Author's Note: This chapter is also known as "An Exercise in Imagery, Which This Author Struggles Horribly With When Writing Dialogue Is So Much More Fun."
I meant to post this in a few more days, when I had more of Chapter 3 completed. I got far enough along in Chapter 3 today that I don't necessarily fear being trapped in writer's block, soooooo yep. Cheers to a lack of self-control, lol.
Again, any recognizable dialogue is either taken directly from or otherwise repurposed from the episode itself. :)
Arthur knows they've arrived well before Merlin announces it.
Sprawled before them is a round lake whose surface sparkles and dances in the afternoon sunlight. A soaring range of low mountains, ridged in pine and spruce, surrounds them in a nearly perfect half-moon arc, where, at the crest, a glistening waterfall crashes into the lake. Vibrant green foliage dots the banks, and a playful whisper of breeze carries mist from the falls to tickle at Arthur's skin.
The magic of the place tickles even more so. The web of wards and illusionary magic protecting the area brushes at Arthur's awareness like lamb fleece, downy and soft. It is a meeting place of earth and air and water, a sacred place, and the deep, ancient power of the elements thrums against Arthur's heart like notes of a bass drum.
Merlin gapes, an awed smile splitting his face. It makes him look so young, Arthur realizes, and as it has in the past, the fact saddens him, guilt rankling deep within. Merlin so rarely gets to express his joy and excitement about magic in Camelot. Even in private with his friends and Gaius, there is only so much he allows himself to feel and be, for fear of hidden ears and eyes on him.
Turning his delighted grin at Arthur, Merlin casts a nonverbal spell, and Arthur involuntarily flinches at the abrupt and jarring change in the air. The calm isn't shattered, necessarily, but the inherent enthusiasm of Merlin's questing spell stirs the interest of the land itself. It happens often enough that Arthur should expect nothing else, and not for the first time, he speculates that Merlin's magic originates from the same unfiltered source.
"The lake is shallow enough to cross on horseback," Merlin announces as the gold fades from his eyes. The coin Morgause gave him shines between his fingertips. "Our destination lies beyond the caverns behind the waterfall."
"As you say," Arthur says, kneeing his mount forward.
His anticipation climbs as his horse churns through the water. He spent the entire trip forcing himself to think of anything and everything but what he might discover from Morgause. Now, so close, he cannot contain himself any longer.
"What does she have to gain here, Merlin?" he asks over the sound of heavy footfalls in the water.
Merlin's gaze fixates on the waterfall ahead. "I guess it depends on what she shows us," he says.
"She's supposed to be showing us why I have this…ability," Arthur reminds him. "I've been thinking and—"
"Goddess save us all."
"—and for the life of me," Arthur continues, as though Merlin hadn't spoken, "I can't imagine how she'd know to connect what she wants to show me to the ability at all. Or why it would matter to her in the first place."
Merlin swats at a trickle of water Arthur's horse had kicked up from the back of his neck. "I am not so certain her goal is the same as it was three days ago, especially now that we can influence her introduction to Morgana," he says slowly. "But I would expect a surprise, in any case."
A wise one, that Merlin. Arthur rolls his eyes. "That much is a given."
Merlin gives Arthur an unimpressed look. "I'm serious, Arthur. No matter how much faith you have in my abilities, this particular sorceress has years more experience and training on me. I doubt I'll always be as lucky as I was with Nimueh. Please be careful."
Arthur sobers and nods once. The waterfall is close enough that he has to blink water from his eyes.
A teasing note enters Merlin's voice. "And for the love of all that's good, please use your head."
"Shut up, Merlin."
Near the foot of the waterfall, they angle toward the bank. Arthur allows Merlin to lead and follows him up a craggy, overgrown trail to the cavern mouth above. Arthur's skin is slick with droplets of water, and he pushes his hair from his forehead. Merlin squints against the mist, and without a word, his magic spirals up, humming in harmony with that around them. It solidifies into an invisible shield above their heads. As they move forward, the falls cascade into the shield and pour over the sides. Breath caught in his throat, Arthur steps through the space Merlin opened for them.
On the other side of the waterfall, the thrum of magic deepens, reverberating through Arthur's chest. Overhead and all around them, Arthur can track several layers of protective charms against strangers, looters, and lost travelers. The wards overlay each other in a heap, casting a net of enchantment so intricate and majestic it nearly overtakes the grandeur of the ancient towers rising before them. It should look a mess, after so many hands had taken their turn to weave so many different patterns, some weakening with age and others wrought to reinforce previous faults, but it's….
"Amazing," he breathes. Without thinking, he pulls off his glove and offers his hand to Merlin. He flaps his fingers eagerly, in a beckoning gesture.
They don't do this often. Merlin can sense certain magics and sacred land in his own right, but…Well, Merlin can only learn so much from Gaius, and there's only so much information in the few books he keeps hidden under his floorboards.
Arthur only offers this when he thinks it's worth it. Merlin rarely asks, but Arthur also knows his friend's been very keen on learning how to expand and strengthen his ward-casting.
(Arthur, for obvious and selfish reasons, has absolutely no qualms encouraging this particular field of study).
So he offers. Merlin takes his hand, and a full-body shudder possesses both of them as Merlin's magic—gently, oh so gently—trickles between their joined palms. It nearly knocked the pair of them out the first time they tried this, but through trial and error and sheer force of will, they learnt how to avoid overwhelming the other.
For the most part, anyway. It's an imperfect system, with an arguable balance between cost and reward that depends on a multitude of incomparable variables they haven't been able to qualify or explain.
As always, it takes a moment for Merlin to open his eyes. When he does, Arthur points and casts his Sense as broadly as he can. "You see?"
Merlin scans the sky, studying the same network of patterns Arthur had, eyes alight and glittering gold. "I think so," he breathes. His crooked grin is full of excitement. Arthur can see the inspiration and ideas gathering in his head.
Arthur lets Merlin take in what he can, attempting to ignore the sweeping wings of magic emanating through Merlin and soaring up into the sky, flying high amongst the fortress' turrets and amongst the boughs of the tallest trees. It takes Arthur with it. His head is just starting to go woozy and fuzzy with vertigo when Merlin reins in and drops his hand.
"Arthur?" Merlin's worried voice breaks through the wool stuffed in Arthur's ears. "Arthur!"
Arthur trembles through an exhale, shaking his head. After another large, full breath, he feels more steady on his feet, more rooted to the ground now that Merlin's hand and magic are no longer directly touching him. He's not lying when he says, "Give over. I'm fine."
"You promised you'd tell me," Merlin reminds him. His expression is both stern and wrought with guilt. "I'm sorry."
"It's the least I can do," Arthur murmurs under his breath. "The very least, Merlin."
Merlin scowls at him. "We're about to face a High Priestess, Arthur! We can't have you—"
"I just said I'm fine," is Arthur's retort. In fact, now that he thinks about it, he feels rejuvenated and more clear-headed than he had when entering the clearing, with its complicated nets of enchantment. "Worth it, if you learned something."
"I think I figured out what I'm doing wrong with the citadel wards I've been working on," Merlin admits, shrugging one shoulder. "Won't know for sure until we get back to Camelot."
"Worth it," Arthur repeats, kneeing his horse forward. "Coming, then?"
Merlin mutters something unflattering under his breath but follows without complaint. Arthur feels his servant's eyes on him with each step they take, and he tries not to resent being treated like glass. He's not an invalid.
They approach the old fortress at a moderate pace, and when they find an entrance, they dismount and leave the horses where they stand without tethering. They do not tend to stray far with a little encouragement from Merlin.
Forgoing any further petty thoughts about Merlin's mother-henning, Arthur climbs the roughly hewn stairs and enters a courtyard of stone and ivy, hand resting on the hilt of his sword. Inside, the walls are cold in their windowless uniformity, and as Arthur looks around, all he sees is a single, solid support column and another set of stairs leading up into the fortress proper.
It's a lonely place. Arthur's skin squirms, and as he adjusts his focus, he can feel the bass drum of sensation within his chest vibrating even more richly and fully, deep within. It unnerves and calms him in equal measure. He isn't sure if he's more glad to find this place abandoned or if he's more sad that it isn't living up to the potential it must have had in decades past.
"You've come."
Arthur spins again to find Morgause standing at the top of the staircase, dressed in a gown of diamond and maroon. She peers down at them like an owl, blinking as though she can't decide whether to be intrigued by their presence…or if they're meant to be eaten for dinner.
"I said I would," Arthur says simply.
Morgause hums. She waves and turns, stepping back the way she'd come. "I have everything prepared, if you'll follow me."
Arthur exchanges a look with Merlin before doing as he's told. Morgause leads them down several crumbling corridors before ducking through an archway and descending yet another flight of stairs. The resonance in Arthur's chest grows with every step. He pushes aside a curtain of ivy Morgause just passed through and finds himself hesitating, eyes wide as he peers into an impossible room.
It is carpeted in thick, soft grass, with a stone altar dominating the area. Its presence alone emanates a sense of age and ages long forgotten. Candles dot the weathered altar's surface, their wax perfect and smooth despite the fact each wick is lit. Large stone braziers cradle balls of fire as well, casting a warm glow across numerous draperies of vines and creepers.
But that is hardly what stopped Arthur in his tracks. Columns support no ceiling Arthur can see. Instead, they hold aloft a storm-clouded night sky, one that distinctly contrasts with the sunny afternoon sky they left behind in the courtyard.
"What is this place?" Arthur whispers, finally stepping out into the lush grass.
"Even we do not know," Morgause admits, dark eyes scanning the seemingly endless sky. "Some assume it was once meant to hold rituals welcoming the end of winter and celebrating the rebirth of the earth come springtime." She frowns. "I think it is something more. I think here, we could celebrate all life and all death; all those who have come before and all those who will come after."
Spiders of wonder and unease alike scuttle down Arthur's spine. "And what do you propose to show me in such a place?"
Morgause draws her gaze away from the sky. "It was by mere chance that I discovered what I am about to show you, Arthur Pendragon. Nimueh was always…frustratingly close-lipped about her time in Camelot. She did not like me questioning her about it, and she did not tolerate any of the others mentioning she had any association or ties to your kingdom in the first place."
Arthur stiffens, uncomprehending. "What does Nimueh have to do with this?"
"Everything," Morgause says softly. "She began to slip, at the end. Or perhaps she was always mad. I cannot know. All I know is this: months before she died, Nimueh forswore a decades-old oath she made to herself and the Triple Goddess. Around the same time, Uther Pendragon announced a celebration—a festival, a feast —for the twentieth anniversary of the Purge."
Arthur does not bow his head, though he wishes he could. Morgause's eyes do not hide the blame she lies at his feet. He feels sick to his stomach.
"I did not realize there was a larger correlation there. Not until much later. I might never have seen it, if not for…well. In her, I saw everything I wished I could be. When I was young, I wanted to be her." She sighs. "She was the best of us, once."
"I wish things had been different," Merlin murmurs.
The look Morgause flashes at him is…not exactly contemptuous. It surprises Arthur. He expected daggers in her eyes. "Nimueh made her choices," Morgause says instead. "I finally saw why she made hers, once I pieced together the truth. I also believe I see why you made yours, Emrys, though it took me these three days and hours of meditation to even begin to understand."
"I don't understand," Arthur deadpans. "Why am I here, Morgause? You speak of my ability and then Nimueh as though I should see the connection. What do you need to show me?"
Morgause regards him calmly and continues without directly answering. "It took these three days for me to decide. Nimueh's battle is not my own. What she revealed to me, in scattered pieces and wild mutterings; what I discovered myself…I wanted to use this knowledge against you, Arthur Pendragon. I wanted to use it to your disadvantage. I wanted to cripple you, your father, and Camelot's very heart in a single blow."
She says it so matter-of-factly. Arthur feels as though he's a plank of wood and each word Morgause speaks is a nail, thudding into place and holding fast. They are not aimed to hurt, but still they land exactly as they are meant to. He accepts the hammer blows, detached and emotionless. "And now?" he asks, because what could have been is not nearly as important as what is happening now.
Morgause's eyes flutter closed. "Now?" she mutters, almost to herself. "Now, I do not know what this knowledge will do. I do not know how you will react, and I do not care to use your reaction for anyone's benefit, least of all my own. I will not take up Nimueh's suicidal quest for revenge nor will I take part in manipulating you for my own ends or anyone else's 'greater good,' not when I know now that you yourself, Arthur Pendragon, may already be all we need and more."
It's as honest a declaration of loyalty as Arthur ever heard from another sorcerer and equally as discomfiting. When Morgause opens her eyes, he sees it too—her renewed hope, her tentative faith—and he knows.
Gods, it will never get easier, will it? As prince, Arthur is used to vows of fealty. He expects them of his knights and the noble families sworn to House Pendragon. It is somehow different when it comes from someone unexpected, and Arthur very pointedly doesn't look at Merlin. Sometime later, he knows Merlin will tease him for feeling so uncomfortable. Lord knows Arthur has teased him often enough for the same reason.
"I believe you," Arthur says.
Profound relief warms Morgause's face. She casts a brief look toward Merlin, who hides a proud and approving smile, before asking, "Now that you know what I meant to do, you still wish to have this knowledge?"
"Yes," Arthur answers without the slightest hesitation. "It isn't just about me anymore, is it? If you believed this information could have harmed Camelot…I can't allow a single one of us to be blindsided by it."
A dry smile quirks at Morgause's lips. "Again, I find myself unsurprised." She gestures to the altar of candles and light. "Would you trust my word alone? Or would you rather…?"
"I would have you show me what you meant to show me the day you came to Camelot," Arthur interrupts determinately. "Before you knew about me and Merlin. Exactly that. No less."
Morgause surveys him critically. "You may regret this choice, Pendragon."
Arthur shakes his head, brow furrowed with determination. "I won't."
Again, Morgause looks to Merlin, as though seeking permission. Or, perhaps not so much permission as verification. Merlin merely grimaces at her and shrugs as if to say neither you nor I will convince him otherwise.
"As you wish," Morgause says. She takes a deep breath. "This secret is one that was kept from you from birth. To my knowledge, only three people knew of it: Nimueh, Uther Pendragon, and your mother, the lady Ygraine. Your court physician…I only guess he is the fourth. I have no proof."
At the mention of his mother, Arthur freezes in place. Before he can speak, Morgause circles him, then the altar, the train of her dress trailing after her in a ripple of silk. "Discounting the physician, two of these are dead," she whispers. "The other…the other will never tell you of his own free will, I suspect, since he has not already." Her dark eyes pierce Arthur from across the altar. "In this place, the veil between worlds is thin. Life, death; rebirth, destruction; light, darkness…We stand on a precipice of complete balance between polar opposites. With the right incantation, and with the right person in attendance, I can coax spirits to breach the veil, assuming they, too, wish to come to my call."
It takes a moment for Arthur to understand what Morgause is offering. But it can be nothing else. Merlin steps forward, eyes intent on Morgause. He's pale, lips tight.
"Are you saying…?" Arthur croaks. He clears his throat and tries again. "Are you saying you can summon my mother? I can—" His tongue feels leaden in his mouth, his heart hollow and aching. His head whirls, even more so than earlier, when he shared in Merlin's magic to help him study the wards outside. "I can see her?"
Morgause nods, a mere jerk of the head. "I can only do this for you once."
Arthur closes his eyes and takes a steadying breath. "And it is her? It isn't…"
"It is no illusion," Morgause says. "No trick. But it is only a fraction of her true self that you will see and speak to. A mirror image of who she was, a mirage of who she will never be again. She will only come to perform the duty I ask of her, assuming she comes at all. No more."
"And what will you ask of her?" Arthur breathes. Intention is the most important aspect of magic, but words matter in the language of the Old Religion. A mispronunciation or improper word can broker disaster. A spell spoken aloud must be exact and precise in order to work. Even inflection matters. Merlin learns fast, of course, but at the beginning, Arthur had seen him struggle through new spells often enough to know that the more powerful a spell, the more likely things could go wrong if you didn't dictate it correctly.
And this is surely a powerful spell.
"To help you understand," Morgause responds.
Arthur gives Merlin a look, directing a wordless question with a single raised eyebrow. Merlin speaks a few words in the Old Tongue, and Morgause nods. "Yes. Exactly that." She cocks her head. "You are self taught, Emrys?"
Merlin nods absently and says to Arthur, "It will work."
Morgause's expression darkens with hurt pride for just a moment, but she soon smooths her expression, muttering indistinctly under her breath. Neither Arthur nor Merlin make anything of it. Of course a High Priestess would take offense to a half-trained sorcerer looking to criticize and critique her spell-casting. That she chose not to address the affront is what Arthur will remember.
"It is no easy thing you are offering to do for Arthur, Morgause," Merlin says suddenly. "Even a full circle of Priestesses would struggle to hold the spell for long. I can help, if you want. I can lend you my strength to prolong the visitation."
Morgause blinks, startled by the offer. It looks to Arthur as though she is on the brink of accepting before she changes her mind and shakes her head ruefully. "As much as I appreciate it, Emrys, I do not think it will be safe. Your magic may draw too many interested eyes from beyond the veil."
"Ah," Merlin says simply. "Yeah, I trust you're right. That may not be wise. Especially with, um…"
Nimueh, Arthur realizes. That's who he's thinking of. If Morgause was to be believed and Nimueh was close to this secret, too, for whatever reason…
"Quite," Morgause agrees dryly. "You may stand ready, if you wish. The summoning of one spirit is dangerous enough. If a soul has not found peace, it can prove uncontrollable, even with someone it loves more dearly than any other in the room with it."
Merlin nods in understanding and steps back against the wall, to Arthur's right. Always to his right. Not for the first time, Arthur is grateful to him. He's not sure he could have done this alone, no matter how much he wanted it.
"Are you ready, Prince Arthur?" Morgause asks.
Arthur has to work over the lump in his throat before answering. Gods, this is happening. This is actually happening. I'm about to meet my mother. I'm about to learn why I am what I am. Anticipation and fear and hope lance through his veins. "I am."
"Brace yourself, Arthur," Merlin says.
That is all the warning Arthur receives before Morgause's eyes glow burnished gold. Her voice becomes a rush of indistinct noise in his ears, her words lost to him. The unnatural wind that churns through the room overpowers all else, the thud-dud-thud-dud of his heartbeat pounding in the same cadence as that of the magic around him, growing louder and louder and—
He is numb with cold. His fingers pulse with it, his limbs brittle as thin ice. Each blink is a trial. His breath comes in short, sharp gasps, becoming shallower and shallower as the thud-dud against his heart slows, slows, slows.
Time slows. The pattern of the wind around him shifts, ever so. Arthur recognizes the sensation distantly, far more caught up in the suffocating, terrifying well of intensifying cold washing over him. The smell and sensation of wet earth presses against him, comfortably heavy on his chest. There is a void within and around him, stark and empty against the horrible and peaceful and fearfully seductive magic in the air. It sings a lullaby to him, beckoning with skeletal fingers, tugging him down into its embrace.
He isn't sure he's breathing. The last breath he took was so shallow, so pitiful and weak, he cannot be sure he—
He can sleep, here in this realm of cold and dark earth. He can close his eyes and allow himself to…
Drift.
In between one shuddering breath and the next, the void is no longer so close, so immediate, and Arthur is left quaking without it there. A dreadful dose of fear strikes him like a crossbow bolt, sending his heart racing back to normal speeds and beyond. He immediately seeks his warlock's magic out like a moth to flame, aching for its life and warmth, for it alone can fill the horrible, awesome cracks Morgause's spell had left behind. It alone can dispel some of the enticing cold freezing his marrow.
"Arthur."
Arthur breathes. Once. Twice. With each breath, he soaks in a little more of Merlin's inner sunshine, and finally, when he can stand it, he opens his eyes.
Before him stands a beautiful woman with hair as gold as cornsilk, eyes blue and sparkling with tears. Her hair is done up and styled as though she is to attend court, her dress as pale a gold as her hair.
She is stunning, more stunning than any portrait Arthur had ever seen of her. No artist had been able to capture that dimple in her cheek. None had so much as understood the softness in her face when she smiled.
Arthur understands now. Because Ygraine Pendragon stands before him, and she smiles. She smiles at him.
He forgets the taste of death on his tongue, the void awaiting him and all mortal men on the other side of the veil. He forgets all of the magic in the room and stares.
"Mother," he whispers finally, eyes burning.
"My son."
It stuns Arthur stupid when her frigid, pale arms wrap around him. Gut-churning, enticing magic lingers in her touch and in the air. He suppresses a shudder, his reaction a dichotomy of desire and inherent horror. He fights the urge to recoil away and empty his stomach. He wants to stand there in her embrace and enjoy it for as long as he can, his ability and sensitivity to her presence be damned.
"When I last held you," Ygraine murmurs into his shoulder, "you were a tiny baby." She laughs, bright and whole, and pulls him closer. "Those few seconds holding you, my love…those were the most precious of my life. And now look at you. Look at how you've grown."
It kills him to do it, but he has to draw away first, unable to tolerate the nausea flipping his stomach inside out any longer. His tears fall, streaking lines down his travel-filthy face. His skin stings, oversensitive wherever she'd been touching him, and it is unfair. So very unfair.
"I'm sorry," he blurts wetly. He doesn't know exactly what he's apologizing for. For pulling away, for the fact his birth resulted in her death…he doesn't know. It takes every ounce of courage in him to keep his voice steady. "I'm so sorry, I can't…"
Ygraine lowers her arms and smiles at him. She is crying openly too. "Shush, my heart," she says. "There is nothing to be sorry for."
Arthur swallows roughly. "My birth," he finally voices in a rasp. "It…"
"You are not to blame," Ygraine says, both soft and stern. Her eyes glimmer with love, fierce and overwhelming in its strength. "Never you."
Arthur struggles to collect himself, emotion threatening to throttle him. He picks apart her words, remembering why it was he is speaking to her at all, and takes a deep breath. "I don't think I can accept that so easily, even coming from you," he admits. "If I wasn't born, you'd be alive."
"And the entire world would be all the poorer for it, my son," Ygraine argues. "Please believe that, at least. You are worth every sacrifice."
Sacrifice. The word triggers a fish hook of dread to yank at his insides, tearing flesh and emotion along with it. He goes cold again, and it has nothing to do with the magic in the air.
"What do you mean?" he asks, unable to recognize his own voice. Sacrifice, she said. Thoughts of Nimueh, of the Cup of Life, of Merlin and Hunith and Gaius and the Questing Beast, of Morgause's warnings and explanations of what this place is—they whirl in his head like a typhoon, not a single one sticking around long enough for him to comprehend the full shape of what he thinks he's beginning to suspect.
"You have to understand, love," Ygraine says tenderly. "Your father and I didn't fully understand what we were agreeing to. Nimueh was young, too, new to the tenets and rules of the Old Religion."
The Old Religion demands a sacrifice.
Suspicion becomes realization becomes truth, and Arthur feels his heart sinking to his knees. "No," he gasps. He shakes his head. "No."
"Your father and I yearned for a child," Ygraine says, speaking over him. "But I could not conceive. We both agreed to go to Nimueh to ask for her help. For an heir, for a baby, for our you."
"No," Arthur repeats, more firmly. He looks up at his mother. Her eyes are wide and pleading. She is so very young. Younger, he believes, than Merlin is now, if not of an age. "You…" His mouth is dry as tanned leather. "You didn't. Tell me you didn't. "
The implications are too profound, too horrible to comprehend. He wishes it were not real, that none of this was happening, that he wasn't beginning to crave ignorance once more.
Unbidden memories tackle him without warning. He remembers his father, drunk, telling him he cannot trust magic, for it was magic that killed his mother.
We lost her to magic, his father said, when he was no more than thirteen. Magic is to blame.
He remembers his father overlooking dozens upon dozens of charred pyres, not a glimmer of regret in his eye.
Magic is to blame.
He remembers feeling their magic burn with them.
Magic is to blame. It always is.
Ygraine smiles sadly. "For a life to be given, one must be taken. And I would give my life a thousand times over for you, Arthur."
"You're telling me," Arthur extrapolates, and he feels disconnected from himself, his words taking life of their own, "the reason I am like this, the reason I have this ability, is because I was born of magic."
When Ygraine says nothing, he grits his teeth. Every last one of his seams tears violently at the silent admission, and he startles himself with a humorless laugh. Destiny, he thinks, half-crazed with grief and spite, is nothing but the bloody whoreson of Irony and God.
He spits his next question out, his tone dark and grim and full of restrained fury. "You're telling me the reason Purge began at all was because you and Father meddled with a power you didn't understand? Because Father couldn't handle the consequences of your ignorance? Because of me?"
Ygraine's tears glisten in the firelight, and her form wavers. "I am so sorry, my love. Please. Please. You are not to blame for any of this. Not you. Never you."
Arthur sobs another laugh. It hardly sounds like his own. He feels as though he's falling into a bottomless well, nothing but wind rushing up to meet him. "Then who is to blame, Mother?"
Ygraine doesn't answer. She doesn't need to. Her expression is complicated, wrent with disappointment, frustration, and many regrets. Instead, she reaches out and touches his cheek. He doesn't flinch away. He crumbles into the touch, no matter that her deathly chill and the magic holding her here seeps into him like an insidious parasite.
"Listen to me, little Wart," she whispers, and he starts. He hasn't heard that nickname in many years, not since he was old enough to sit upon a horse for the first time. Hearing it from his mother shakes him to his core. "Whatever game fate is playing with you…It was never our intention for you to inherit our mistakes, much less our sins. What you have, what you are—it is a gift. You are a gift."
Arthur can't respond with more than a furious shake of his head, and finally, desperately, he jerks away. "Gift? No. I am not worth the price we paid," he whispers. "I am not worth the lives he took in your name."
For the first time since he saw his mother standing before him, he turns to look over his shoulder at Merlin. Merlin's eyes are moist, his shoulders quaking and expression twisted in sympathy.
No. Not sympathy. Empathy.
It spears him straight through.
I'm so sorry, he tells his friend without saying a word. Arthur can hardly look him in the eye, he is so ashamed. So terribly ashamed. More than that, he is sickened. Horrified. His guilt is a physical thing, like a lump of iron just pulled from the forge and burning yellow-white in his chest. I am so, so sorry.
The sound and sensation of wind rustling thousands of dead leaves trembles against Arthur's Sense, and the creeping cold burrows and nuzzles into his skin. His instincts tell him he has little time left. The integrity of the spell is beginning to weaken. Morgause is losing strength.
Ygraine must know it too. She draws herself up. "Do not let this knowledge change you, Arthur," she says, fierce as a warrior. "I am so very proud of you, just as you are. You will change the world." Her gaze flicks behind him, to Merlin, and the smile there is for both of them. "You already have done."
No, Arthur disagrees, his guilt flaring again, No, I haven't done a damn thing except live on the sufferance of Destiny.
He doesn't want that to be the last thing he says to his mother, so he says, "I love you."
"As do I you, dear heart."
The magic in the air…ceases. It is there, and then it is not. The cold disappears just as abruptly, and Arthur sways, his entire body breaking out into an immediate sweat. His skin feels as though it's been flayed away. Nausea clenches at his stomach, and his knees buckle underneath him as his vision swims with sparkling white and black dots.
"Arthur!"
Merlin's hands are steady and strong, and Arthur's face burns with mortification as his servant helps him back to his feet. He tries to brush Merlin away once he's regained his footing, but Merlin ignores him, standing just near enough that if Arthur needed someone to support him, he would be right there waiting for him.
The lump in Arthur's throat is so swollen and large, he doesn't think he will ever speak again without crying like a babe.
Everything in the impossible room feels gray and dreary, its inherent magic sapped away. Arthur cannot tell if it's a repercussion of the spell Morgause cast, or if it's just him, with his accursed gift.
Self-loathing and rage froths like seafoam in his breast, his temper surging with it. With a grimace, he stands straight and steps away from Merlin, once again shrugging out of his touch.
Morgause slumps against the wall, her furrowed forehead beaded with sweat. She looks as though she's about to be ill, too. Without a word, Merlin steps around Arthur to approach the sorceress. He whispers something to her. Arthur doesn't hear. He doesn't think he cares. He only vaguely senses the energy transfer between them, the magic of it singing in somewhat the same way magical healing does in his ears.
"Arthur?" Merlin asks gently, once he has finished helping Morgause. "Are you…?"
He lets the question trail off, and Arthur appreciates it. He isn't sure how to answer any question about his general health or sanity right now.
Arthur doesn't dare look at his friend. He offers a slight nod to Morgause, who returns the farewell with a wordless bow of her head. "I will keep my word regarding Morgana," he says to her. "And I thank you."
He doesn't wait for a response. He knows Morgause will collect, eventually. "Fetch the horses," he says in Merlin's general direction without preamble. "We're returning to Camelot."
Chapter 3 is a work in progress. I'm hoping to post in another week or two max! Thanks for reading. :)
Oz out.
