Chapter 10: The Day Before the Last
(Past)
An hour before dawn, Merlin woke facing Arthur. Flat on his back to spare his bruises, head pillowed on the stack of bowls in his drawstring bag, unconsciously attuned to his king and friend. Nothing unusual there.
Arthur, however, hadn't stretched prone on the ground at all. Slumber had relaxed his position somewhat, slouched against the trunk of a tree, boots crossed at the ankle and arms still laxly tucked together over his chest. For a moment Merlin studied him in the rising daylight.
Shadows on his face. Lines on his brow, and he wasn't rousing.
Merlin realized that Arthur might not have gotten very much sleep this week. Waiting and worrying, hunting and hoping… I did tell you. I'm sorry you couldn't believe me.
It's almost over, though.
Merlin rose with as much stealth as he had just before midnight, and Arthur didn't stir. He checked his bite-wound – closed over, scabbed and not swollen, nor pulling; he could leave it, he thought. Then, slowly and carefully, he repacked his bag and his shoulder-pack to put blanket and food over Arthur's saddle, and bowls and ingredients on his own shoulders. He lifted the saddle to the chestnut gelding's back, settling the heavy leather and cinching the buckles firmly, keeping one eye and both ears on his unconscious friend.
Still Arthur didn't stir.
Sunlight crept shy and golden through the forest, a single touch here and there before brushing broader, deeper yellow-orange strokes. Merlin hunkered down two paces from Arthur to wait, watching over his tired young friend.
He hadn't shaved in a few days. But it would be years yet before he'd let the beard come in, short but full. A few years after that, Merlin himself would decide to let his own grow, to cover the scar that interrupted his jawline far on the left.
Mordred had done that. Had Mordred survived Morgana's fall? One more thing he'd need to make sure of, when he got back.
If he got back.
Arthur was a bit grubby about the collar and cuffs, trousers and boots travel-smudged. Merlin couldn't remember if he'd gotten a temporary replacement for manservant, this week; Daeg wouldn't come to Camelot for a while, yet, either. He did remember how awkward it was when they got back to the citadel and he'd tried to settle into their comfortable master-and-servant routines, and Arthur said, This isn't going to work.
He remembered how his heart had dropped straight through his stomach to hear that.
Before the king had allowed a wry half-grin and admitted, It's a misuse of resources. Can't have a powerful sorcerer scrubbing floors and socks. Have to find something else for you to do around here. Legally.
It had taken several more months after that, for Merlin to regain the confidence that he could tell what Arthur was thinking, again.
What had he been thinking, this week?
Merlin didn't shift, didn't make a noise. The gelding was content to wait, nibbling leaves and swishing tail and lifting an occasional hoof to set down again.
Arthur woke on his own. Turning his head like the growing awareness of stiff muscles needed attention. Tightening his arms briefly, then beginning to stretch out before he remembered where he was. What he was doing, and who he was with.
His eyes flew open, and instantly connected with Merlin's. He inhaled sharply, instincts flaring, and his hand dove for the hilt of his dagger, tucked ready to hand half-beneath his thigh.
"What the hell are you doing, hovering," he snapped, his voice still thick with sleep.
Merlin said nothing, sighing his breath out in a disappointment he didn't try to hide from his temporarily-younger friend. Still Arthur believed he posed a potential danger… even after all, and he was only crouched over his knees waiting for the king to wake. He let Arthur realize the absence of threat, that he'd been wrong to panic, and that Merlin himself felt the insult of the reaction. And maybe there was a hint of shame or regret in Arthur's eyes when Merlin bounced up.
"Ready when you are, sire," he said only.
But, when he extended a hand in offering to assist Arthur to his feet, the king hesitated only a fraction of a second before grasping Merlin's hand and trusting him even if only momentarily, with his weight.
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(Future)
Someone put a hand on Merlin and it burned like the touch of a coal.
Uneven stone flooring pressed into his right side, bruised the bones of his face, chilled his body with implacable malice. He rolled to his back to escape the horrible contrast of the coal-touch, and rocked over new bruising – shoulder-blades and spine, the back of his hips.
Like hot wax, the sensation slipped beneath his neck – hardened, and pulled.
Ice kissed his lips, forcefully parting them, and the melting trickle froze his tongue and made his teeth ache.
"Emrys, you must drink."
He moaned a protest, but his mouth filled and he swallowed convulsively. His throat cracked with frostbite, and the hairs behind his neck melted into blistering skin.
"I've brought some bread as well, but you must drink first. You've been here two days without food or water…"
The melting ice slid through his chest like a blade, stabbing into his left side and waking a ravening hunger. He blinked swollen and sticky lids to see the shape of someone's head outlined by some source of light behind; the long loose strands that haloed it made him guess his assailant to be female.
"Come, Emrys, swallow again."
Ice gushed into his mouth and he couldn't help it, choking as his throat tried to shrink in defense. He moaned again – no, please – and the agony of the third swallow was unbearable.
Where am I. What happened. Is Gaius… Arthur, please…
"Hm. If she wants you to feel the torture, I don't know why she exaggerates it so that you lie for hours unconscious in your own-"
He blinked again, and the woman's face came into focus. She noticed, and stopped speaking to watch him. He didn't know her; it was a broad face and plain, small eyes set close together, thin blonde hair that might've been fading to white. His mother's age, he thought, and then – Mother in this time, or in my time?
The Isle. Morgana. The slim malicious snake in the box – a nathair, she'd said? – torture and memories and truth and that strange inky place of nothing.
He wanted to be there so badly it ached, throbbing through his left side just under his heart, a physical longing that was going to shred its way through his ribcage and his guts.
"Please," he managed. His lips felt thick and numb.
"D'ya want some more," she said unsympathetically, and shoved the mouthpiece of the waterskin between his lips, tipping the frigid liquid down his throat.
Oh, it hurt. But he was aware enough now to know he needed it. Swallowing pinched hard, and tears stung his eyes, and it felt like the water was going to wash back up his nose or spray into his lungs when he choked.
"I've been told," the woman said. "You've got to eat this bread and drink the water, and I'm not to leave until you do. Can you sit up? It'll be easier that way."
The waterskin retreated, and the burning touch at the back of his neck heaved. He flinched and struggled and accomplished nothing; her other hand offered itself in his vision and it burned his palm when he reached instinctively to pull himself away.
"That snake's a nasty piece of work," the woman observed dispassionately, as Merlin's body rocked and swayed and the floor pressed coldly up into his legs and backside. "I'd kill you myself to put you out of your misery – God knows you deserve it – but she's decided you're hers to play with as long as she likes."
The broad face twisted with revulsion, but he couldn't tell if it was for him or for Morgana. A chunk of bread was tossed in his lap and he blinked at it dumbly.
"Come on, Emrys, eat up. Haven't got all day. Your people on the shore are making things complicated for us, here. D'ruther be lakeside than down here…"
"My people," he whispered.
"Don't talk, eat. Or drink. Here." She shoved the waterskin against his thigh, and it hurt like his flesh had been flayed. He couldn't even flinch away.
But – his hand when he reached for the bread wasn't blistered. His tongue explored his mouth clumsily and found no cold-damage, either. No blood on his trousers.
Poison, maybe. Or the magic that supplemented it. Activated it.
His head throbbed dully, and his joints stuck rather than sliding, but he lifted the bread. Bit and chewed and swallowed. Lifted the waterskin to sip more icy water when his throat threatened to close on the dry stale bread-crumbs. His clothing was damp, he realized, and the chamber stank.
And she was watching him sharply. How did someone like her come to ally with Morgana? She reminded him a bit of a neighboring friend of his mother's in Ealdor, growing up. Hard worker, treasured her family – but Hunith had spoken to her carefully and never in confidence. Narrow-minded and blinded by prejudice, Hunith had told him once, when he was older.
"I'm sorry," he rasped.
She blinked and shuffled back from him, genuinely confused. "For what?"
"Whatever made us… enemies." He coughed, trying to keep it light and shallow – it felt smoky, in his throat and mouth, and he braved the chill of the water again. He could see that his hand was trembling, though he couldn't feel it, and his spine felt permanently bowed.
She jerked her head in rejection of his apology, then looked at him again. "How old are you?" she said abruptly. "She pulled you from your past, when you were weak and ignorant, so she could finally defeat you, but… You don't look any older than my…"
Exhaustion was plucking at him. He thought he'd curl over his knees and hang his eyes shut rather than lying on the stone, but it might not be his choice to make. Oblivion was a strong temptation, right now.
"You called me Emrys," he said wearily.
"That's who you are, innit? Finish the bread and drink the water, so I can go. Emrys was supposed to save us, all of us, but…" She jerked again, rejecting him and the idea of salvation – or needing it – but her expression was disconcerted. "You're barely more than a child. And you can't even save yourself."
He had no energy for a self-deprecating huff.
"And yet you're still alive and seem to be in full possession of your wits, after that snake," she mused. "Well. I can leave the bread, but unless you want me to dump out the water on the ground…"
That seemed a waste, though his throat ached with cold, and his stomach shriveled around its meagre contents.
Your people, she'd said. My people, the other woman, Kara, had said. And he could not for the life of him understand why there had to be that division. Why some people could let go of hate and hope for better, and others would damn themselves for even a chance of doing harm to their enemies. No truce, no negotiation.
He tried to lift the waterskin, but his hand and arm lacked the strength. Slumber or unconsciousness pulled at him. Her stout figure loomed, and tugged the skin away from his fingers.
"I do pity you," she said bluntly – then was gone.
And he found he missed her. Missed the company of another person, regretted losing the chance for conversation, the even smaller, fainter chance that he might say something to… help her. Change her, persuade her to… choose something better than this.
The floor pressed cold and hard into his left side, making his head ache from the contact. His stomach pinched and he wondered if the woman and her offerings had been a dream, sleeping or waking.
He was alone. He shouldn't have come alone. If he'd asked… someone. Anyone. Mordred wouldn't have been able to ambush him. His neck ached, and he remembered the pinprick, the feeling of falling into horror and failure and capture.
I'm sorry, Arthur… Gwaine… Dusty… someone, everyone. I'm sorry. I made a mistake, I've completely ruined our chances…
I want to go home.
Loneliness curled in on itself in his chest; he felt empty and lost; the burden of blame was his and he deserved this, but.
I want to go home.
They all said it would happen, but first he had to defeat Morgana. If that was even possible, anymore.
I can't. Do this. I can't do this, I… I need help. Someone? Please help me.
Arthur?
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(Past)
Shortly after dawn, Merlin and Arthur reached the edge of the forest, where the limbs of the last trees obscuring the sky gave way to the jagged shapes of the White Mountains lurching up from the horizon. Having ascended the first of the foothills, Merlin paused to catch his breath and enjoy the way the sunrise set fire to the sea of treetops behind them and the low clouds piling up around the rim of the sky.
"What's the matter?" Arthur said, reining in.
Merlin stretched his arms wide and inhaled as deeply as he was able to, trying to voice the differences felt between traveling deep forest and crossing the high moors. "Sometimes I forget how big the sky is."
As soon as he said it, he cringed, remembering that this Arthur was far more likely to mock such an observance from a strange and slightly ridiculous manservant. His Arthur might've said something like-
"Sometimes I forget how big Camelot is." The king's tone was low and pensive, his eyes reflecting the faraway blue of the west as he gazed back the way they'd come, the high hill giving them a vantage point overlooking his kingdom. A moment later he glanced at Merlin self-consciously, as if he'd forgotten himself who he thought his companion was.
"It is a very great kingdom, Your Majesty," Merlin said, softly and sincerely, holding Arthur's gaze.
The king allowed it for several uncertain, vulnerable moments, before urging his mount to continue. Merlin strode to stay where Arthur could comfortably keep an eye on him and still watch the land around them for danger or threat.
"The land where you are from," Arthur spoke up to address him in a casual, conversational way. "I take it the laws allow for magic, there?"
"Oh, yes," Merlin answered, unable to keep from smiling. "Our laws are quite the same as yours, save for that. Our people prohibited from theft and from harming one another…"
"Your king has magic?"
"No." Merlin glanced swift and surprised at Arthur, who affected not to notice.
"How can he rule magic-users, then? How control the corruption, or… excesses? How does he tell if magic has been used in the commission of a crime?"
"He listens to the witnesses of the case," Merlin explained. "And to his advisors in the theory of magic. For instance, if someone accuses their neighbor of blowing their roof to pieces in a nighttime windstorm – yet the rest of the villagers testify that the accused has never shown any hint of magic and was in fact asleep during said storm…"
Arthur grunted. "How often does your king find someone guilty of magic used against another, and have to execute him or her? How often is magic used to hurt the people of the kingdom?"
"Once in a while," Merlin admitted. "Most recently-" which was relative – "it's been someone who was previously unaware of their magic, causing an accident in a fit of temper or other emotion."
Arthur was watching him, now. "And?"
"Well, then… Usually it's a young person. Not of age yet, or only just. Often there might be another magic-user present or nearby to alleviate the effects of the magic – fix things, heal people. Sometimes the person at fault must work to pay for the damages, in addition to being required to undertake training to control their abilities."
"And have you no one who uses this taught magic deliberately against his fellows?"
Merlin gritted his teeth as they descended into the shadow of the valley between the first foothill and those that would follow, yet waiting for the sun to rise high enough to reach those depths. "Yes, it happens. Not as often as someone without magic is accused of a crime – since there are far fewer people capable of magic than otherwise, and once trained, it usually requires intent and focus. Second thought, where it is hoped that most citizens would choose to keep rather than transgress the law…"
Arthur might have made another sound of genuine contemplation, but it was hard to tell over the swish of Merlin's boots and the horse's hooves through the grass, the creak of saddle leather.
Merlin couldn't resist adding, "We considered passing a law requiring everyone to do magic daily – you understand, making it a capital crime to abstain from magic – but then we figured, how unjust that would be."
The king's scowl was heavy and unmistakable. "The absence of magic does not corrupt a person's morality or loyalty," Arthur growled. "Sorcery does that."
Merlin corrected him, "Power does that. And selfishness and greed, and pain."
Arthur stiffened in his saddle, and didn't respond.
And they toiled all the way up the second of the foothills – the peaks of the White Mountains looming, and the morning sunlight blossoming over the snowy slopes high above them, before Arthur broke the silence again. Maybe because it was their second day journeying together, maybe it was the effect of open ground rather than close forest, or the way they were now traveling abreast instead of one before and one behind.
Or the fact that they were nearly beyond Camelot's lands, where the laws Arthur had not yet changed did not apply.
"What about you, then?"
"What about me?" Merlin repeated, uncomprehending.
"You were one of those people previously unaware of magic, loosing it in a fit of temper? Having to train to control it? Having to concentrate to use it? How long have you been practicing?"
Merlin nearly tripped in the long tangled grass of the hilltop. That was quite a lot of pointed curiosity for Arthur to voice, and – he hadn't thought of this. Of the possibility that the king might take advantage of time alone with a sorcerer who wasn't trying to kill him, and claimed to want to help… The king didn't so much as look at him, but held his mount back to a leisurely amble to descend once more, without putting too much distance between them.
But you don't believe me anyway, Merlin didn't say. "I'm… no, I'm the odd man out. I'm a… warlock? not a sorcerer. Means I was probably born with it. I've used magic since before I can remember – before I could sit up, according to my mother. Nothing… nothing destructive, though, or violent, or pointless. Moving things around our house, from curiosity, or boredom. When I got older, I remember doing things more deliberately – reaching things down that were too high, or helping our cookfire to light."
There was a bit of a trickling stream wandering between that hill and the next; Arthur allowed his mount to pause and lower his head to drink. Merlin couldn't bear to see rejection or disbelief on Arthur's face, though, so he kept his eyes on the placement of his steps, over the water and beginning to climb again, thumbs tucked through the shoulder-straps of his pack.
"You're powerful, then. You could've escaped us. Could've killed us all."
"That's like saying, well you're good with a sword you could've slaughtered an entire village and they couldn't stop you," Merlin snapped back. "Doesn't your honor and your principles govern the use of your abilities? Mine does too - and quite frankly, you shouldn't find that as surprising as you do."
The horse's gait quickened briefly, sloshing through the stream and thudding upwards after Merlin. "I didn't intend to offend you."
"Maybe not, but you're not going to apologize either, are you?" Merlin stopped, rubbing his forehead, and faced his friend. "No, I'm sorry for that. I keep forgetting…"
"What?" Arthur said, slowing his mount momentarily.
"That you're… you." Merlin turned and started forward again.
This wasn't his purpose here. His purpose was to complete the ritual and recall his younger self – and then he'd tell Arthur all these things, and the king would listen, calm and collected, and then he would go away to think and deliberate, and then… come back to ask more questions. And the more questions he asked and the more answers Merlin surrendered, the further they both journeyed from any possibility of fear – for Merlin's life, for the severing of their connection, for rejection or betrayal.
"Why didn't you just go home, this week?" Arthur asked, with the faintest hint of sarcasm. "If you're powerful and loyal, your king must be missing you."
Merlin's heart gave a throb so great it stopped his breath for a moment. Oh, sire, you have no idea… I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. Aloud he managed, "I told you. I'm the only one who can get your servant back for you."
"And why should you care anything about me? Or my manservant?"
Merlin let the pull of gravity lengthen his strides and increase his pace, down into the next valley whose floor was probably higher than the forest tree-tops. "I care because you're not your father. Your potential always exceeded the heights of his success and your reign will be legend. You just… need protection til you open your eyes to the truth, and realize all that."
When he said such things, it still embarrassed Arthur, who couldn't forget the dark side of his father's legacy, or the shortcomings of his own youth, though Merlin had personally assured him – and knew others had and did also – that he was great because he learned from his mistakes, far more so than if he'd never made them.
Ten years ago, Arthur had still covered that embarrassment by mocking and insulting him… except that he didn't believe Merlin was Merlin.
And then the king said, "Are you Emrys?"
Merlin's foot jarred down into an irregularity in the slope, with the result that he lost his balance and sat down hard. And blinked up at the mounted king as the sun edged into view around the high mountain peak dominating the eastern sky.
"The last time I saw Morgana, she said." Arthur sounded self-conscious, and was contemplating their upward path, not meeting Merlin's eyes. "Not even Emrys can save you now. Except that, she was defeated that day, and we were victorious. Someone had done something to defend us against her magic. There are… very few references to that name, that I could find. Vague references. I wondered – there was an old man in a hut not far from Camelot, but… He doesn't live there now, it's a… another man and his daughter. That man claimed to have seen you a few days ago, but I was told the girl disproved that."
Merlin felt the damp of the ground through the seat of his trousers, and blinked up at the king, astounded.
"There's been times I've wondered," Arthur continued in the same neutral tone, squinting toward the mountain pass. "Times it seemed all hope was lost and then… I turned around, and I was still alive. And we'd won, somehow. I always thought, what luck. But if there is such a thing, why should I be favored, after all… So then I thought, a person. For his own reasons, to – claim a debt owed, and force Camelot to recognize-"
"No," Merlin interrupted, pushing unsteadily to his feet. "No debt, save that to your own conscience. Only your enemies might wish to force concessions and changes you don't believe in-" yet – "but not all magic-users are your enemies. And many would be your allies."
"I cannot accept that," Arthur said, shaking his head. "It's unbelievable."
"And yet it's true."
Merlin started forward again, doggedly leaning into his climb and ignoring the uncomfortable pull of muscles in his legs.
Don't let Arthur realize I didn't really answer. I can't say yes to that… but I can't say no.
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(Future)
Merlin opened his eyes to a swirl of mist, colored the heavy gray of the chamber's stone walls. There was movement – without the sensation of air stirring against his face, his body flew forward, drawn on down corridors and up stairs, flashes of sound passing him as he sped. Where was he going? Was this still the Isle?
Consciousness burst through a doorway into a great shadowy chamber, vaulted ceilings supported by enormous pillars, flagstone floor interrupted by regular quarried stones laid in rows and lines, six feet by three feet by three feet…
He knew this place also. Camelot's burial crypts.
Morgana was there, trousers and tunic, sleek braid and red lips, porcelain skin unlined. She stood in an attitude of leisurely anticipation, leaning on the twiggy end of the rowan staff she'd planted to bring the bones to life, to slaughter them all within the citadel while Morgause and Cenred held the attention of all without.
Merlin's perception halted so suddenly he swayed, corporeal once again, on his feet facing her.
She offered a cold smirk, controlling the heat of simmering rage with a noticeable effort.
He shivered involuntarily. She was much more dangerous, now. Not taking the orders, but giving them – and yet still without care for consequences beyond achieving her goal by any means possible, however dishonorable or destructive they might be.
"This is pointless, Morgana." A man in a druid's cloak, hood pooled on his shoulders, leaned against the wall at the base of the stair leading up and out. One boot was propped up on the first step.
"No one asked you!" she flashed, her eyes still on Merlin as if waiting for him to make the first move, say the first word in this remembered conversation.
"Clearly he poses us no threat. Lock him back up for a day or two til we deal with the intruders on the shore. Then you can spend all the time you want, taking Emrys apart. Putting him back together, if it suits you to play like that."
"You don't understand," she responded acerbically. "You haven't been doing this as long as I have. Arthur is invulnerable as long as Emrys is alive. The knights and traitors on the shore cannot reach us – this is my focus. We'll deal with them after him."
"You won't get what you want from him," the man said, the small smile in his round face at odds with the ice-blue eyes.
"What do you know of what I want," Morgana scoffed.
"Very little, my lady, I admit. You don't even know, yourself – and as for him… he's completely witless, at this point."
"Why don't you go lend your wisdom and expertise to our defenses, if you think they are in danger, and leave me to enjoy my revenge in peace!" she shrieked at him.
The stone all around them shifted nervously, sifting dust downward. Mordred straightened, showing no alarm, but only glancing warily at ceiling and walls before taking the steps two at a time to depart the chamber.
"Now," Morgana said, her lips cracked and gray, her eyes burning coals of intensity in dark hollows. "Where were we?"
Leave now while you still can, he thought. Her words, offering him an escape he chose to reject. And it wasn't his destiny that kept him in place, nor yet faith that they would prevail, in the face of overwhelming odds – it was his own resolve to do the right thing no matter what, to protect his friends even if they all died in the end, to fight Arthur's fight alongside him as long as Arthur was alive to fight it, even unknown. Women and children are dying – the city will fall.
Dust pattered down the walls; the great blocks of the ruined island fortress rubbed shoulders uneasily. Some looked outward, some looked inward…
"Do you remember this, Merlin?" she said. All around were pieces of broken tombs, dry bones in a discarded jumble, half-covered by fallen leaves, vines and roots that had crept from the earth to die in the stale tomb-room. "Uther could have died this day. We could have taken Camelot swiftly – we could have let you take your beloved prince somewhere far away to live a long life in simplicity and obscurity."
Merlin shook his head, but his lips were clamped together this time.
No more truth? she taunted.
Arthur never could have gone. Never could have left his people to your tyranny. And how ironic anyway, to hear her voicing his own recurring thought about what she hadn't done with her sister, the life they hadn't lived, the abandoned places they hadn't restored to claim a kingdom of their own, instead of grasping what was never meant to be theirs.
"I said to you, you don't have magic. How could you understand the weight of Uther's hatred? The need for freedom, the desire to fight back."
I told you that I did understand. That the gift of magic should be used for good – that's its purpose, then and now.
"But you hid from Uther's hatred, cowering in the shadow of his son. You chose servitude over freedom, and you stopped us fighting back!"
His lips peeled apart, and his voice surged hoarsely from a throat that ached unceasingly. "I know what it's like to be an outsider. To be ashamed of what I am, what I've done, I know what it feels like to have to hide, to fear what happens after discovery or confession."
"Confession," she scoffed, angry that he'd managed to voice his response aloud, and added with the vehemence of spellwork, "Shut up."
You never tried that. You never told Arthur anything, never asked him for mercy, or for help-
Neither did you!
The bones of the room shuddered like Cenred's trebuchets were outside continuing their bombardment.
"I will," he rasped dryly. Arthur's voice in his memory reminded him, You told me… "I'm going to. I'll tell him everything and I'll beg his forgiveness and I'll offer any reparations he'll accept-"
And he would accept. He would forgive. Merlin had seen that, in every move King Arthur made, heard it in every word he said.
"What a pathetic worm you are!" she sneered. "You deserve death, and nothing so neat or swift as burning at the stake! As if your death was nothing more than justice."
A sword suddenly appeared in her hand; she hoisted it, striding toward him with intent. He was frozen in place, held by enchantment and poison and malevolence – but he was unafraid. Arthur told him, You'll get back – I remember it happening, and he trusted Arthur with his life.
It was time, and past time, to trust him with the truth. To face danger together, and not go haring off on his own, trusting luck or destiny rather than his king.
"It doesn't have to be like this," he whispered to her, pleading. "We can find another way."
"I don't want another way." She smirked. "This was the best idea I've ever had. You're so weak and stupid like this, I can do anything I like with you." She drew back the sword, clearly aiming to stab him right through the gut.
"It can't work," he told her.
She froze in place, searching his eyes, and maybe it was the strength of his conviction that forcibly stayed her hand.
"Listen," he added, and meant the word with his whole being. "You can't kill me. Arthur and the knights, they remember when I returned, back to the past and my proper time. The very fact that I've been here the last ten years to stop you again and again means you can't kill me. Those things have already happened, even if I haven't done them yet. Don't you see? Your plan can't work."
"It already has," she snapped, but the sword drooped in her hand. "You're here, aren't you? I'm not going to send you home because you asked nicely…"
"No, I – I think, that's what my older self is doing, back in my time."
Isn't that what they told him? Your older self, our Merlin, he'll do the spell that gets you back. The ritual. But evidently he'd never said that he'd killed Morgana, so – wasn't there a chance she'd listen and relent?
"You know," she said, adjusting her grip on the hilt and hefting it and damn if it didn't remind him a little bit of Arthur. "I'm extremely tired of you pretending like we can all be friends if we just talk about it, and then using some sneaky bit of deceptive magic to push me off, just enough. You never will face me, and fight."
"I don't want to kill you," his mouth said, all on its own, and it was the truth.
Her face twisted, marble-smooth and full blood lips, into skeletal ashen parchment sagging over wan hollows. "I've wanted to kill you since the first time you tried to kill me. I've wanted it to take a very long time, I've wanted to see you realize you were dying and there was nothing you could do to save yourself, and no one cared."
Abruptly she shoved the sword forward.
He felt it, sharp and hot and impossible, inside him. He gripped the flat of the blade between his palms, trying to hold it as still as possible, minimizing the damage, stilling the moment in time. Don't even draw it back out – that will hurt more, it'll bleed and bleed and bleed-
She yanked it out, and half his life with it. Half his strength, half his consciousness. Pain cut him in half, dissociating him from his legs, and only magic held him up.
Avidly she set the tip to his navel, eyes wide and teeth bared in a gasp of pure pleasure at whatever she saw on his face. His fingers fumbled weakly to stop her – a whimper escaped him – and she pushed the hilt forward a second time.
Skin and muscle and flesh resisted – and tore helplessly. All his insides liquified and dripped down inside him, hotter than hot. He felt the tear in the muscle of his back, excruciating agony.
Damn... it. Arthur - sorry, so sorry...
The skin of his hands parted on the blade again and again, fluttering ineffectively in belated and ineffective defense.
She smiled in his face, and twisted the blade with a malicious jerk.
He felt it, the pivoting-slicing movement, but no pain accompanied it, only numb sensation. As if the edge had caught on his clothing and tugged, causing a tear without touching him.
Her expression of gleeful triumph faltered. She looked down-
He looked down. Coiled in her hands was a slender black serpent, torpid and shiny – but writhing in an attempt to retreat from him.
His shirt was grimy and baggy – but whole. There was no blood, and the sharp wrenching in his gut felt more like… hunger after unusual deprivation.
The crypt shrank around them to a much smaller room – twice the size of Gaius' chambers, and similar in appointment. But dirty, cluttered and disorganized and uncared-for. And the distant thud of besieging weaponry echoed in reality.
"Oh," Merlin said, surprised.
Morgana backed away from him, eyes still wide but mirthless and shocked, shoulders hunching forward in protection of the snake nestled in her hands.
Merlin touched his belly, exploring unbroken skin – reached behind him to feel bruises, but nothing worse.
"Ic the beslean! Geholded! Beslitan thin heorte!" she shrieked spell after spell.
His hands flew out in instinctive defense, though none of her magic seemed to touch him, and he could think of nothing beyond "Scieldan!" And then, tentatively, "Astrice!"
Morgana tripped backwards. It might've been his magic.
Mind and fingers gave a flick! and a glowing fireball leaped to life in his palm. He flung it at her, fully expecting her to block, intending only to whirl and flee, himself-
Maybe to bring down a section of the ceiling as if the external bombardment had caused it – that worked before-
There was a woman just behind him. Dark eyes set close together, and wispy fair hair, and blood and dirt were smeared on her broad plain face. She gestured – there was a small chunk of stone in her upraised fist – Merlin ducked, but pain exploded in the side of his head.
Then, darkness.
…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..
(Past)
The afternoon was clear, and the sun sank slowly toward a thin low bank of clouds at the horizon.
Neither of them, Merlin thought, really wanted to linger in an early evening campsite, for the proximity of the Isle as their goal and destination, and for each other – resting but not asleep and each would feel the pressure for conversation that could turn complicated in a heartbeat. Arthur considered him a stranger and a liar and an evil sorcerer; Merlin couldn't afford to start offending him, or inadvertently tipping details of Arthur's future.
So sunset found them high in the pass, nearly to the obstructed stretch of the narrow path, and then maybe an hour or two further in dwindling light til they could make camp on safer slopes.
And, he believed, the Isle would be deserted when they reached it later tomorrow.
The higher they'd climbed and the narrower the path had dwindled, the edgier Arthur felt behind him. As if maybe he wondered if the plan all along had been to knock him off the side of the mountain into an impenetrable valley forest. The king of Camelot, not attacked by magic or left to be found dead at the hand of a sorcerer by his trailing knights, but simply – disappeared in the mountains.
Merlin didn't try to speak to reassure him, either. Actions were more convincing than words at this point, he thought.
But as they rounded the mountain's curve, the rockfall obscuring the path came into view, and Arthur in his saddle spotted it past Merlin's head at the same time he did.
"I told you," the king growled, irritable at the delay. "There isn't another route."
"Not one for you and your men, no." Merlin cast a glance over his shoulder. The higher they'd climbed, the colder the air felt, the stronger the wind currents around the through the mountains. He was looking forward to rolling in his blanket for the night, but for now all he could do was hike with his hands fisted under his arms.
Arthur frowned, still uncomprehending, but he couldn't dismount and draw the sword at his hip and do anything regrettable in the bare moments the magic would take. He wouldn't. Lifting his palms, Merlin settled his stance and focused his magic.
"Ic abietee thaet stanhol." Merlin spoke the spell aloud, for the king's sake, feeling the magic surge from him like a battering ram, hard and quick and complete in a moment – requiring less exertion, actually, than a slower selecting of each rock individually to knock over the side of the trail.
Loosened chunks of the mountain blasted outward, bowling through thin air, arcing and falling-falling-falling – followed by clouds of clattering pebbles and hurtling clods.
Startled, Arthur's mount whinnied and set its hooves down on the trail in a fast nervous pattern. Saddle leather creaked as Arthur swung out of it, and Merlin's pulse raced with thundering beats at the magnificence of the magic. The feeling of sheer power answering to him, here in the shadow of a mountain that filled the sky, above the valley whose depths were beyond sight.
It was awe-full. Breath-taking. Who am I to wield this – I am no one special…
Arthur took a moment to settle his horse, and if he had anticipated the magic, maybe he could've kept the horse calm instead of spooking his mount with his own reaction.
"Sorry," Merlin said belatedly. He had always been able to soothe his own horse, crossing this pass before. "Maybe I should've said I was going to…"
"We'll go back," Arthur said shortly. "It isn't safe; it's getting dark. Maybe in the morning-"
"No, we can't," Merlin argued. "It'll take longer to reach a safe place for the night, going back, and then this ledge might be blocked again by tomorrow and I've already used the magic to clear it now-"
A wash of pebbles cascaded down the cliff face next to them, bouncing across the path and into the air to fall freely for several more moments. Merlin backed to give Arthur more space to coax the skittish gelding forward.
For all the king had stableboys to care for and tend his horses, he really did know them quite well. He had the chestnut stepping high and nervous but making forward progress in a matter of a few smoothly-spoken sentences and gentle caresses. In the same tone, the sound of the words for the horse but the meaning aimed at Merlin, he added, "I really do think it's a better idea if we return down the-"
More pebbles bounded down, shale sliding loose to break on the path and spray their feet with smaller shards. The horse bumped forward, knocking Arthur off balance, and Merlin instinctively retreated out of the way again.
The edge of the path shifted under his heel, crumbling away and taking his own balance with it. Anywhere else, another half-step back would have been sufficient to regain control, but here – it was a half-step over a terribly long drop. He swung his arms, feeling the pack on his shoulders begin to pull him valley-ward through a helluva lot of thin air.
Magic. Just a nudge.
But in the space between heart-beats, an entirely human dread of falling, and terrible knowledge of the inevitable, exploded in his chest.
The king's eyes widened and he leaped forward, his mouth opening on one frantic word.
A massive updraft whistled the warning of deep empty air through Merlin's ears; he was deafened by his own frightened inhalation, but it looked like-
It looked like-
Like Arthur had shouted his name, lunging to grab him. Mer-lin!
His flailing hand nearly smacked Arthur's face before the king seized a handful of his shirt, bracing against Merlin's weight and the drop, gathering him in by rough handfuls, dragging him back to solid footing. His grip on Merlin's shoulder crushed the healing wound of the hound's teeth, left unbandaged and vulnerable.
"Ow!" Merlin managed, cringing from the contact. His knees felt loose as Arthur manhandled him back to the rising cliffside above them.
The king was white-faced, and furiously unapologetic. "You idiot!" he ground out. "You – bloody idiot! Why don't you watch where you're putting your feet!"
Merlin allowed the insult for the truth, this time. How careless it had been-
Another wash of pebbles was scant warning. They both glanced up as a fold of cliffside above them slipped – like a drift of snow off a warming roof – collapsing into rubble even as it cascaded down toward them.
Onto them…
The horse shrilled its fear, backing as Merlin had but in complete panic – rear hooves already off the path when Arthur lunged again for the loose reins.
Merlin nearly tackled him to keep him from being yanked over the drop to the far valley when the chestnut disappeared in a hail of broken stone and a shrill, blood-freezing scream, shoving him back to the questionable shelter of the cliff-base against the path.
Arthur crouched, shielding his head with his arms. Merlin shielded the rest of him, huddling above his tucked body, Arthur's head in his chest and a shoulder in his belly and the point of the sword in the king's belt at his ankle. They knocked against each other, panting and swearing as the mountain grumbled its inability to crush them, and boulders as big as tombs shuddered over the incorporeal shield.
Bloody… hells. We're going to be buried alive – the whole mountain is coming down-
No, it wasn't, logic and memory argued together. The pass was perfectly fine when he traveled it as a younger man, in ten years' time…
Dust thickened the air as the last of the rocks pounded past them. Arthur breathed against Merlin, releasing one last gasped expletive.
Merlin ventured to drop his arms and straighten-
The path was littered once again with stones of varying sizes in a neat circle around them, any one potentially lethal as it hurtled downward – but it seemed the landslide was done for the moment.
Arthur relaxed his crouch – startled to find Merlin kneeling so close over him, blue eyes wide in a dust-grimed face. But instantly he reached his palm to flatten over the front of Merlin's shirt.
"You hurt?"
"No, I'm all right." Merlin braced himself on the rising wall of rock beside them to get to his feet; his fingers were numb with cold. Arthur turned from him to do the same. "The horse is lost, though."
"Bloody hells," Arthur gritted, glancing over the edge and sounding pale. Merlin's stomach flipped to see him so near the edge, as though one last stray boulder would come bouncing down and take the king with it, like his horse. "You – what you did – why did you-"
"That wasn't me," Merlin retorted defensively. He was shivering and couldn't stop, couldn't reach out and grab Arthur and tuck him back to safety again – it was like watching someone move obliviously too close to something hot or sharp, too quickly to give a verbal warning. "That wasn't because of what I did to clear the path. If I hadn't shielded us-"
"Yes fine all right," Arthur snapped, turning back. Merlin sagged a sigh of relief, and tried to cooperate with Arthur beginning to herd Merlin forward on the path. "That wasn't what I meant, anyway. Let's just – get out of here."
He couldn't move very quickly. His pulse still pounded a frantic assessment of what almost just happened, and he couldn't calm himself down, saying he knew all along it wouldn't be anything like fatal – he knew Arthur made it to the Isle unharmed. Energy drained out of him and he kept close to the mountain side of the path. Can't trip and fall over the edge – even though he knew he didn't trip and fall, not if he completed the ritual of the Faelg at the Isle…
Two more hours til they'd be on the north-east slopes, with a comfortable tumble to a gradual stop still possible, but not likely nor particularly dangerous. Merlin tried to place his feet with caution and haste, and mumbled to himself, "Maybe this is why you don't come back this way…"
Arthur had shown extreme reticence the few other times they'd traveled this pass – moments in Merlin's past and his future. Now Merlin understood a little better – maybe it wasn't for lack of faith in Merlin's assurance and ability to clear the way, but for a very real fear for the safety of themselves and their companions on this path.
"Maybe this is why no one comes this way!" Arthur retorted, so close behind that he brushed and bumped into the pack on Merlin's shoulders. He prodded Merlin's shoulder with his fingers, not ungently. "Pick up the pace, if you can do it without stepping over the edge."
Merlin was only too happy to oblige, as best he could. Get to a safe camp where they could relax. Awkward conversation and uncomfortable silences were going to be a treat, after this.
Arthur's touch on his shoulder lingered, like he was physically shepherding Merlin along the path, and he was only too happy with that, also.