Chapter 9: King and Witch
(Past)
Thud. Thud. Thud-thud-thud.
Hooves. A horse with a man mounted, quite close, slow and casual.
Merlin squinted gummy eyes open, tired and sore and sleep-disoriented, and the first thing he saw was Arthur in the saddle looking down on him, sunlight spilling around his edges, golden hair and gleaming chainmail.
Only Arthur. That was all right, then. No reason to…
Wait, though. Arthur mounted with the sun behind him while Merlin slept… was all wrong. Meant Merlin was sick or injured, if they'd let him sleep – if he'd actually slept through everyone else rousing for the day. Even if he didn't serve the king or the camp anymore, he kept the habit of rising early, making sure everyone and everything else was ready to go when Arthur was.
Kept the king's mood cheerful. Everyone appreciated that.
So Merlin must be ill – or injured. Odd, though, he only felt… exhausted.
"Not yet, 'Rthur," he mumbled, stretching his body just slightly out of position, rolling to try to find a new comfortable spot, if it was possible. "Few more minutes? I'll catch up with you. Promise."
The back-lit figure of the king swung down from the horse and loomed; Merlin heard the distinctive metal-on-metal hiss of his sword being drawn, and moaned a protest.
"I'm up, all righ'? 'M awake. If you're gonna be an ass about it…"
"Wake up," Arthur said, and his voice sounded all wrong, too. Sharp and fast – but deliberately even, as though he was trying to keep Merlin calm, which meant there was some reason why he might not be calm… "Get up. Slowly. And no magic."
Merlin blinked up the edge of the sword-blade, clarity returning in a rush of remembrance. No beard – no scar. Hadn't happened yet.
"Oh," he said blankly. "It's you."
His young king, expressionless with whatever emotion he was suppressing to deal with Merlin, moved back a step, using the sword to gesture a command to rise – but not threatening him outright.
Merlin got an elbow under him, scanning the edges of the clearing for any knights or companions that Arthur might have brought along – but saw no one.
"You came alone?" he said, sitting up in his surprise. "You – probably shouldn't have done that…" Given what the king probably still thought about who Merlin was, and what he was capable of.
Arthur moved another step back, but the blade was steady and prepared for defense.
For defense.
"We split up," he said neutrally, as if he expected the admission to prompt Merlin into attack. "There were several places we thought you might go. Gaius said that magic ought to exhaust you… he seemed quite upset by the thought."
Merlin twisted to lean his back against the sun-warmed boulder in the center of the clearing where he'd spent the night, so he could relax his muscles. He was going to spend several nights in his own bed when he got home – and maybe a good portion of the days between, too. No matter what Arthur said.
He rather hoped Arthur was going to feel like teasing him…
"Gaius also said, it was impossible for even the strongest sorcerer to hold an enchantment over someone's mind for more than a day without close physical proximity," Arthur continued, almost conversationally. "And without some sort of object as a focus. He demonstrated that he neither carried nor wore any such ornament… fairly thoroughly."
Merlin almost snickered, and couldn't help a wry grin, imagining Gaius threatening to disrobe to prove he was speaking his own mind, not someone else's.
"But – he could have been enchanted to say just that," Arthur concluded, and though his bearing was casual, his eyes were sharp.
Merlin's smile dropped. That was what came of a king unfamiliar with magic.
"He knew my mother," he offered as explanation to Arthur. "I didn't enchant him to trust me. He just… does."
The king swayed, turning his shoulders almost sideways to Merlin – thinking, and hiding what he was thinking. About Hunith, and Ealdor?
Merlin dared to add, "I'm not your enemy. I never have been, and I never will be. Morgana did this to me as much as she did it to the boy you won't stop looking for."
Arthur's eyes flashed at that; he might've over-stepped. But now it was just the two of them alone, and the part of his friend that was king and ever-vigilant about responsibility, could relax a bit.
"Why did you come here?" Arthur asked then, shifting his focus above and past Merlin's shoulder to the rock he leaned against, alone in the center of the clearing.
"It was the first place I thought of," he answered honestly.
His drawstring bag was there on the ground, the pack Gaius had given him next to it, and his rumpled blanket between them. It seemed a good idea to lift his elbow on the rock and push with his feet and get himself upright.
Arthur shifted away from him, nearly putting the boulder between them, but keeping where he could still see Merlin's whole person and his belongings. Merlin's fingers wandered the stone as he watched his king, finding the innocuous crevice where once Arthur had drawn his blade out, surrounded by a crowd of his faithful, wondering people. Where once Merlin had set the blade unique to his master's hand, alone and trusting the time would be right to release it.
"Where is my friend?" Arthur asked finally.
"On the Isle of the Blessed," Merlin answered. Keep it simple; tell the truth.
Arthur looked at him, and he saw the thought cross the king's mind – with this information, and given that he believed it, did he need Merlin alive any longer. Maybe just deal preemptively with the threat a sorcerer posed, in Camelot…
Merlin gave him a sad smile. "Except, if you go there without me, you will never find him."
Arthur sneered; of course he knew full well how self-serving that sounded. "But you will take me to him, is that it?" he demanded. "Fine – I'll return with you to Camelot, and assemble a troop of knights to escort-"
As he spoke, Merlin turned his head to judge the height of the sun – midmorning, and climbing. "Mm. No, sorry, I've got to go straight there. Otherwise we might not make it in time."
Which was a ridiculous thing to say, on second thought. Because hadn't he already made it in time?
"In time for what?" Arthur said narrowly.
"To do the magic that brings him back," Merlin told him tiredly. "I'm pretty certain it has to be sometime during the night after… the day after tomorrow."
Arthur stared at him, eyes like blue steel. "That's impossible. The journey there will take-"
"I know another route," Merlin said.
Why was it that when the truth came out of his mouth, it sounded like a ridiculous fabrication, and made Arthur suspicious?
Arthur shook his head, incredulous that Merlin expected him to believe such a palpably false excuse. "So he's at the Isle of the Blessed – but it requires your magic to bring him there," he scoffed. "And you don't know where Morgana is – but she has him, now? And you've never been my enemy – yet you carelessly break my most important law, and expect cooperation from me rather than condemnation."
Merlin sighed out all the air that was in his lungs, not knowing what to say. That shouldn't be Camelot's most important law. I don't want you to cooperate with me – I'm happy for things between us to be the other way around. I really do wish you could trust me when I explain things about magic…
But they would get there, the two of them. In time.
"Fine," Arthur grated harshly. "I will go with you and we will go alone and we will take your secret route, and if anything happens to my servant, I will hold you responsible."
Merlin was very still, and finding it hard to breathe. But Arthur would do this for any one of his men, wouldn't he? Any one of the knights – maybe even any one of his people, a commoner and a stranger, without anyone else there to stop him risking his life, like he clearly thought he was about to do.
But he was doing it for Merlin. And this was why he was loyal to Arthur, to the death and beyond, whenever it was required.
"If you think it's a trap," he managed, and his voice felt gravelly. "Why even-"
Having decided, Arthur's carefully blank expression was hardening into a dangerous sort of recklessness. "If it's a trap, and my only chance of getting close enough to Merlin to rescue him is to spring it…" he shrugged, and rammed his sword into his belt-sheath. "Let's go."
Merlin's turn to shake his head, reaching absently to rub his thumb over the scar on his wrist under his sleeve. "I know you won't believe me yet, but really… you won't be in any danger."
Arthur grunted in blatant disbelief, already on to other more practical matters. "You haven't got any pockets, have you? Show me what's in those packs."
Merlin glanced toward Arthur's mount, wondering what had been stuffed in the king's saddlebags by way of supplies; probably it depended on how long he'd expected to be searching the forest, this time.
"Nothing in my pockets," he said, kneeling and untying the mouth of his bag.
Carefully he unpacked, setting out the bowls and the remains of his shirt, revealing the tiny seeds and roots and draggled blossoms staining Gaius' wrapping-cloth, yesterday's loaf of bread from the baker. Arthur drew closer to watch and scrutinize; Merlin felt the stiffness in his shoulder loosen as he moved, and thought belatedly that the bandage should have been unwrapped to let the wound breathe, last night.
Oh, well. The mallow-root would start to stink today, but it couldn't be helped, and becoming the origin of offensive odors was fairly low on his list of concerns at the moment.
"What's that?" Arthur blurted, leaning to snatch up Merlin's neckerchief, letting it unfold from his fingers to show the old brown bloodstain. The look he turned on Merlin was horrified, accusing.
"Please be careful with that, it's the only thing I need in order to bring him back that I can't replace," Merlin told him, sitting back on his heels. "I found it in his room."
Again Arthur wasn't sure whether to believe him. His fingers folded the cloth slowly and with unusual attention to detail, touching the smeared stains almost tenderly; Merlin wondered if he remembered how it happened. The king tucked the bit of cloth into an inside pocket of his hide vest.
"Now the other one," he ordered brusquely.
Merlin obeyed, finding everything Gaius had promised him. He was still short the pennywinkle and one bowl – but he could probably fashion one with magic when they arrived. But they had to arrive, and then he'd need to do fire magic and water magic and earth and air. While bleeding, and having dosed himself with belladonna…
He couldn't help shuddering, and decided he didn't need Arthur's permission to pack it all back up again, and swiftly.
Arthur watched him as if trying to figure him out. "If you're ready, then," he said, still faintly sarcastic because he couldn't wholly help it. "Lead the way."
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(Future)
He couldn't breathe.
Unconsciously he panicked, his body thrashing to free itself, the darkness swirling to light in his eyes.
He knew this room. He'd crossed this floor many times.
She stood over him now, eyes sunken, mouth twisted in a satisfied smirk, unmoving – avidly watching him grapple with the internal constriction of his throat.
He remembered weeping. Going to his knees to hold her, to offer whatever comfort he could, even if it was only to his own conscience. But at least she wouldn't batter her body on the stone of the floor, alone and confused as all around, everyone else woke slowly – and alarmed.
"How does it feel to be so trapped?" she hissed, and snickered.
I did what I did to protect Arthur. To protect every person in Camelot your sister enchanted. You helped her attack us!
"I said I'd help her bring about Uther's downfall!" she snapped. "I hated him! I wanted to stop pretending I loved him, I wanted him to stop pretending he loved me! I wanted him to know that he hated me, what I was!"
And after Uther? She'd have left Camelot to Arthur, having used magic to kill his father? You remember how he was – trying to be fair and open-minded, choosing to stand against the man who raised him to hate – showing compassion to a druid boy, to your servant if she'd used magic to heal her father!
"Shut up!"
Darkness fluttered at the edges of his vision like the tattered hem of a black garment. He was sinking right into the stone of the floor – dying like he was drowning, like he was succumbing to freezing cold. Past the fear, the sense of resistance slipped into acceptance and rest…
"Not yet, you don't!"
Air flooded his lungs, feeling like the icy water beneath the frozen crust of a lake-surface. His whole body cramped, trying not to breathe when it was going to shred his lungs inside his chest – having to breathe anyway in tiny little pants, eyes squeezed shut to focus his attention inward.
"My lady?"
"What? I said I didn't want to be interrupted!"
"We were approached by the traitors in his camp – the druid and that bald witch. They said he wants to meet without delay…"
"Get out! Tell him no! And watch for a chance to take him also and kill the rest!"
Merlin's eyes flew open.
All he could see was black, and himself… But he could breathe without pain.
…..*….. …..*….. …..*…..
(Past)
"I think… in the course of my life… I've walked every track and trail in Camelot," Merlin said, breathless from hiking through the forest. "And a lot that aren't…"
"What did you say?"
Arthur was afoot now also, giving his mount a rest as they toiled toward the edge of the Valley. Above them the sky was incredibly blue, showing through the leaves of the trees beginning to redden toward autumn. Merlin had eaten the second loaf of the baker's bread halfway between dawn and noon, and neither of them had mentioned stopping for rations.
Once Merlin had looked back, to catch the young king gnawing a bit from something held in his hand, loaded crossbow over his things in the saddle as his gaze roved constantly around them. That told Merlin as clear as anything, Arthur didn't consider them companions. Headed in the same direction, planning to reach their goal at the same time – even intending to accomplish the same result, retrieving the king's manservant to a place, and time, of safety. But Arthur still thought of the two of them as something far less even than allies.
"I've just never… walked all of Camelot in one week," Merlin added, not bothering to raise his voice for Arthur to hear him. "Did more running, too, than… I've ever done before. And having been your servant for years… that's saying something."
"If you've got the breath to talk to yourself," Arthur called out from behind him, "maybe we should pick up the pace."
"Isn't it my turn to ride the horse?" Merlin shot back over his shoulder.
"I am the king," came the arrogant reply.
Merlin couldn't help grinning; Arthur knew how he sounded when he said things like that, and did it on purpose. But was he wrong in hearing Arthur cut himself off from adding inadvertently, Mer-lin…
"I ride the horse," Arthur finished.
Merlin glanced back, and stumbled almost to falling over a root crossing the path. Tired feet were low-stepping feet. "Then the walker gets to decide when to stop for a rest."
Stepping off the path, he lowered himself to sitting on another exposed root, and fumbled for his waterskin. He watched Arthur think about arguing, and ordering, before simply availing himself of his own water supply, glancing at the forest around them as he swallowed. At least he'd agreed to fasten the drawstring bag to the horse's saddle so Merlin only had one pack to carry – though that may have been more a tactic to ensure Merlin's continued presence than any genuine concern for his wellbeing on this trip.
"Why," Arthur said, focusing too deliberately on stuffing the cork back into the mouthpiece of the waterskin. "Why did Morgana take my servant? If she could have used the same magic to snatch any one of us off our horse, that day… why him?"
Merlin studied him, twisting sideways so his own raised waterskin didn't block his view. Did the question betray Arthur's belief in Merlin's familiarity with his servant… or with his enemy? Was he willing to begin to believe, or did he only hope to force his enemy to trip over layered lies?
"I think she hates him more than you," he finally said, stowing the skin for travel, but not pushing to his feet.
"What?" Arthur interrupted, his voice pitched slightly higher with surprise. "She always liked him more than me."
Merlin half-smiled at the memories of better times, and simpler rivalries. "Maybe that was why the betrayal hurt more," he said softly.
"What?" Arthur repeated, impatiently.
"She wants you dead because she wants Camelot, wants to change the laws to suit herself, wants to own the kingdom her father terrorized. Maybe to prove that she's better than you in every way, whether that's because she has magic, or because she was illegitimate and unrecognized, or because she's female."
"Prove to who?" Arthur said blankly.
"Everyone," Merlin answered, feeling the bittersweet nostalgia continue to lift the corners of his mouth. "Uther, even though he's dead. You, and everyone who follows you…" All those with magic who'd given Pendragon's son a second chance, who'd trusted Arthur and worked in their own way for a free and prosperous Camelot. "Herself, maybe most of all. It's also… she lost her sister in this quest of hers, she sacrificed her sister in pursuit of the throne. If she gives up, it's… admitting her sister died for nothing."
Arthur huffed like he could understand that sentiment, eyes roving to the edges of sight, all around, like he could speak or listen more easily if he wasn't looking at Merlin.
He was comfortable with that; it had always been that way between the two of them. Arthur hadn't been raised to share his thoughts or put his feelings into words, so he avoided connecting with anyone's eyes when he was doing so. Except Gwen, probably.
"So why does she hate Merlin more than me?" he said. Hooking his waterskin onto the saddle, he swung back up into his seat and settled the crossbow for ease of use once again.
Merlin shifted his seat on the hard, narrow tree-root. "With you, it's a general sort of hate. Because of your father, because of your persecution of magic, she feels like she should have had your protection and you let her down."
"I didn't even know!" Arthur snapped. "I don't… know. What I would have done."
Merlin held his eyes, believing him, but… it was ironic, wasn't it?
"What?" Arthur demanded belligerently, yet again.
"So… a stranger with magic you can condemn without a second thought," he said slowly. "But when it's someone you know… you hesitate?"
Arthur's expression didn't change, but the horse shifted weight, and stomped one hoof uneasily. "You're questioning my judgment? Let me remind you, I'm the king. And you're a criminal."
Merlin ignored that readily; he'd heard that sort of excuse from Arthur for years. Something learned in infancy from Uther and repeated by rote, not by thoughtful intent. "I guess I'm questioning… your basis for judgment. The better you know someone, the better you understand their motives?"
Arthur jutted his chin stubbornly, refusing to answer.
"But where does that leave folks you don't know that well?" Merlin continued softly. "Someone who discovers they have magic, like Morgana did. Someone who can't trust their lord is going to give them a fair hearing – they have either to leave everything behind and cross the border with whatever family or belongings they can manage and hope to God no one robs them or takes their children or hurts their women while they're trying to find a new situation before they starve… or they try to hide it and live in constant fear of discovery and execution."
"Your argument is based on the assumption that magic comes to people irresistibly," Arthur countered. "That's inaccurate – it's always a choice."
Merlin didn't look away, shaking his head slowly. "But of course you are the expert. Lacking magic yourself, you've been trained extensively in the theory and principles governing magic-"
"All right, enough," Arthur growled, dropping his hand to the crossbow in his lap. "You will not speak of magic to me again. Get up and let's keep moving."
"Are you sure?" Merlin said mildly, taking his time in obeying. "Aren't you expecting a troop of knights to catch up with us, if and when they realize you're missing from the search?"
The king had been very deliberate about leaving tracks, as they travelled – and otherwise, Merlin didn't think he would have acquiesced to the declaration of a stop for rest so easily.
"You want my knights to catch up with us?" Arthur shot back.
Merlin shrugged, turning down the path again with his back to the wary king. Now he knew how Arthur had ended up waiting for the return of his younger self at the Isle – ten years ago, for him. And the others had been several days behind, as they travelled back to Camelot by the long route, under the mountains.
Maybe because Arthur had not wanted to ask young Merlin to clear the pass over the mountains with magic right in front of him – or maybe because he wanted these few extra days alone with his servant, to allow both of them to adjust to the changes in the relationship.
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(Future)
Merlin's heart flopped in his chest like a lame toad, and it consumed his foggy thoughts.
Come on, one more time. And again. Can't stop…
It didn't stop, but it was so erratic the rest of him was convinced he was dying. Sweat beaded chill on his skin and he panted air desperately that felt too thin and cold.
Behind his rib cage, his heart gave great leaps, expecting freedom, only to fall back and twitch helplessly.
"Are you able to stand and walk?"
Merlin opened his eyes, distracted. It took him a moment to recognize Mordred standing over him, facing sideways in his vision. Eyes on the right, chin on the left. How odd.
Thud-THUD-thdthdthd…
He tried to remind himself there was no danger of him dying, really. Hadn't Arthur said… hadn't Aithusa said… Hadn't everyone said…
"I know a spell that will give me control of your body like a puppet," Mordred said conversationally. "I've only tried it once before. It can be resisted, but that makes a person thrash around like a fish out of water. I suppose you object to me using it on you."
"Do it anyway," someone else said. A woman with a bitter mouth and piercing eyes and maybe he should know her name but he couldn't care that he didn't. "I want to see what he does. I want to see what it does to him."
As the only defense left to him, Merlin shut his eyes.
And he could no longer see them or hear them, but he could see himself, clear and bright… Clean also, it occurred to him. And he could take a breath and his pulse thrummed merrily reliable.
What is this place? Where is this place? All in my head?
Maybe his magic was trying to protect him. He remembered the slender glittering toothless snake, and moved his hand to touch his neck – unmarked.
No complaints, then.
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(Past)
At sunset, Merlin found pennywinkle, tiny purple flowers in their lush green carpet creeping slyly out around them on the ground.
It wasn't a bad spot for a campsite, either. The trees were thick and there was a cozy dell where the downward curve of the earth would hide a campfire, though there wasn't an absolute need for one. Nor would it rain tonight, he didn't think, to make an unpleasant puddle of the middle of their camp.
Merlin stopped and turned, and Arthur reined in immediately, hand on the crossbow resting across his thigh.
I think it would be exhausting to ride at that level of alert wariness all day – but he manages. Maybe he can't help it… it does make it better and easier when the knights are with us… when he trusts my magic for protection…
"Here?" Merlin said. "Or I think there's a bit of a cave maybe further on, a stream that's run lower than its banks and carved out a decently-sized hollow…"
Arthur studied him, then scrutinized the forest, not just the path. "No," he said, instead of choosing. "We'll go back. There's a place I noticed half of an hour ago."
Merlin sighed as the king pulled his mount's head to turn him around. "I know you don't trust that I'm not leading you into a trap," he said. "Would it help you to rest easier if I stayed here? In the morning I'll be ready to go when you catch me back up again."
Arthur's horse seemed perfectly content to stand and wait as the king looked at Merlin another long moment. "I'll rest easier with you where I can keep an eye on you. Come on."
Merlin's whole body ached for the… fifth day in a row, was it? A minute more of standing still and his muscles might start to quiver. "I swear on my father's grave and my mother's love I won't try to escape you again as long as we're traveling toward the Isle. But if the knights reach us, I can't have you decide to arrest me and bring me back to Camelot."
Arthur slouched a bit, relaxing his guard – unconsciously or deliberately, Merlin couldn't tell. After a moment, he said, like he was making a concession, "A quarter of an hour back."
That, Merlin supposed he could do.
Adjusting the straps over his shoulders – it weighed more with every step after the decision to stop had been made; burdens were funny like that – he moved past Arthur on the trail and began to re-trace their steps.
"Here," Arthur said behind him after the time agreed upon had passed. Merlin paused to watch him dismount and lead his horse away from the path, then followed.
Probably Arthur from his vantage point riding in the saddle had picked up the sounds and other proofs of a small coil of the same stream Merlin had been heading toward, as it moseyed its winding path through the forest. Possibly it had its origins in the White Mountains.
Merlin fell to his knees, disregarding mud and pebbles alike, letting the pack slip from his shoulders more carefully, then bent forward into the welcome cool of the stream with a groan, not even caring if Arthur heard and snickered. He'd been sweaty and dusty, and this little trickle of water was heaven. His sleeves dampened as he scooped water several times to scrub his face and the back of his neck and douse his hair also.
Momentarily startled when the unsaddled horse thrust a gleaming-chestnut muzzle into the water upstream from him, Merlin decided he didn't even mind. Not worth the trouble to move himself upstream from the horse, whether or not Arthur encouraged or allowed the animal to its current position.
Untying the laces of his shirt, Merlin shifted to be able to see Arthur organizing the saddle and his own pack, and briefly considered reminding the king to take care with his drawstring bag – but the day's travel had not been so conducive to easing tension that fireside chatting was going to feel natural.
Anyway, he could fix anything that broke inside that bag.
"How many days' rations do you have?" he asked, pausing with a double handful of his shirt collar ready to drag the rest of the material up over the back of his head.
Arthur gave him a sardonic sidelong glance. "Are you worried about me?"
"A bit," Merlin said, grinning but sincere. And here was where he'd normally make a joke about the king's habitual helplessness without his servant… but he hadn't been Arthur's manservant for years. And it wasn't fair to remind this young Arthur what he was missing.
When Arthur relaxed to sitting, legs outstretched and a small pouch of what was probably dried fruit and nuts in one palm, shaking a mouthful to chew, Merlin guessed he wasn't going to worry anymore about tonight, at least. And Arthur had his dagger tucked not quite all the way under one leg – ready to hand should he feel the need to throw the blade at any enemy that might appear.
Tomorrow, the king could demand a halt to shoot or trap something for a meal, did he truly run out of edibles, before he'd trust something handed him by a sorcerer.
Mentally shrugging, Merlin tugged his sweaty, dusty shirt over his head, slowly and stiffly, biting his lip to keep that groan silent. He shifted one knee to face the stream again, wishing he could rinse the shirt and use magic to dry it; it was too cool now to wait for it to dry even if they built a fire, and it didn't seem as if Arthur planned on that. Full moon in two nights anyway, there should be plenty of light to see even under the shadows of the forest trees.
Too bad about not having a fire to dry cleaned clothing. Oh, well. If it was going soft to get used to a clean shirt daily… he might be guilty of that, too.
Untucking the edge of the bandage, he pulled it loose loop by loop, wincing as it stuck, til it came free. The bandage was stained with dried mallow-root and the oozing of the wound so he rinsed that, then leaned over the water to be able to submerge his arm up to the shoulder, without falling in. Carefully he rubbed the area with his fingertips til his skin felt clean, then backed up to kneeling to put his shirt back on.
If he was lucky, he wouldn't even need the bandage tomorrow. Although, to keep the wound from getting dirty as they traveled, from any mishap, or from the state of his shirt rubbing on it…
"That looks like a bite," Arthur commented – and it drew Merlin's attention immediately. His tone was too casual, with an underlying defensiveness – his body was taut with some reactive emotion, and the pouch he was eating from had been abandoned beside his knee.
Merlin almost snarked, Well, you did hound me for the better part of the week… Except.
Arthur did regret this week, he well knew that. Was it guilt and shame more than awkwardness that had blocked any attempt his king had ever made to explain – to apologize? More than just, Merlin came back to this time, he hadn't known, and hadn't really been interested in questioning, for a long time.
"The dogs caught up with me," he said neutrally, focusing on his shirt save for a quick glance of evaluation. "Late that first day."
The light was waning, but Arthur's eyes were sharp; it was an even bet that he'd noticed the bruising on Merlin's right shoulder also. "You got your revenge," the king said. "You killed them for it."
Merlin was shaking his head before Arthur even finished. "No," he said. "No. They startled me – I was asleep, and they were on me before I knew it, and it was just – a reaction. To the pain. My magic – it was just a defensive reaction, if I'd been awake and knew they were coming, I could've… I could've used magic to distract them, or delay them, or send them off on another scent or something. They were faithful, loyal servants just following their orders, I had nothing against them, and I never meant to…"
Arthur was giving him an odd look; he swallowed the rest. It had been a while since he'd babbled like that, too.
"You really mean that," Arthur said, faintly incredulous. "I thought… well, I thought most sorcerers would have reason to feel vindictive and vengeful."
"You're not wrong – most do," Merlin admitted. "But as long as magic is illegal and you punish any association with it by death, magic-users have no reason to trust you with the truth. And they think Morgana is their best hope to live in peace and safety, and they have to pay for that hope with their service to her, and maybe the compromise of their morals for the sake of their families. And then she kills them when they try to disagree, or she sends them somewhere to do something that's going to get them killed, and…" Probably he should stop talking, because-
"What do you mean – Morgana kills other magic-users?" Arthur questioned, sounding annoyed. "Aren't all of you… I don't know, allies?"
Merlin snorted, lacing his shirt and settling his belt. "Isn't everyone without magic… I don't know, allies?"
Arthur huffed – but it was a thoughtful sound. "What about you, then?"
"What about me?" Merlin shot back. Both of them knew Arthur didn't trust Merlin's claim of identity – and he wasn't about to deny it and lie.
Choosing a comfortable-looking spot across from his king – near but not too near – he opened the shoulder-pack Gaius had stuffed with supplies. Maybe tomorrow he should keep an eye out for wild-growing fruit or plants with edible parts before they left the forest for the foothills and the mountain pass.
"You said… you were as much a victim as Merlin, that Morgana did this to you. So you're not allied with her."
"No." Merlin munched one of the apples Gaius had packed, deciding to set the rest aside for the morrow. Just in case.
"Why not?" Studiously neutral, and in the waning light with his chin down, Merlin couldn't make out Arthur's expression.
"She hates everyone I care about," Merlin said. Once upon a time he would have felt badly about that, but they'd lost too many friends to Morgana's plots and attacks. They'd healed too many of the ones who survived, saving lives with magic that otherwise would have been lost. "She wants magic to rule Camelot. Which is only tipping the balance the other direction, and won't bring peace."
"And you?" Arthur said, sounding curious in spite of himself. Merlin desperately hoped the young king wouldn't remember that he considered Merlin a stranger, a liar or a crazy man.
"I want peace, and balance. Magic governed by law just like any other form of power, and users judged by the results of their actions and their motives."
Arthur shook his head, a brief action in the falling gloom. "It can't be."
Merlin allowed himself a smile, leaning back on his elbow. It was going to be.
"So Morgana is your enemy," the king went on. Side-tracking, or back-tracking, but gathering information. "But why are you hers? Why would she choose you to switch with my servant?"
Because he switched with himself; probably it was impossible to switch both times and persons. Improbable, anyway; he didn't like to think about that, though.
"If it occurred to her to think what would become of me," he said slowly. "I think she would find it both amusing and satisfying to contemplate you arresting and executing me." Or just killing him in the pursuit, maybe.
Arthur shifted uncomfortably.
The air was chilled, and Merlin leaned to open his drawstring bag to retrieve his blanket. No longer anything like clean, either. Oh, well; such was life on the road without magic.
"You said… Morgana's hatred of me was general," he said. "I can understand that. But you didn't explain why she would hate my manservant even more."
Merlin lifted his hand absently to rub at the pain in his chest; it didn't really help. Maybe he shouldn't have said anything… maybe he could say anything, because it wouldn't change Arthur's reaction to his servant's return, and… the way everything happened after that. All that he remembered.
"He knew," Merlin said carefully. "He kept her secret, hoping she could have magic and still… still be loyal. Learn to control it. And if she used it, that it could be for… good things."
Arthur stared at him.
"She feels personally betrayed by… your servant," he went. "She trusted him to protect her, too. And instead he almost killed her."
"He what?" the young king said incredulously. "When was this?"
Merlin almost smiled. Now Arthur believed him?
"Remember the Knights of Medhir?" he said. "Everyone fell asleep except Morgana. Because she was the focus of the spell Morgause used. And to save you – to save Camelot. Merlin tricked her into drinking hemlock. As she died, the spell lifted…"
"We thought Morgause kidnapped her," Arthur said dazedly. "And held her for a year, and… whatever happened, she came back to us… changed. That was when we lost her. I thought… and he…"
Merlin watched Arthur, and didn't interrupt.
"She trusted him," Arthur said slowly. "And he lied to her… and she couldn't forgive that."
"I don't think she ever tried to understand, that day," Merlin said. "The choices we – the choices everyone faced. Right and wrong, good and bad, desperate and expedient…"
"Is that why he always seemed to feel just as guilty as I did," Arthur said softly. "That we lost her that day. That we lost her. That day."
Merlin thought it happened before that, perhaps long before that. But that day – it did indeed mark the point of no-turning-back for Morgana. And it was undeniable that he'd made choices that day, too. A dishonorable choice; the wrong thing done for the right reason…
He wrapped himself up and pillowed his head on his bent arm; it was always more exhausting to travel by foot than with a mount.
And he had to be up by midnight.
…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..
(Future)
The first thing he saw were massive gnarled branches far above him, clawing a twisted way across the blue of the sky. Then suddenly two hooded figures lunged into view, bending down to grip and lift him - Mordred and the woman?
His breathing was restricted – his whole body was stuck unmoving, and they folded him to rest on his knees with his feet under him.
Merlin choked on a sudden gasp to find himself wrapped in a slim silver chain, gleaming links looped around his body, tying his arms to his sides and his legs together, bent beneath him.
This. This?
Hadn't Kilgarrah destroyed these chains – and the enchantment along with them? After he'd come for Merlin – after he'd bellowed a fading summons – after he'd been stabbed in the back with the poison of a serket's deadly venom…
After he'd been stabbed… in the back…
He lifted his body to find himself in a familiar hollow in the Forest of Ascetir. And the witch Morguase stood before him, blonde ringlets cascading over the shoulders of her chainmail, her eyes dark-rimmed and intense enough to drill holes through his body, leaving poison behind to weaken and eventually kill him…
"You intrigue me, Merlin," she said lightly, almost playfully. "Why does a lowly servant continue to risk everything for Arthur and for Camelot?"
"I'm not the only one," his mouth blurted. "Lots of us do. Lots more would, if they had the chance. Arthur is worth risking everything for – so is Camelot. And, you know, it's my destiny."
Horror overwhelmed him. He wasn't supposed to say things like that to people like her. Why couldn't he keep his mouth shut? Hadn't he already kept his mouth shut, though, in this situation?
Her expression shifted slightly, but it wasn't a blaze of realization, it was exactly the narrowing of curious focus he remembered. "You know the answer, but you're not telling me. Why?"
"I did tell you the answer just now," he said. "But I'm not telling you because I have to keep my secret to save my life to save his life because that's my job, that's my goal and my purpose in life apparently, though I do suspect the dragon isn't completely honest all the time, I want to believe there's a reason I have magic like I do and it's not completely random and anyway he's my friend."
It was as if Morgause never heard him. She sauntered around him like a vulture – and Morgana moved into his line of vision, circling the other direction.
He straightened reflexively, as much as the chain would allow. Morgana hadn't been there in the morning, she'd returned to Camelot after meeting her sister in the night… Had she come back? How had she come back? Why had she-
She was scowling, black brows drawn together and wrinkles marring the smooth marble of her forehead, red-painted lips turned down. A series of round matched jewels gleamed in their setting at the base of her throat, and her glossy black hair was bound in a loose but elaborately knotted braid, tucked into the gauzy lavender hood of her velvet cloak, deep purple like her gown.
Why didn't she change into trousers to ride into the forest to meet her sister?
Merlin tried to shake the confusion out of his head, and almost tipped himself off his knees. His head pounded from the fist slammed into his face hours earlier, tumbling down to unconsciousness on the forest floor…
On the stone pavement of the dungeon level of the Isle's ruins?
"So many words, Merlin," Morgana scolded in the same tone Morgause had used to tease him. "But it is all honesty, isn't it? The venom of the Nathair makes certain of that."
"I can't lie," he realized, without any idea why he said it. And why on earth did that make him feel relief?
"Come on," the blonde witch said from behind him. "Time and again you put your life on the line. There must be a reason."
"I was told to," he said to Morgana. "I wanted to. Arthur fought for Camelot and all the knights and he thought I was useless and I wanted to tell him I could help – but the next best thing was helping him without telling."
"You're a pitiful little toad," Morgana agreed. But her eyes were on her sister. "You were useless. The dragon said… Have you ever thought of where you'd be and how your life might have been different if that damn dragon hadn't chosen sides? My sister was clever and brave – she wanted a better world and she was willing to fight for it. You were content with the world as it was, caring for none of our brothers and sisters but only yourself, willing only to wait and hope, and totally dependent on my brother." She spat the term as though it were inherently loathesome.
"I believe in a fair and a just land," he said, hearing the words like an echo in his head, his own voice trembling on nervous apprehension – not wanting to draw attention or spark ire, but not quite able to play the frightened servant to the hilt. "Not in taking what you want because you're stronger, but in giving to those who have less, and protecting those who are weaker."
Morgana sneered. "Do you need protection now? Because from where I stand, you look pretty weak."
"And you think Arthur will give you that?" He flinched as Morgause came out from behind him and bent close to his ear to ask her question.
"I know it," he declared positively. "He will. He has done." Memories flashed past his vision – the cobbler speaking the words to trigger the magical lantern by his door, Gwaine handing a scrying-crystal back to Dusty, the camp-ward stone lying cool in his own palm, Arthur's voice saying, Aithusa says there's one left, see if you can scry him…
Morgana's body jerked like she'd been jabbed in the spine, and the lavender gauze and the purple velvet flickered into tattered black – lips whitened and cracked, eyes green-sunken, hair split and dull and disheveled.
It felt like all the blood drained from his face down through his chest. His heart melted and dripped downward through his body also. And this is what became of her.
"And then what?" Morgause continued mockingly. "You think you'll be recognized, Merlin? Is that it? All this so, one day, you can be serving-boy to the king?"
"I don't want to be recognized," he said, breathlessly cross. "Arthur will be great, and Camelot will be great, and if no one ever knows or remembers my name – well, that will be great, too."
"No, there's something more," Morgause said. "Something you're not telling me, isn't there?"
"I have magic too," he said promptly. "I want what you want, freedom and peace for everyone equally – just not like this. Not by war and by threat and by murder."
"You should ask your precious king about that," Morgana said, with barely contained ferocity. "War and threat and murder is all he is good for. Son of Uther Pendragon."
"And you're his daughter," Merlin said. "I don't know because I haven't been here these last ten years – yet – but of the two of you, how often is he the aggressor, and how often is it your idea to come against Camelot and start things again?"
Morgana's hand flashed out, catching him hard on the side of his face – and knocking him to the ground. Grass and earth as hard as stone, and momentarily the craggy trunks of trees and greenery around them dulled to the gleam and echo of moss-slicked stone.
"Well, you can take your secret to the grave," Morgause said. She spoke a spell to further enchant the slender silver chain, then mounted her horse in preparation to leave him to the serkets.
"Do you know why I chose this memory?" Morgana demanded. The purple of her cloak-and-gown was tattered and worn thin, her hair in its long braid tangled and broken off short in places.
There were spells and rituals and curses that used a lock of hair, Merlin remembered tangentially.
"Because you miss her and wanted to see her again?" his mouth said.
She cocked her wrist and his body was scooped up off the floor and roughly dumped down on his knees again. "No. Because it was the first time in your life you were truly terrified, and I wanted to see why."
The chains bit into his flesh like writhing snakes, tightening and bruising and he'd never felt so helpless. His first memories of magic were like his first memories of anything else – it felt completely normal, as much a part of him as his hands or eyes, it meant home and comfort as much as his mother and their hearth in the middle of winter. It was usefulness and strength, it was special and meaningful, the substance of his dreams and hopes and wishes – it was life. Even walking into the realization of what living in Camelot might mean, as a man's head was separated from his body for even consorting with a magic-user – even having his arm twisted behind his back and realizing he'd just insulted the crown prince – even picking up a sword for the first time as a bandit rushed him, similarly armed, didn't frighten him like this.
His magic was out of reach. He was truly helpless, and danger all around prowled closer. No one would know what had become of him, perhaps all Camelot would fall to this enemy and he could do nothing to save or protect his friends, perhaps Arthur would fall and lie bleeding to death thinking that Merlin had taken a cowardly escape because he cared for his own life and had no faith in him…
"It's delicious," Morgana said, smirking. "Such fun."
"That's disgusting," Merlin panted. "To take pleasure in someone else's pain, even someone you hate. Even an enemy."
"You would know about someone else's pain, wouldn't you?" she said. "How many people died to keep your cursed secret, to keep you safely in Arthur's pocket, all those years? Did you keep count? Did you remember their names?"
"I tried," his mouth said. "I remember many of them. But they died for more than just my secret and my life. You were never patient, Morgana – but Arthur needed time to become a better man than his father."
"No he didn't!" she snapped. "He needed to die so another could take the throne and do what was needed to get justice for our people! And you hid yourself and you stood by and you said nothing!"
"It took him a while to listen to me," Merlin admitted, having no intention of saying anything of the sort. And it should have bothered him more, this lack of control, this spiral bond of malevolent magic. "He was taught to listen to his father and no one else because no one else was his equal. He had to learn-"
"Oh, shut up, you make me ill, babbling on so," she bit out, turning away in a swirl of purple-and-black. "You protected Uther just as often as you protected Arthur, and that man would have watched me burn without flinching!"
"Protecting Uther was protecting Arthur, don't you see? Don't you remember how you hated the man you blamed for the death of your father? How did you expect Arthur to-"
She snorted, tossing her head – and more strands of brittle hair loosened from the braid. "You're a traitor, and your excuses make me want to vomit!"
"Do you even remember that gown?" he said, because evidently he wasn't finished yet; absently, she glanced down at herself. "That one dress was worth more than my life – each of your dresses was worth more than my life. If I said, Morgana has magic, the king would have chopped off my head, not yours. If you'd been caught – if someone suspected or overheard, if we tried to teach you to hide it and control it and if you couldn't – or wouldn't – and you'd been caught, all you had to say was, Merlin has magic and you'd have been excused. I would be blamed for enchanting you and maybe Gaius would have been burned right beside me-"
Her eyes narrowed. "So that's it, then, is it? You were just too much of a coward! You thought your own stupid peasant life was more precious-"
"No," he said, exasperated and weary and his mouth was dry and his throat burned. "A thousand times, no."
"Or you decided because you were Emrys, you were worth more than all the rest of us put together-"
"Arthur is worth more than all the rest of us put together!" he snapped, out of patience. "How do you not understand that? My destiny was to protect him, not myself and not you and not anyone else even though I tried and you were not the only one I failed, you were just the only one I failed who survived!"
Except Mordred. Who knew that Merlin had almost left that rescue too late, and maybe guessed that Merlin had finally come because he didn't want Arthur in trouble if they actually were caught, he didn't want Arthur fighting his own knights, hurting anyone or getting hurt.
"He is the king and he was always meant to be king and he is a damn good one! Change takes time but you should see Camelot, you should see it and he did that in spite of you and you've had as much time and opportunity as he has, you had Essetir when Cenred died and instead of taking that kingdom and making it prosperous and magical you tried to destroy what we had and what we were trying to do with ours! Even when you had Camelot, Morgana, you didn't care for the people like Arthur always has, Camelot is its people, not the citadel or the land, and he's risked his life, given his life, offered his life a hundred times to protect them all, magic or not – and you've done the opposite, you've risked the people over and over just to raise yourself up and then you wonder why you have enemies! It's not because we've betrayed you or magic – it's because you have betrayed magic, and us! More people hate magic because of you than because of Uther – and more people love magic because of Arthur than because of me!"
Morgana stared at him for a second – then stalked across the clearing as greens and browns washed away into gray like a new painting left out in the rain. There was a table – there was a box – she snatched it up and opened it like a book held horizontally.
The slender black snake coiled inside sprang forth, toothless mouth open in an evil eager hiss.
The silver chain around his body dissolved into his skin – pressure released in a flash of fire hot enough to melt the metal – and he fell into darkness wondering who was making that horribly feral shriek of agony.
…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..
(Past)
Merlin lay still and listened to the rhythm of Arthur's breathing – probably more familiar to him than his own – and knew the minute that Arthur's dozing deepened into slumber. He lay silent awhile longer, simply absorbing that peaceful sound – almost submerged in the noises of the forest around them, but not quite.
Arthur had ten years ahead of him. Choices and trials, struggles and rewards…
What Merlin had, now, was uncertainty. And the possibility of that one nightmare – once recurring, though he hadn't had it in years – of Arthur's bloodied body, absolutely absent of breath. So he lay and listened, and was almost lulled back to sleep himself by the gentle rhythm of his king's light snoring.
But it was nearing midnight, and they called pennywinkle sorcerer's violet.
He rose by noiseless degrees, laying aside his blanket carefully and placing hands and feet with exaggerated caution. After pausing a moment to be sure Arthur slept on undisturbed, he padded away into the silver-dappled darkness. Up the path to the dell he had marked earlier, his steps quickening the further he moved from their campsite.
In the moonlight everything showed shades of deep green, shapes of deceptive distance and smelling of damp grass. The air was cool and the earth was warm, and he shuffled his boots til he was certain he'd discovered the thick carpet of pennywinkle.
He knelt, spreading his fingers and brushing his hands lightly over the tops of the clustered plants, searching for the small five-petaled purple flower that occasionally poked above its green nest.
Pennywinkle was a ground vine that spread like a web, putting down roots and growing into a new plant where the vines touched the earth, and each plant sending out more vines. It wasn't going to be delicate work, necessarily, though neither would the pennywinkle respond well to rough yanking and tugging. But it did need to be precisely midnight; that was easier to tell, indoors at a place that counted the time, than under the night sky.
He waited and settled himself and stretched out his senses. Maybe he couldn't tell midnight to the minute, but he could feel the ebb and flow of magic much more keenly now than he used to be able to. Subtle ripples rose and spread, like feathery breezes through the pennywinkle leaves, low and small and thick. He was tempted to spread himself out in fact, over the ground and through the rambling plants, let the magic wash over and into him as well, pushed and pulled by the moon and the midnight like the ebb and flow of the tide, but…
Well, he didn't want to get carried away into slumber, here away from the camp.
It was shy, natural magic, curling up to his knees and retreating – he held still and waited, grinning to himself with delight. He didn't have the time to do this sort of thing often enough, anymore.
And, midnight. Merlin slid his fingers down into the thick leaves, working by touch to pull those tiny tangled vines free without damaging the roots too much. He needed plenty of this, and the more he harvested tonight, the less his magic would have to supplement for the faelg.
The first warning of proximity he had was Arthur's voice, inside the dell and only a few paces behind him.
"What the hell are you doing?" Sarcasm covering confusion and sounding a lot like mockery.
"Pennywinkle," Merlin said, leaning to trace the last vine to the end plant. "Sorcerer's violet. Pick it any old time of day you like and it's good for the blood – to stop bleeding, to heal wounds, to steady the heart-rate, and so on. But if you want the magic, it's got to be gathered at…"
He turned as he spoke, and noticed that the shape of Arthur's shadow included the long sharp edge of his bared sword. He hadn't heard the king draw, which meant Arthur had armed himself at some distance before approaching. It hadn't taken him long to track Merlin, though; he'd only left their camp half of an hour ago, and Arthur had been asleep.
Merlin finished, on his knees with his hands full of fragrant vines, leaves, and petals, "Midnight."
For a moment Arthur simply stood – he in a patch of moonlight, the king shadowed under a tree – before he shifted, motion without leaving his position. Merlin interpreted it as another checking of his surrounding, like maybe now an ambush might be sprung – regardless of how illogical it would be for an enemy to ignore him falling asleep in camp only to have Merlin lure him out by… sneaking away in the middle of the night. While Arthur was sleeping, and trying not to wake him…
Merlin sighed, and simply waited, crouching over his arm-full of sorcerer's violet.
It took Arthur several moments to be satisfied that they were still alone, and that Merlin had more or less told the truth.
"You mean you're… picking flowers by moonlight?" he said, incredulous.
Merlin grinned. Just exactly the sort of thing Arthur would be delighted to catch him doing, and tease him mercilessly about for months, if not years.
"Well, I've finished now," he said, pushing to his feet. "I've got what I need. We can go back to camp and get some sleep."
He moved toward Arthur, back in the direction of the camp, assuming the king was going to insist on following, to keep him in sight. Passing him, Merlin couldn't resist shoving a handful of pennywinkle toward Arthur's face.
"And they smell nice, too!"
The figure of the king flinched back like he feared the magic could leap from the blossoms and leaves onto his skin, muttering, "Get that away from me!"
Merlin's smile held all the way back to camp, Arthur stomping along behind in wordless complaint of inexplicable magic-users doing inexplicable things and disturbing his sleep and his peace of mind.
Did he have ten more years with his Arthur, and would they be as full – as amazing, and exciting, and incredible - as the last?
He wished he could be sure.