A/N: Really long again. Maybe I should cut these chapters in half and give them to you weekly…
Chapter 8: Confrontations
(Future)
Merlin stood over Arthur's bed. Perspiration on the prince's skin where the bandage did not cover him glistened in the flickering candlelight with each slow, shallow breath.
He was dying. He couldn't be woken. Gaius talked of easing his passage.
No cure. Failure.
How did one fail destiny, and still exist?
Hurry. You know a solution – get to the Isle!
But be wary of the Priestess. She can not be trusted, she cares nothing for honor as you would think of it. She is Arthur's enemy even if he will not die by her hand…
Suddenly the prince gasped a great ragged breath, and his eyes flew open, finding Merlin's with dark and desperate pain. A spot of blood showed on the bandage – spread and spread til the material was saturated and still blood pooled and dripped.
So much blood. A mortal wound. Even if it could be healed, a person could not live with so much blood spilling out around them.
No time now to get to the Isle.
Merlin was locked in place, breathless with horror, unable even to reach out and hold Arthur's life in place with bare and ignorant hands.
No time – this was it, Arthur's life ended and it was too soon, too short, so wrong…
Merlin dragged his eyelids open with a gasp of his own, coming to a realization of his surroundings and his dream only a moment later.
"Bloody hell," he managed, his heart hammering in his chest at a rate Elyan would envy. "Oh, damn…"
The sky was lightening above him, showing a gray cloud layer over faint blue like smoke hovering before the wind. The mare, dozing nearby on three legs, the fourth hoof cocked to rest, alerted more placidly to his waking in such an abrupt manner.
Ready or not, the day was coming.
The sense of urgency and warning from his dream stayed with him, as he rose and ate and packed, saddled and mounted the mare.
Just because this time-switch-jump-thing was Morgana's attack on him, and just because he was coming whether she knew it yet or not, did not mean the king was safe. Still in Camelot, or waking in Daelbeth to journey further north to the passage under the mountains – there was no guarantee that others allied with Morgana wouldn't attack him. Them. Merlin knew who had survived this long – but that didn't mean they'd also live out the week, or even the day. Gwaine, Percival, Leon, Dusty – all the others. It was good to know that the king had other magic-users to protect him in Merlin's absence, but… it wasn't a guarantee.
Heading north into the mountains meant he rode in the shadow of the last peak, up the side of the tallest peak and around toward the pass, and the morning was cool. The path was not treacherous, but too narrow for two to ride abreast, though the drop was not sheer. A slip did not promise a hurtling drop through league after league of midair, but it was too steep to allow the friction of a downward slide to slow or stop, and the outcroppings that didn't halt a fall would tumble the faller a story or more before landing to continue slipping down.
The chasm that divided the two peaks was choked with treetops at the bottom, and probably a stream or several made a trickling path to the lowest level. He could hear it if he stopped and held his breath and listened – maybe. Maybe it was only the wind, or the calling of solitary mountaintop birds of prey, in the distance.
The click of shod hoof on the rocky path was reassuring, and Merlin rode for nearly an hour before reaching the part of the route that necessitated dismounting.
This was sheer. The wall of the mountain rose straight up, a hundred paces or more above the path, and open air at his other fingertips. But the rock face was vulnerable to the ravages of the weather, wind and water, and crumbled down – daily, Merlin was willing to bet.
Another chunk dislodged even as he was arranging the reins to lead his mount, and the mare startled, jerking back nervously.
"Don't worry about it," Merlin soothed her. "Nothing for you to worry about, see? I've got you, I won't let anything happen to you, no one is gonna fall…"
The path was covered with a spill of rocks, like a frozen granite waterfall, reaching higher than Merlin's head – and how many lengths of the path beyond this point, was impossible to see or guess. It would be an extremely foolhardy thing to attempt clearing the path by hand, rolling the heaviest boulders clear, tossing the smaller rocks over the edge, sweeping the pebbles so the footing would be more secure. Hours and hours if not longer for a single man – the path did not admit for two, working side by side – and hope that in that time, no other stones of any size slid free further up, to come crashing down on the exhausted worker and startle any horses present into bolting, and falling.
Merlin set his feet, and lifted his palm.
The easiest form of magic, lifting and moving objects. Instinctive for him since before he could remember clearly, and Gaius had been well aware of that, describing this route to him the first time. Revealing his hope and faith in Merlin, that he could and would travel this way and back, bringing some sort of miraculous cure before the prince breathed his absolute last.
The rocks shifted, clicking and clattering on the path – silent in the air as they hurtled downward. Equilibrium upset, a wash of smaller stones, chips and pebbles, cascaded over the drop, rustling into the massive treetops far below like acorns into dried grass.
He moved forward, wary of the treacherous slope above, scooping and tossing, lifting and shifting while keeping three or four paces worth of safe distance from his work. Step by step, and encourage the mare to follow and trust.
"See, the path is clear. It's fine, perfectly safe. Stable footing, here… That was a joke, ma'am, do you see…"
The vertically-striated wall beside him was damp, and the path crunched and shifted under his boots. The mare stepped high and snorted nervously – and then they were past.
When he reached a point where he could mount again, the sun was beginning to reach around the last lower peak beside them, and that dangerous stretch was hidden from view behind the curve of the tallest peak where they traveled. But not out of earshot, when another chunk of stone loosened and slid, colliding heavily with the narrow ridge where the path wound. Blocked, again.
It didn't matter; he wouldn't be coming back this way, this time.
That was where I was, ten years ago when you came back… That meant Arthur would meet him at the Isle, whenever the magic was reversed and he returned to his own time.
His fingers were suddenly tense on his reins, his shoulders tight at the thought.
What would Arthur think? How had he handled the sudden appearance of Merlin's older self, in his place? He didn't have the advantage of his own older self's knowledge of this event, expecting it to happen and understanding what it meant, and how to deal with it.
What did he think of Merlin's older self? Was he angry that it happened? he was often angry when things happened and he felt helpless to stop or control or direct the situation. He wasn't good at being told what must be done, not unless he decided and initiated – gathering information, allowing advice, drawing conclusions and issuing commands to accomplish his will.
But if he was there when Merlin's older self performed the switch-back ritual… Did he know Merlin had magic, then?
You told me…
But maybe… maybe if Arthur had agreed to magic, to allow it to be used to exchange the two selves of Merlin back to their proper time… maybe he had started to see that magic had good uses. Already he'd made a truce with the druids – and he'd never hunted magic like Uther had, rather preferring to disprove the few allegations that had come up, as groundless or illogical, and free the accused if no other harm had been done. He didn't want to persecute magic… and live and let live was a fine place to begin, in Merlin's opinion. Let live, he could show Arthur… oh, so much.
Round-lanterns which surely had a proper, magical name, and abaedeth, and a round smooth stone to stand sentry over their campsites…
The question remained, however – how could he look Arthur in the face and confess, I lied. So many times. About this, specifically. And this, and this, and… The disastrous attempted saving of Uther's life. The end of Agravaine's. The truth about Morgana's departure from Camelot… How would he tell him, and how would Arthur handle all of that, to come someday to the fierce, formidable, compassionate king Merlin had met three days ago?
Maybe it didn't matter. Maybe Arthur could bellow in his face, or order his imprisonment, or sneer and turn a cold shoulder, ignore him for weeks or send him away… and Merlin could endure willingly, knowing that sooner or later… Sooner or later, Arthur would become this king. Wiser for his mistakes, kinder for the hurts he'd suffered, that Merlin had inflicted long ago and could not prevent Arthur from feeling, when he found out.
I can't lose him. He's my friend.
Hadn't Merlin forgiven him a hundred and one insults, intentional and not? Hadn't Merlin understood and accepted, even as the prince killed yet another innocent in his ignorance, or stood aside to allow a tragedy he didn't believe? Wasn't it arrogant for Merlin to think only he was capable of such sacrifice, to strengthen their bond? Wasn't it foolish to tell people, Arthur will be a great king – and yet still doubt the judgment the king would render in his case, at last?
It made him tremble to contemplate, anyway. He'd never said to anyone, I have magic. Some knew, some discovered, some overlooked…
He supposed it would be perfectly fitting, that Arthur was the first person he said those three words to. Well, someday, anyway.
The path descended, but not too steeply, and before another hour passed, Merlin was presented with the view of the lake, shining silver spread and pooled in the vast valley before him. And the island, visible above the mists. The extensive ruins, torn and jagged and crumbling – wide as Camelot itself, abandoned and empty… save for a few who focused on hate and revenge over survival and prosperity.
And he was riding right to them.
His stomach rolled and clenched as he left the mountain behind. The lake was ringed by a narrow strip of forest, and the closer he came, the higher the treetops rose to obscure the island and its ruins.
Morgana alone would be bad enough. But she had other magic-users with her – and he was staking his life on Arthur's certainty than he'd be back where he belonged in three and a half more days, little the worse for wear.
Aithusa's certainty helped. Even your worst mistakes cannot destroy this dream, for it isn't a dream…
They slowed, beginning to cross the last stretch of tapering open hillside toward the trees that now hid lake and island. Merlin had rarely confronted an enemy that knew he was coming and overestimated him. Maybe he should have asked Declan at least, if anyone was willing to accompany him… Maybe he should have thought more on the king's strategy… maybe he should have chosen somewhere else and sent word to Morgana to come to him…
Too late now.
A figure moved out of the trees, hooded and cloaked, stepping slowly as if to meet him.
Six paces out, hands reached to lower the hood, and he was close enough to see it wasn't Morgana. The woman's hair was brown and straight, and loose on her shoulders over the cloak covering her clothing.
Merlin reined in, not surprised that Morgana would have someone watching the shore approach for any wanted or unwanted visitors – but definitely wary. He dismounted with one eye on her, wondering how best to proceed; he couldn't abandon the mare – there was food in the saddlebags, and other supplies.
Dropping the reins to let the horse have her head for a few minutes, he ventured toward the stranger.
She wasn't quite thirty years of age, he thought – which made her actually several years Merlin's junior – and unremarkable save for the intensity that smoldered in her dark eyes and tightened every line of her face. She was angry and she was bitter.
"Well," she bit out. "You took your time."
"You know who I am, then?" he said carefully, every sense alert to the first hint of magic or violence from her. Both her hands were hidden now in the folds of the enveloping cloak; he wouldn't be able to see a gesture of attack immediately.
She sneered. "Doesn't everyone know who you are? The mighty Emrys."
Was she a druid, then – or did everyone know that name? Merlin wondered if he'd actually come to answer to that name, to allow folks to give it out as his own… to claim it. He studied her mouth and chin and couldn't decide if this woman was the same hooded figure who'd drawn him across the gate-yard before the citadel. Who'd taunted him, and challenged him. Her manner was just enough different, though…
"I'm Merlin," he said to her firmly. "I don't know what you expected of Emrys-"
"Disappointment," she spat. "That's all I've come to expect from Emrys."
He felt his face twist in confusion and disappointment of his own. "But magic is free, now. It's legal – accepted, used, encouraged-"
"It isn't free," she snapped, the strength of her conviction moving her closer. "There are still rules and restrictions placed on our kind by the likes of Pendragon – the murdering son of a murderer who has no magic himself and cannot hope to understand it."
Merlin sighed. It was personal, then. Not about magic and the law and living in peace. It was about revenge, for her.
"But if you know of Emrys, then surely you know Arthur is the once and future king," he said gently.
Her eyes flicked to the side, momentarily disturbed. "Maybe. But all he needed to do to fulfill that prophecy was live to reign a single day – a single hour, even. Then give way to someone far more suited to rule over magic in Camelot. And I care nothing for anyone's future but my own – and that of my people."
"That's a very narrow view," Merlin observed, and her eyes snapped back to him. "When you say your people, you mean… everyone with magic?"
She scoffed. "My lady, and those who follow her. And she's waiting, so – come along."
The woman turned, but Merlin didn't budge.
"Um," he said, feeling awkward. Negotiation was a strategy for Arthur, and not something he was comfortable with. "No, sorry. I don't intend to simply walk into her…" He flapped a hand toward the trees hiding the isle and the ruins. "Her residence. She wants me dead, and she obviously isn't alone. I may be young-" he allowed himself a grim smile, under the circumstances – "but I'm not stupid. You can tell her I've come, and she can meet me here. I'd prefer to come to some kind of understanding that prevents further bloodshed, but if she's determined to try to kill me, she can do it here, where we're on… fairly even ground."
Sloping ground. Whatever.
The woman frowned, looking him over, and prowled closer step by step. "But you are Emrys," she said, sarcastically sweet and simple. "Surely you have nothing to fear from the likes of us. You've bested us for years, after all."
He watched her warily, hairs rising behind his neck and along his forearms. I haven't done that yet… He wondered if maybe he'd fought this woman before – maybe he'd killed or injured her friends… But he didn't want her getting too close to him, or the mare.
"What is your name? If I've hurt you, I'm sorry." He backed obliquely, matching her step for step and she angled, turning him almost sideways to the verge of the trees and the lake.
"I am Kara," she said, as if he should know her name already – and maybe she was known to his older self, or to the sorcerers who served Arthur in Camelot. "And it wasn't me you hurt. It wasn't you who hurt me."
"Was it Arthur?" Merlin said, dismayed, and saw the truth flash from her eyes. "He is sorry, I know he is. He would make reparations, if you-"
"He cannot raise the dead," she hissed, stalking a few more steps.
He backed hurriedly, wondering if they were going to circumnavigate the whole slope like this. Talking in circles. But she wasn't attacking; he wasn't sure how else or how better to defend himself, or proceed.
"My father lived in exile because of Uther Pendragon," he offered, not really hoping to convince her but unable to keep from trying. "But he died trying to defend Camelot, because innocent people shouldn't suffer because some have magic, and some hate them."
"Innocent!" she snorted, pausing. "Not one person is innocent who declares loyalty to the son of Uther!"
"What about the daughter of Uther?" he countered, standing still also. "I tell you the truth, Kara, because I knew Uther and you didn't – Morgana is far more like that bloody tyrant than Arthur ever will be."
Something stung the side of his neck, just above the fold of the kerchief – a bee he never heard buzzing, he thought, and jerked away even as he sensed a larger presence just behind him.
The horse? No, his mare was several paces distant, behind Kara on their left flank as they'd turned.
Merlin twisted, raising a hand to his neck – that single pinpoint burned – and met a pair of blue-green eyes that sent a shock of familiarity through him.
"That may be," the young man standing behind him said. "But my enemy is not a Pendragon."
"Mordred," he said, his lips stiff. So this one also had survived ten years… Must he survive, if his destiny to kill Arthur was yet to be fulfilled?
"Not quite well met," Mordred observed blandly, rounding Merlin to join Kara. Her eyes fastened to him greedily for a moment, before returning to Merlin with blatant triumph. Of course she was convinced now, he could not resist the two of them enacting Morgana's will upon him, whatever it might be, forcing him to face Morgana on her terms and her ground.
That downstairs room they were preparing for a guest.
"I…" Merlin started, and had no words. I've thought of you. I've regretted my actions. I've wished to hear that you were dead – without being responsible, myself.
I'm sorry.
His throat was thick and his eyes were blurry, and he didn't really care to reveal too much emotion. Not in front of Kara, and would it mean anything to Mordred anyway?
"It is ironic, isn't it, Emrys," Mordred went on. "You are Morgana's enemy because of Arthur… and I am Arthur's enemy because of you."
"And I hate you both," Kara put in, overwhelmingly satisfied with their circumstances.
Mordred gave the fondly indulgent smile to Merlin, and at once his throat closed. That smile – that nose and chin below the lowered cowl of the cloak. Mordred had been in Camelot – had been within twenty paces of Arthur – had taunted Merlin with an invitation that…
An invitation that he'd accepted.
Merlin's mind whirled with dread, and optimism sank through his chest, down down down.
"You-" he started, and again had no words.
The two of them merely stood there, watching him. Magic rose and coiled, seeking an outlet, but there was no threat to counter, no strike to parry. He must… wait, til these two took his message to… Morgana. Yes, then she would come out-
Right here-
His gaze wandered the slope, smearing tall grass into distant trees into high mountain peaks. The figure of the mare, patiently cropping a mouthful of fresh greens, loomed and faded.
His fingertips found a tiny break in the skin of his neck. Heat spread, fast then slow, heavy and sluggish.
And Mordred smiled. His hands weren't hidden by his cloak – and one hand dangled an odd sort of device, like a long slender pin with a wooden head the size of a pebble.
The world swayed and washed to blue. His body struck something hard quite violently, and he didn't seem to be able to control his movements. There was a horror that awaited him, he felt, just out of sight, but what it might be… was just beyond his grasp.
"You see?" someone said, as Merlin's eyes dropped closed. "I told you it would be simpler to take him like this."
"It worked better than I thought it would, I'll give you that."
And everything slowed to a stop.
…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..
(Past)
Noon found Merlin on his back in a clearing heavy with the scent of green growing things and the wild tang of uncultivated blossoms. Rays of sunlight poured down, wave after wave pressing his clothing against his skin, and the fickle breezes played at cooling him, rippling the cloth so it almost tickled.
The ache in his shoulder and his shin had muted to a throb with every other heartbeat, not painful, just present. Under the bandage, his left arm was beginning to feel like it might be pleasant to scratch lightly through the material of both his shirts. Healing, then.
He'd happened upon some wild plums which were just slightly past ripe, the skins sour and the fruit sloppy-juicy and sweet; he'd eaten his fill and removed the larger wooden bowl from his sack to carry half a dozen of the dark-purple fruit away with him.
And dozens of prickly lavender thistle-blooms nodded above him.
Thistle at noon. And three more nights to find pennywinkle at midnight. Sorcerer's violet, it was sometimes called.
If the knights were stalking him, they hadn't come close enough to alert any sense he possessed. Had they tried to follow, to track? Had they retreated to regroup, to devise another plan of… well, a plan to effect Arthur's will?
It was quite flattering really, in a way, the lengths Arthur would go to in recovering his manservant. There had been times over the years, few and far between, when Merlin had temporarily lost Arthur in a time of danger. He remembered how that felt – the initial panic warring with the need for calm and careful decision. Moments passing interminable, a rising anxiety of what was happening at that very moment, that he was unable to prevent because he didn't know and wasn't there…
And Merlin had been able to comfort himself with the knowledge that Arthur survived. Ten years… with both arms and legs, and all his own teeth, as the king once joked. With his soul and spirit and mind intact, which ultimately meant more. Absently Merlin fingered the scar on his forearm through his sleeve, the one that meant he'd saved Arthur's life – and would again, whenever it was necessary.
But today – Arthur didn't realize he had the same comfort. He could only fume against the futility of tracking a sorcerer like Merlin had become. Probably he didn't even realize that Merlin's defenses and escapes had all been reactive, and preventative – not oppositional or aggressive. Except for the dogs, his pursuers had been given the slip – but no injury.
Did Arthur hate magic even more – or more actively – because of this week? Merlin sincerely hoped not. He didn't remember that being the case, when he got back to this time, ten years ago.
His Arthur, though…
Merlin drew the plucked thistle contemplatively through his fingers, feeling the rasp of the prickles across the ridges of his prints. How long had it been since he thought of that?
Ten years ago, when he'd finished his week in the future, finished Morgana, he'd returned to an Arthur wholly ignorant of those events. His heart had been full – overflowing – torn open and gushing emotion… but he'd been unable to speak, to describe what happened.
The mistakes he'd made, and what had come after.
When he returned to his own time, ten years into the future, would Arthur be angry? That was something he didn't think he'd even mind much, as long as Arthur was able to be angry… as long as he was able to return, and complete the switch back.
He remembered worrying that this present young Arthur would be angry – and that memory was worn now by time and fond recollection. How collected Arthur had been, how calmly he'd behaved, how rationally he'd answered his servant's boyish babbling.
Merlin sighed, shifting his position and finding a rock beneath his hip and a thistle bent behind his neck. When he went back – if he made it – he would know nothing, anymore. Nothing of Arthur's moods or reactions, of anyone's survival or wellbeing from day to day, or hour to hour…
That was going to take some getting used to.
Maybe he should give some thought to learning to use the crystal of Neahtid properly.
Merlin snorted and rolled over his lesser-injured right elbow to push himself upright. One day at a time, just like everyone else. Starting with today.
…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..
(Future)
All he could see was black. And himself, clear as noon – boots and trousers, hands and jacket and kerchief pointed at his heart. But no explanation for how he was able to see himself – there was no visible source of light.
And everything else was black, the black of nothing – not stone walls or floor, just a stretch of nothing that seemed endless. Like black ice beneath his feet when he stood. Invisible, but with the impression of depth beneath him that made each step tentative.
Why wasn't he bound, or… otherwise restrained?
He ventured a few shaky steps, heard no ice crackling, didn't feel any slickness or cold.
"Hello?" he tried.
There was no echo, no muffling of his voice, but he had the strangest sensation that the black around him – above him – was all curtains, from behind which he was being watched. It made his skin crawl.
"Hello!" he called again. "If someone is there… tell me where I am. Why I'm here…"
You're here so Morgana can kill you.
Maybe she already had – and he was dead, and this was death.
But Arthur had been so certain that he'd returned – Gwaine had mentioned conversations they'd had, and Merlin hadn't, yet. He hadn't met Dusty in the street yet, or… any of those things. And they had to happen, didn't they, if… they'd already happened.
Morgana is inefficient about taking her revenge. She'd want to prolong her enjoyment of a perceived triumph…
So he probably wasn't dead.
Where was he, though? He began to walk, unable to keep from looking all around him, convinced that any moment there would be something – someone…
Even as he walked, he had no sense of traveling, of reaching a new part of this strange place, of covering ground or making progress. Unnerved, he broke into a run, well aware of the danger of coming to any sort of unseen obstacle or drop-off. His heart thundered, his breath burned, his muscles tired and tightened – and he stopped to pant and twist about, seeing nothing but black.
Seeing only himself.
"What is the point of this?" he asked aloud.
He'd heard someone say once that he thought hell was simply eternity spent with oneself. No company, no diversion, only the reality of who you were and what you'd done.
"Is this hell? Is this meant to be hell?" he wondered, although no one answered, and he didn't really expect it.
Because really, he didn't mind. He had been so often alone… even when he was with other people, they weren't like him, they didn't understand. With his mother, with Will… even with Gaius, he still quite often felt… separate. Other.
With Gwaine, he often forgot that he ever felt this way.
With Arthur he often thought, If I could tell him, if I could talk about it and share it… if Arthur knew, then he'd never remember he ever felt that way before. He could confess. All those regrets, things he'd done for Arthur, hand him every secret to judge… and Arthur, he thought, would understand. Arthur would understand the knights who said, To protect you Sire, I had to… He was aware Arthur held similar regrets, things he'd done for his king, his father. He would understand – and he would know that Merlin understood him.
But no, Merlin would never do that. Never transfer his burden to his already-burdened king and ask to be absolved, while Arthur assumed the heavy knowledge of what Merlin was willing to do for him. What he had done for him.
That was all Merlin's, but he knew it all intimately and plainly already. He accepted his guilt and he'd paid the price. There were no tortures to be found, locked endlessly in isolation.
On impulse, Merlin knelt on the invisible surface that supported his feet. It was like silken glass; his fingertips flattened but he felt nothing beneath them. Nothing yielded, nothing marred the absolute smoothness.
He rose to his feet and could touch nothing overhead but thin air. And when he jumped, the floor – or whatever constituted a floor, here – rose with him, and there was no sensation of coming back down, of falling or landing. It was unsettling, and slightly nauseating, and he didn't do it again.
It occurred to him to try magic, and he whispered into his palm, "Forbearnan!"
The sphere of fire flickered at his fingertips, casting no light. Though his hand was perfectly visible, there was no shadow, no lessening of the darkness anywhere around.
Experimentally he threw the fire-ball, thinking maybe it would be like throwing a torch down a dark hallway – the light constricting to the shape of the space, reflecting… Instead, it vanished the moment it left contact with his skin, in complete disregard of his intent.
Unsettling, and nauseating. He didn't try that again, either.
Well… he could walk and walk forever, waiting for release. He could run and scream and rage and possibly wear himself out; he'd rather not face whatever ordeals lay ahead of him more exhausted than he already was.
Which left him the option of… folding his legs to sit comfortably on the ground, slouched over his knees, muscles slack and eyes closed. Composing himself to relaxation and readiness…
And if this was a prison of his mind – maybe the only way to escape it was in his mind as well…
…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..
(Past)
At the edge between forest and field, Camelot's lower town sliding into dusk while the high turrets gleamed in golden sunset, Merlin stopped to rearrange himself for entrance.
His shirt was filthy from squirming out through the crack in the roof of the cave. Trousers stained from sitting and lying and being worn for days in a row, now. He took the blanket from his pack to cover his head and wrap around himself for the warmth of an outer garment in the chill left by a disappearing sun, and hesitated, wondering if he should hide his pack somewhere here in the trees, and leave it. Could be awkward, an unnecessary encumbrance in case this visit ended as disastrously as his earlier evening in Camelot had… But he was reluctant to part from his gathered seeds and buds and leaves and stalks, his bowls… and his blood. That was so essential – and if lost, could not be replaced.
Then again, wasn't he certain not to lose it? Since ten years earlier, he had returned to his own time, this time, from the future… Success was guaranteed, wasn't it.
He grinned at himself wryly; maybe nothing was as certain as they might like to think.
So he kept the drawstring bag on his back, cord over one shoulder and under the other arm, over his chest. And he draped the blanket over his whole self, head and burden, tucking in the edges and letting the bottom edge drag in the dust, and was satisfied with the enveloping disguise. Thick and misshapen and slow and clumsily hooded – and a slight limp would only help.
And hopefully any patrolling knights would not look with suspicion upon such a person entering Camelot's gates before they could be closed against the night.
He joined the field-workers headed to the safety of their homes behind the walls, cloaks and coats and hoods and long-handled tools propped tiredly over their shoulders.
"Oi, cousin – how far'd you get today?"
"All the way to the boundary – that's farther than you've ever made in a day!"
"Didja have Hama with ye today?"
"Naw, there was more need at home…"
Some even sang, steady marching songs they all tramped along to – and then they were through the gates, and though Merlin had gathered some curious glances, they were sympathetic rather than unfriendly. These weren't people who were familiar with the sight of the king up close, though – therefore even less likely to be familiar enough with his manservant to recognize him suddenly ten years older.
Some few of them straggled up the street to the tavern, rather than dispersing down side lanes and alleys to their homes. Merlin paused at the baker's shop on the corner, where the two oldest children were occupied in packing the unsold loaves into baskets for removal back into the shop – they could be presented the next day at a discount, or eaten by the family for dinner, or broken into pieces for livestock feed.
"Good evening," he said to the girl, moving the edge of the blanket so he could untuck his bowl of plums from the crook of his elbow. "Two loaves in trade for these?"
The girl didn't even glance toward her brother, glancing swiftly at his offering. "All… six of them?"
"Yes."
"Done," she decided gladly, balancing two loaves carefully on his other palm, then stretched her apron, holding the bottom corners to make a nest for the plums. "Thank you, sir."
Merlin moved away, smiling at the girl's politeness, even to such a ragged stranger as he appeared. And a ymbscman-lantern for your family, he thought magnanimously.
Light was fading from the air, and warmth. Halfway down an alley across from the tavern, Merlin found a lidded barrel that would support his weight and made himself a lump of a shadow, watching the street. Several paces behind him, the alley ended in the back wall of a house fronting another street, and the smell of a refuse heap. There would be rats, probably, but maybe a cat or two to keep them wary.
Voices were indistinct, but all carried end-of-the-day tones he recognized and found relaxing. Families rejoined after daily tasks were completed – welcoming, teasing, bickering… settling. He ate one whole loaf, enjoying the crunch of the crust and the soft center, and tucked the other into his pack for a breakfast.
If he didn't remember Gaius' rounds as well as he thought he did – or if the old physician had been called somewhere else specifically…
It didn't matter. After true dark fell, he could slip into the citadel if he had to – no abaedeth protected the walls from intrusion yet, and in any case the wall-wards would welcome rather than repel him.
A rising commotion caught his attention; he straightened on the barrel and leaned forward to see… knights in chainmail, arriving at the tavern for an evening's amusement. For a moment he was quite certain Gwaine was among them, but…there wasn't really a good way to catch Gwaine's eye, hoping for a private word. Not if he was with companions who'd be curious – and even if he believed Gwaine was more likely to grin and shout, "Merlin! mate! come have a drink!" than, "Seize him for the king's dungeon!" he really needed to go unremarked, tonight.
He wasn't certain it was Gwaine. The knight in question resembled Gwaine, but his bearing and demeanor, in the pair of seconds Merlin observed him, was unusually subdued.
Although, he'd find it more surprising for Gwaine to spend a day chasing a stranger who claimed to be a future version of a missing-and-maybe-attacked friend, return to Camelot unsuccessful, and simply saunter down to the tavern for a drink and a song and a laugh. If it was Gwaine, he'd probably come for some more serious drinking, under the circumstances.
Merlin resisted the urge to cross the street and peer in the window to see if Percival or Leon was with him. Or to See.
It didn't matter anyway, he was waiting on-
"Gaius!" he blurted, as the old physician toiled past the alley, headed up the street toward the citadel.
His friend jerked at the sound of his name, glancing about curiously before turning down the alley. Merlin hopped off the barrel, letting the blanket slide from his head and shoulders to bundle it for a swift return to his pack. He probably shouldn't risk actually entering the citadel, but he might not need the blanket if he could curl up against the back wall of the forge, for instance.
"I looked for you yesterday!" Gaius exclaimed, hurrying down the alley to reach Merlin.
"Sorry," he said reflexively, smiling because he missed the way the old man's manner always set him back on his heels. "They had dogs, the first day. It complicated my escape." He didn't hesitate to embrace Gaius again, however, involuntary tears sparking at the herbal scent of the old man's robes.
Ah, Gaius… how I miss you, my friend. Alice does too, but she wouldn't give up the five years she had as your wife for anything.
"Are you all right?" Gaius questioned him narrowly.
Merlin's smile found it easy to widen. "I told you I can take care of myself much better, now. They haven't caught me yet, have they?"
Gaius grunted, setting a secondary pack with two buckled shoulder-straps down atop the barrel, and adjusting his round physician's case for its absence. "The king is deeply troubled by that failure, I'm afraid."
"He's bothered you about it?" Merlin guessed.
Gaius made a dismissive noise. "He questioned me twice. I think he wanted to apologize for his inability to find… well, you – your younger self, anyway. And reassure me that he wouldn't stop looking…"
"Mm hm." Merlin was still smiling, though it did hurt that Arthur was worried needlessly.
Well… needlessly was relative. His younger self was with Morgana by this point – but he himself was perfect proof that the king's manservant survived intact at least, if not unharmed.
"At the same time, he remains resistant to my belief in your highly unbelievable story," Gaius continued. "It is likely, Merlin, that is due in no small part to the magic you've displayed in front of him. He cannot reconcile your younger self – his familiarity with his servant, his trust in that young man – with the possibility of magic. I think he considers it disloyal on his part even to entertain the idea that Merlin – that you could have magic."
"It means I lied," Merlin agreed, feeling a familiar lump in his throat. "It means I broke the law – not just in being, but in doing, over and over. It means he didn't know me as well as he thought he did – and that inevitably undermines his trust in his own intuition and perception and judgment. If someone like me can fool someone like him for years."
Gaius' silence felt like astonishment, though Merlin didn't look up to see, even in the remaining light of dusk. But the old man reached to rest a hand on Merlin's shoulder – his lesser-injured right shoulder, by good fortune – for a sympathetic moment.
"It is not an unnecessary lesson to learn," Gaius said gently. "To look beyond the obvious – but still trust your instinct even with evidence seeming to the contrary. Especially for one in his position."
"No," Merlin agreed, resisting the boyish urge to shuffle his feet. "And our first few years together, I would gladly have taught him that among many lessons. But now… I've forgotten exactly how difficult it was for him to become the king I know he is. How he struggled – and how hard he tried to keep those struggles private, that we who have the most faith in him would lose none of it."
Gaius sighed. "It does my heart good to hear you speak so, Merlin. Often I despaired of you ever achieving anything like wisdom."
Merlin grinned up at his friend. "You taught me a great deal, even if it was hard to see for a long time." And much of his own youthful trust in the future was due to Gaius' recollections of this very week, corroborating the fading memories of his time spent in the future.
The old physician cleared his throat. "I've packed for you caroh-fruit and meadow-sawge and fennel, as well as bread and cheese and salt pork, that should last you the rest of the week. I wish you would come up to the citadel for a full meal and a bath and a night's rest-"
"Do I look that bad?" Merlin wondered, picking at the wrinkled, mud-stained front of his shirt. "But, you know I can't risk it. If Arthur insists upon arresting me, it'll be worse than if he simply doesn't find me." Again. Escaping was more offensive than avoiding – and an offended Arthur was not one willing to listen or reconsider.
"That's another thing." Gaius' sternly-raised eyebrow was audible in his voice. "The king has had his knights scouring the Valley of the Fallen Kings the last three days, for any sign of what became of… of you. His servant, I mean. So if you intend to return there, you must be very cautious."
Three days left. Two to reach the Isle – three then if he skirted the Valley instead of crossing it.
"I'll keep clear," he assured his friend, tucking his blanket under his elbow so he could shoulder the new pack in addition to his drawstring bag.
"But if that's where you need to reverse Morgana's spell-" Gaius argued.
"Oh – no." Merlin realized the misunderstanding. "The return ritual I can do somewhere else. I know where my younger self is going to be, so as long as we're in the same place at the same time – so to speak…"
"I thought the Valley of the Fallen Kings was essential," Gaius said narrowly. "The birthplace of magic, where time itself pivots-"
"Ah," Merlin said awkwardly. "Well… yes, for someone like Morgana. For me, though…" Gaius contemplated him a moment, and his ears heated uncomfortably.
"You will never cease to amaze me," the old man breathed, and though his comment was familiar, the sincerity and matter-of-fact acceptance in his tone surprised and discomfited Merlin.
I never mean to amaze anyone. To overwhelm and subdue our enemies, but not…
"Gaius?" someone said at the street entrance to the alley. "What are you doing down-"
The old physician reacted to another call of his name, taking a half step back from Merlin and turning to face the street. Merlin reacted by looking toward the speaker also – but he wasn't hidden anymore, not by the cloaking blanket nor by not-quite-fallen darkness.
It was Sir Brendan. And right next to him, weary and disheveled from a day probably spent searching the woods, King Arthur – astonished to discover his elusive quarry here in a back alley of the lower town, speaking once again to the court physician.
"Sire, it's the fugitive!" Sir Brendan exclaimed, drawing his sword and striding forward.
Merlin backed instinctively toward the wall that dead-ended the alley; Gaius stepped in front of him, spreading his arms to shield Merlin.
"Gaius, move!" Sir Brendan said, dodging to try to get around the old man.
The physician ignored his efforts in favor of addressing the king. "Sire, please – you must listen to me!"
"Brendan, be careful!" the king growled out, advancing one wary step at a time, eyes on Merlin, who heard also, clear as daylight, He has magic. Don't forget.
Cornered like an animal.
"Gaius, come out of there," the king ordered.
The physician lowered his arms, allowing Brendan to sidestep him. "Your Majesty, I must insist – this man can and will cooperate with you to bring Merlin home to us, but you must allow him to-"
The intensity of Brendan's gaze cut through six feet of twilight separating him from Merlin; the nearest threat gained his entire focus.
Brendan had behaved with stiff but distant dislike toward Merlin as a young man, both before and after this incident – discomfort for his proximity to and lack of respectful attitude toward the heir to the kingdom's throne.
There were some among the knights who accepted the return of magic with nearly suspicious ease. There were some few who stonily refused – the older ones, who'd served Uther all their lives, who'd served him well and maybe who had acted against Arthur on his father's order, on occasion. Most, however, had struggled through the ramifications of Arthur's retraction of the Ban – magic itself, the fact of a sorcerer so close to the king – with fear and uncertainty and guilt, with mistrust for the future and the safety of their loved ones and the balance of power in Camelot, and Camelot's position among the other kingdoms… It was a heartbreakingly complex issue, even after Merlin had proven over and over how useful and productive magic could be, side by side with them in service to a king and a land they all loved.
Brendan was one of the majority, but Merlin remained ignorant of the reasons for his struggle – personal prejudice, heavy conscience, political misgivings…
"I will surrender peacefully," Merlin said to him swiftly, hands out and open – though that might not have been a comfort to the knight. "If His Majesty will promise me that-"
Brendan didn't wait for him to finish, thrusting a very intentional strike at Merlin's midsection. Fear of unknown magic, frustration with the fruitless three-day chase, offense taken on the king's behalf at Merlin's daring to conditionally require the king's word…
Merlin didn't know. It didn't matter. He had a half a heartbeat to chose a response-
Hold time in the alley, slip past Brendan, then Gaius, then Arthur… then run. But time magic was difficult and strong, and he had a more important ritual yet ahead of him, and closing fast.
Hold Brendan's sword and hand, stuck fast in midair, while he spun to scrabble a clumsy way over the wall… and then run. As the seconds ticked past and more knights might be shouted for and arrive and Arthur surely wouldn't ignore magic used on his knight, even in self-defense.
Or form a shield, again. No sword or arrow could get through while he held it – but the alley had no easy means of retreat and escape, he'd have to maintain the shield indefinitely depending on Arthur's reaction, and though it was simple and small, the effort would drain him slowly and steadily.
If he ran, he'd probably need to use magic more than once – in hiding, in clearing an obstacle, in distracting pursuit.
So Merlin chose. One powerful, immediate, momentary spell to remove himself to safety. He didn't even speak the words, and the world split around him to loose gray ribbons of reality, Brendan's sword carving forward for his flank.
Gaius' face – You amaze me – and again, he didn't get to say goodbye.
I love you, old man. You were like my father…
And Arthur's desperate shout at the last – "No, wait!"
Merlin landed at his destination in an exhausted tumble, his new pack and his drawstring bag slipping from his body as his back thumped to a rest against a large solitary rock in the middle of the forest clearing.
Darkness, and safety, and comfort.
Merlin surrendered to a deep and passive slumber.
…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..
(Future)
Merlin woke on his feet in Gaius' chamber, candlelight blurry around him, quivering like he'd just pulled lightning down from the sky with his bare hands.
His teeth clattered and he clenched them, swallowing against the sore sour nausea crawling up the back of his throat.
What just happened? What just-
He wasn't alone.
Morgana sat on one of the benches, her back to the table, a small wooden box in the lap of her nightgown. Her black curls were satin-glossy over the shoulders of the gauzy, lacy, silky jeweled white garment, and he knew. She'd stormed in here looking for Gaius, pale with agitation, demanding answers instead of evasion. It was magic – you think so too, don't you…
Her red lips quirked with amusement, and her eyes glittered like emeralds, and he stood dumb and uncertain. Wasn't she supposed to ask…
"How does it feel, Emrys," she said with a malicious sort of triumph. "Or do you still insist on being called Merlin?"
"My name is Merlin," he said without thinking – startled and wholly diverted by the fact that she knew.
How did she know?
Mordred told her. Why wouldn't he.
But…
"How does what feel?" he blurted, clasping his fingers together. They tingled uncomfortably, uncontrollably.
She gave the room a glance of disgust. "How does it feel to be trapped? You'll never be more than a servant. My brother's boot-licker – how does it feel to find that position so satisfying? Are you really so cowardly that you've never dared lift your eyes from the ground he walks on?"
"I'm not trapped, I'm free," he said immediately. "Unless, I guess, you're speaking of destiny – then of course we're all bound to fulfill ours somehow, sooner or later, depending on where our choices lead us. I've never licked Arthur's boots, that's disgusting. And I'm not a coward, I…"
There was no pause between thought and word; his mind melted onto his tongue and poured out his lips and he thought maybe the lack of control should have bothered him more. But it wasn't frightening, simply… odd.
She clicked her tongue impatiently. "You lie to yourself," she observed in dismissive distaste. "But you're not going to lie to me, anymore." She looked around again – looked at him, and smirked. "Do you remember this night, Merlin? Do you remember lying to me when I asked you if I had magic?"
"You do have magic," he said promptly. "More than just a Seer's visions. I thought Gaius should tell you – I wanted to tell you, it was nothing to be afraid of, we would help you hide it and control it, you could use it for good the way I did-"
"Shut up!" Morgana ordered, surging to her feet with the wooden box in her hands.
"I'm not sure I can," he answered, bewildered. "I don't know why I'm saying all this to you…" Shouldn't he feel quite frightened himself, to be discussing magic with Morgana? Wasn't there some reason he should be frightened of Morgana?
She snorted, gripping the box white-knuckled and glancing down at it. "I should have known that you'd be contrary about the effects you displayed."
"The effects of what?"
She began to pace about the room, sauntering slowly and almost thoughtfully – carefully, like she wasn't steady on her feet for some reason. He remembered the click of her shoes on the floor and looked down at her feet.
For a moment the hem of her exquisite, delicate gown was filthy black and tattered, her heels bare and smudged with grime.
Only a moment, and the flicker was just… odd.
"I used to feel so alone," she said. "I used to long for someone who knew me, who understood and could explain and say, it's all right. You have no idea how it feels to have magic burst out of you on its own-"
"Yes I do," he said, not even bothered at the thought of interrupting a lady.
She ignored him. "And catch the attention of Uther Pendragon. Damn him to hell for eternity. Do you know what it's like to loathe your own father-"
"No, I don't." This was so unlike him, to be so free and chatty; he was wary and careful with his words, wasn't he? "But Arthur-"
"And realize, you can never be completely rid of him because he's part of you, he's made you who you are even if you hate that-"
Merlin tried again. "I think sometimes Arthur feels like-"
"Shut up!" she insisted, spinning to face him furiously. "Now you have all the words! Now you know exactly what to say! Why didn't you tell me you had magic too, all those years ago? Why weren't you my friend?"
"I wanted to," spilled out of his mouth. "Gaius told me not to and I didn't always listen to Gaius but this time I did because I never said to anybody I have magic, never in my life before and it's terrifying and you know that-"
"I said it to you!" she hissed. "I thought you were my friend!"
"I was your friend. So was Gaius and he lied so you would think it was all right, so you wouldn't know and be even more scared and make rash choices because you did that, you know you did, without the counsel of your friends, and you hated Uther even before you knew about the magic. Gwen was your friend for years before you knew me and you didn't tell her because maybe you realized that telling someone I have magic in Camelot puts them in danger and maybe you liked me but you still considered me more expendable than Gwen and she never did anything to you but then you considered her expendable if it meant you got the throne and I don't care how noble your goals might sound, if someone like Gwen is a casualty you shouldn't be doing it!"
She stared at him, astonished. And the pure lace-and-glitter of her night-dress faded to unwashed black. The glossy waves of her hair were tangled and brittle, her eyes sunken in green-purple bruises, her lips pale and cracked, wrinkles webbing the corners of her eyes and mouth, skin sagging beneath her chin.
It startled him badly. More because he sensed he was seeing what truly lay beneath the exterior beauty than because it happened; he'd seen magic transform a person's face and features before, after all.
And this was what Morgana had become? She had aged.
"She would have betrayed me," Morgana said finally, faintly.
"You're wrong," he said, shaking his head. "Remember Hengist? She saved you from his men. She came with you to Ealdor to fight our bandits. She helped us save Mordred, remember? She'd have died before putting you in danger, she'd have helped you escape if you'd been found out – but I think you knew she wouldn't help you overthrow Uther or hurt Arthur or anyone else, she would try to stop you doing the wrong thing and convince you to do the right thing. She's done that for Arthur for years and she's done it for me too on occasion and that's why you didn't tell her anything, you didn't want a conscience holding you back from revenge because it's easier to do all the wrong and cruel things you feel like doing, than to hold yourself to a higher standard-"
Morgana gestured and Merlin's mouth clamped shut, his lips gluing themselves to each other. He breathed hard through his nose and watched her stalk toward him.
"The point of using this was to make you talk," she stated, livid with temper. "But not quite so much, I think. Back to the pain, then."
She opened the box. Coiled on the velvet lining, red like the inside of a gaping mouth, was a small slender snake with glistening black scales and a toothless mouth of its own, tiny enough that it could choke on his fingertip.
But it was magic, and it was malevolent.
He inhaled and leaned back, but his feet were frozen to Gaius' floor and shards of lightning glinted once again in all his joints.
She thrust the box forward; the snake lifted the foremost third of its body and hissed in expectantly gleeful malice.
He turned his head and closed his eyes, unable to bear the thought of it striking his face – too late realizing that meant he'd presented it with the side of his neck, bare above his kerchief.
The snake thudded into his vein like the flick of a finger.
His whole body went stiff and taut with bright hot pain. He dragged tendrils of air through his nose and knew it was going to explode out of him in a wordless, closed-mouth scream.
"My lady, our watchman on the shore reports riders from the mountains."
"Dammit, already? How many?"
"Two dozen. What do you want to-"
"Just keep an eye on them as long as they keep to the shore, men and magic. I want to enjoy this!"
Merlin's eyes flew open and he gasped a breath into lungs that felt flattened, somehow.
All he could see was black. And himself, clear as noon, though there was no source of light – lying on his back on some invisible smooth surface.
He breathed, and felt no pain.
And wondered where he was… and how he could get out.