, his fingers wrapping halfway around as he crouched slightly – not thick enough for hiding behind. His ears twisted around, alerting to a sound just barely there.
Jingle… rasp…
He spun to discover three chainmail-clad knights, intent on him, moving up the rise in a concerted formation barely a stone's throw away. Swords out already – and the instant they saw the advantage of stealth had been lost, they abandoned it in favor of speed.
"He's here! All rally!" one of them shouted out. It wasn't Arthur, nor anyone whose voice he recognized.
Bloody hell, though, it was bad ground for running and his leg still ached and the string pinched his shoulder, and every slam of bootheel into the ground woke pulsing pain in his left arm.
Over the ridge – and other knights were rushing into view on his opposite flank, alerted by the shouts of their comrades. Whether they'd spotted him yet or would within moments, didn't really matter. Merlin swerved – straight away, then. At least they couldn't use their mounts effectively, in this terrain – and not all of them would abandon the horses to follow him on foot.
A hornet the size of his finger zipped angrily past his knee – thudding into a tree moments before he passed. Chipping bark and burying itself as the shaft of a crossbow bolt.
"Halt! Or we will bring you down!"
Was that the king? Or another knight responsible for a secondary troop?
His breath came in great fiery gasps, and he hoped not to turn an ankle or trip, because sooner or later this great slow rise of earth and rock and root would break, and if he was very fortunate, it would be-
Just ahead of him.
He sped up, sprinting at top speed, not saving anything for escape and outrunning over long distance or extended time. It would be decided now, freedom or capture.
Every step forward opened the break further in his vision. A gap of two paces – three – five – more-
He reached the edge without slowing, and flung himself over thin air that dropped away below him nearly twice the depth of looking down from the citadel walls.
Someone let out a desperate shout behind him, warning or entreaty, a heartbeat too late even if he could have stopped-
Awegan fet!
Lean forward. Brace yourself, but stay loose…
Merlin leaned forward, catching his balance as his magic propelled his boots forward – slightly upward. The opposite edge of the wide ravine rushed toward him, and he stumbled with momentum and release of magic.
It was thicker, here – brambles crawled up this promontory – he'd have to edge along the drop til he could continue down and away. At least the valley below stretched as far as he could see, steep cliffside left behind as an impediment of several hours, to his pursuers. He'd be long gone by the time they found a way to pick up his trail here.
Another arrow hissed inches from his hand, outflung for balance, and he reflexively gestured an air-bending shield between him and the knights on the opposite cliff edge. Speed was all, then no need to duck or repeatedly catch any bolts shot to wound and weaken him for capture.
He barely paused, slipping along the edge of the promontory, making a path that continued away, not so much as glancing toward the noises of knights continuing their rush right up to the opposite drop.
Until, "Merlin!"
Gwaine's voice, and instinctively he halted, head swiveling to take in whatever had caused that tone.
His friend stood right at the edge, where Merlin had leaped, sword still in his belt. Right beside Arthur, whose crossbow swung from his hand. Gwaine wore a look of astonishment that might have been comical in other circumstances; they hadn't seen each other since Merlin had returned to the past. Not so much as a silver strand in all that wild dark hair and beard, and Merlin found himself unable to resist a smile.
Oh my friend, what riches and complication lie ahead of you…
By comparison, Arthur was absolutely expressionless. Slowly, almost casually, he lifted the crossbow to point – and depressed the trigger.
Merlin didn't flinch as the bolt puffed to stillness a hands-width from his right hip, stuck fast in the air. He was better at judging aim and trajectory than he used to be – Arthur hadn't shot at him, but at his shield.
But – with curiosity, or with rage? Merlin couldn't tell.
"Oi!" Gwaine exclaimed, and snatched at the crossbow, speaking to the king in low, urgent words that didn't carry. Arthur didn't allow himself to be disarmed, but he made no effort either to reclaim the crossbow for reloading.
Several other knights occupied the edge – watching him, searching for a possible descent to continue their pursuit, glancing to the king for further orders. Leon stood still, focused on Arthur. Percival frowned at Merlin with a puzzled, unhappy, lost-little-boy sort of expression.
It really is me. I'm sorry.
Merlin met Arthur's eyes silently for a long moment – then released the shield magic as well, letting the bolt patter to the ground at his feet, then over the edge.
No one else loosed an arrow – no one dared a questioning call in the taut silence. Arthur said nothing.
Merlin turned his back and trotted seven paces, further from the edge at every step, til he could begin to push his way through underbrush. Out of sight, out of range.
He heard nothing from them over the thunder of his heartbeat in his ears and the panting rasp of air from mouth to lungs and back again.
It would take them a considerable amount of time to follow. Probably some sent back to retrieve horses. If he angled to his right he'd eventually encounter the stream upward of where he'd caught last night's dinner, and then he'd lose them. He could follow upstream or down to a place where he could step out without leaving a trace.
Or he could use magic. It felt solid – adequate, though he'd still spare himself as much as possible.
Thistle, today, if he could find some at a definite noontime.
Then to Camelot for the caroh-fruit, meadow-sawge and fennel Gaius was sure he could harvest from the palace gardens. And three more bowls if they could manage it between them. And a cup, or a seventh bowl – something he could drink out of, that was an after-thought.
Chamomile, and belladonna.
Pain throbbed in his shin and the bandaged shoulder, but it was muted and managed, and Merlin paid attention to covering ground, trotting melancholy and resolute.
Put some distance between himself and Arthur. Again.
A/N: The title comes from the Frozen song "Let It Go", just with the words reversed… A bit shorter, this chapter, but it's a bit of calm before the storm…