IDOM
Warnings: Language, gore, and mild character death, AU after season three, possibly slight AU before then (nothing crazy), hints of MerlinxArthur, ArthurxGwen, and MerlinxGwen (i.e. MerlinxArthurxGwen) but nothing solid (yet lmao)
Prologue:
Morgana clutched her sister's hand, afraid to squeeze too hard for fear the frail fingers would crack under the pressure. "Sister," she whispered, tears forming in her eyes. Morgause had lain insensible for weeks; it was all Morgana could do to keep her alive. "Please don't leave me," she begged, feeling like a child.
Morgause had shown her what it meant to be strong, to not know fear. And she loved the older woman for that—she didn't know if she could bear to part from her. Except, Morgause wasn't getting better.
They sat in a dim, dark room, lit only by a few candles. Though Morgana had tried to air it out, it smelled of sweat and human waste. Morgause lay motionless in the bed, her soft breaths the only indicator she still lived.
Sister, a voice spoke into her mind. It was faint, like a bare finger of wind. I use my last strength to speak with you, so listen well.
"No," Morgana sobbed. "No. You can't leave me." She had worn the same dress for days now, caring for her sister. Morgause's body didn't so much as twitch.
Listen! Morgause commanded. It is my last wish to see you queen, Morgana, and all who have harmed you dead.
"I cannot do so without you," Morgana pleaded.
You can. You're intelligent, powerful, and ruthless—a winning combination. And I will tell you how. I shall not leave you without resources, and I know you will do better than to squander them. Her voice had grown stronger, alive with vigor; this was in contrast to the deathly pallor of her cheeks, the motionless of her limbs and face.
"I will not squander them," Morgana said, trying to push steel into her voice—but it sounded brittle, like it would crumble with a touch. Morgause would not live long. "Tell me what I need to know."
You will be a wonderful queen. What should've been yours by birthright you will win through conquest. Uther and his spawn will be reduced to shadows during your rule. Our army may have been defeated, but there is always a way to garner forces, if you only know how…
After Morgause died, Morgana buried her at the Isle of the Blessed. It was fitting for a High Priestess. And though Morgause had never technically been ordained, there was no one left to give the title to her. But Morgana knew she deserved it.
The heat of the day bore down on her, making her sweat through her black gown—black for mourning, black for revenge. Her eyes were dark as she regarded the freshly-churned earth. They were dry; she had cried her fill.
"I will raze Camelot to the ground," she vowed to her sister's grave. Ruins of once-great structures—made hazy by the isle's heavy magic—stood silent as witnesses. "And I shall bring forth a new kingdom from its ashes: a kingdom of magic. I will be its queen, sister. Not just for myself, but for you. For us all." Trembling, she watched the grave, hoping that somewhere Morgause had heard her.
Chapter One: The Sluagh
There's something wrong with Merlin, Arthur thought as he watched his manservant crouch by the hearth to start the fire. It wasn't the usual "wrong" things the prince often associated with Merlin: he wasn't abnormally cheerful, saying idiotic things, or rambling at top speed. In fact, the thing that was wrong was the absence of those things.
Arthur didn't think he'd ever miss the boy's inane prattle, but here he was, missing it. He'd tried all day to pry it out of Merlin, the whatever-it-was, but his manservant had perfected the art of using as many words as possible to say precisely nothing. It was infinitely more frustrating than trying to get him to shut up, though both were equally impossible.
Arthur grasped his goblet. Could it have been some kind of… girl? Had a wench broken his heart? Had something happened to his mother? Arthur had tried to tell himself that it didn't matter, that there wasn't any reason for him to be involved in or care about Merlin's private life. He was a prince. But he supposed it was his business if Merlin wasn't performing his duties adequately.
Except, the thing was—Merlin performed his duties just as well (or as poorly) as ever. Still. He wanted to know what had created the circles underneath his manservant's eyes, his hunched-in look. Sometimes, Merlin had bouts of melancholy, but this had lasted a week. A whole week of nothing but "yes, sire"s and silence. It was infuriating. At first, Arthur had thought he'd done something to offend him, but Merlin was usually very clear when he felt Arthur was in the wrong.
So all that left was something else. But what?
"Has Gaius been busy lately?" he asked casually, sipping his wine.
Merlin glanced up from the fireplace. "No more than usual." He stood, wiping his slightly ashy fingers on his trousers. Gentle flame lapped at the wood, and Merlin began stacking Arthur's dishes; he'd take them when he left. His eyes were rimmed with red, and his skin seemed paler than normal, if that were possible. He nearly tripped over his own feet as he moved to straighten Arthur's desk.
And if that wasn't just the most forthcoming answer. Usually, Merlin would use every available moment to talk about castle gossip or visiting nobles. Sometimes, if Arthur had to make a speech and was bogged down with other duties, he'd write one (and if Merlin knowing how to read and write hadn't been the biggest shock of Arthur's life, he didn't know what was).
The prince's irritation built as Merlin puttered around the room. "You're not going to take my ear off about how overworked you are?" Arthur demanded. "No 'you made me go up five flights of stairs three times today, and my legs ache'? No 'I had to make Gaius potions and somehow also polish your armor and do your laundry all at the same time'? No anything?"
If Merlin's apprentice and servant work combined was interfering with his health, Arthur was capable of lightening the load for him. And he'd done it before, in times when bad sicknesses struck the lower town or citadel. There were other servants who could take over some of his duties.
But all Merlin did was watch him with bruised eyes, almost as though he hadn't even heard him. "If that will be all?" he asked, looking for dismissal.
"No, that will not be all, Merlin," Arthur said. "Put the plates down." The manservant looked down at his arms, as if realizing for the first time that he'd picked up all of Arthur's dishes. But he did as his master bade with a clatter (fortunately they were sturdy plates). "And sit."
Merlin sat.
Arthur stared at him. He'd been Arthur's servant longer than anyone else—and, admitted only in the quiet spaces of his mind, he'd also been Arthur's friend longer than anyone else. The prince shared most things with his servant, especially when those things were bothering him. And although Merlin often complained, Arthur had not once heard him discuss his own private matters, the way the prince often did.
He wasn't sure why that was, exactly. Their difference in station? But Merlin disregarded that nearly every day. Something else—a matter of trust? The prince didn't know.
"Now, what is wrong with you?" Arthur asked, gesturing at him. "Apart from the usual, that is." He said it to lighten the mood, to perhaps goad Merlin into entering some semblance of normal.
But the manservant, of course, was as impertinent as ever and refused to insult him back.
"I don't know what you mean," he said, and ever word sounded exhausted. It made Arthur tired just to listen to him.
"You do. So talk." Arthur leaned back, taking another sip of his wine. "Something is clearly on your mind. Maybe that's the issue; you're so used to emptiness that even the slightest thought bothers you." His manservant couldn't ignore something like that, could he? He'd have to banter back.
But again, Merlin proved he didn't have to adhere to Arthur's expectations.
"Yes, that must be it." His blue eyes darted away from Arthur's, and it reminded the prince of the way an animal might dart away if it felt it was in danger. But Merlin had to know there was no danger here.
For a moment, Arthur thought about trying to cheer him up like he might one of his knights. But he liked to think he'd learned something from his let's-dump-water-on-Merlin and hit-his-arm days; he couldn't treat Merlin the same as his knights because Merlin wasn't a knight.
"No, that is not it," Arthur said. "Merlin, you've been acting odd—odder than usual, that is—all week." He wanted to know what was wrong, help fix it. He found he couldn't admit those things aloud, however. Merlin and his relationship always seemed to work better without those sorts of declarations.
And not just because he found them uncomfortable.
"It's nothing, Arthur," Merlin said, and the prince was relieved to know that at least his manservant still knew his master's name. "I just—haven't been sleeping well." Arthur couldn't tell if it was truth or not.
"And instead of asking Gaius for a sleeping draught, you've decided to lie listlessly these past seven nights?" Arthur asked.
"So what if I have?" Merlin challenged.
"I want to know why. You're not—" Well. Acting normal. Yourself. With so many descriptors, it was hard to choose one—and choose one that didn't reveal an overt concern. "You're practically falling asleep on the job. Which I suppose isn't that far from your normal work ethic, but it's getting out of hand."
"Well, I haven't fallen asleep. You can complain about me when I've actually done something," Merlin said, standing. "And if there's nothing else you wanted to discuss…"
"Was it that I insulted you?" Arthur pressed. "Somebody else, perhaps?"
"No one's insulted me," Merlin denied. He began to gather the dishes again. "I'm fine, Arthur."
Arthur wanted to drum his fingers on the table, a tick he'd forced himself out of years ago. He debated ordering his servant to sit back down. "You're clearly not fine." Perhaps another approach was in order. "Has something happened to your mother?" Maybe he'd answer specific questions more readily.
"Not that I know of," Merlin said. "She seemed well enough in her last letter." That was surprising—Arthur had assumed Gaius had taught Merlin to read and write, but he supposed it must have been Hunith if she was learned enough to pen letters.
"And there is—nothing else?"
Merlin summoned a smile, a far cry from the one he usually wore. "Nothing. Now—" He lifted up his full hands. "I have chores to do, if you've no further need of me, my lord."
"Fine. You're dismissed." Arthur waved his hand as Merlin left. He couldn't be bothered to try and weasel whatever it was out of his manservant any more than he already had. He knew when a battle was lost.
But he would find out. Eventually.
It was nice to know Arthur cared. No, really—it was. Under different circumstances, Merlin would've been secretly delighted and spent time teasing Arthur (gently, because his master was difficult about feelings) about it.
But now?
Merlin dodged around a servant carrying a basket of laundry, just barely managing to keep the dishes from crashing to the floor. The girl smiled apologetically, and he tried to grin back. Now, Merlin didn't have the time to properly think about or talk to Arthur about his concern.
He had things to do, and he couldn't exactly say what was bothering him. He wanted to burn as much as the next sorcerer—or warlock. Whatever.
Morgana was on the move.
Uther wasn't well, and though Arthur had stepped into the regency competently, the kingdom was still off-kilter. It hadn't been very long since she had taken Camelot, and Merlin had hoped she would spend the time licking her wounds. But apparently not. He was just happy he'd caught her scheme in time.
He brought the dirty dishes to the kitchen, thinking on what he needed to do next. Arthur had an afternoon council meeting, and then he would want to get updates on the knights from Leon. He'd gone over the pertinent information for the meeting with Arthur earlier, so all that was left was to get him dressed.
The servant walked back to his master's chambers and helped Arthur get ready silently, thinking on what he needed to do tonight to prepare. Or perhaps during the meeting… Arthur would have no need of him there; the other servants were perfectly capable of pouring his wine for a few hours.
The more time he had, the better.
He straightened Arthur's collar and gave him a once-over—it all seemed fine. Regal, even.
"If you're done gawking…" Arthur leveled his gaze at the servant.
Usually, at this point, Merlin would snipe something back. And he wanted to, but he was tired, and his brain was plodding along sluggishly, as tepid and lifeless as the gruel he'd had that morning. He had hardly gotten any sleep at all the past seven nights. So all he said was, "Yes, I'm done."
He opened the door for the prince and allowed him to pass before trailing slightly behind him. Arthur glanced back once, but kept his eyes trained in front of him the rest of the time. Merlin generally walked beside him—or at least when he thought he could get away with it. Walking "five steps behind" or whatever was rubbish. He just didn't think he'd make a good conversation partner right now.
Arthur nodded to the guards as they opened the door for him to the council chambers. When Merlin didn't follow, the prince turned back.
"Coming?" he asked.
"Actually, er, sire." Merlin thought quickly. "Gaius asked if I could prepare some bruise salve, perhaps a few tinctures—we're running low."
Arthur looked like he was a breath from rolling his eyes, but refrained for the sake of propriety in front of the guards. An exasperated sort of why on Earth didn't you tell me earlier, Merlin?
"Very well. Off with you then," Arthur allowed and whirled around to take his place at the council table. Merlin gave a small sort of bow and turned away.
Merlin suspected Morgause had died. When he had felt Morgana's Working seven nights ago, he'd felt her magic along with several others'—and none of them belonged to the witch's sister. That, likely, was the reason Morgana had decided to attack so soon, or at least that was what he thought. Her sister didn't need time for recovery, and the witch was likely looking for revenge.
He kept one eye on the door as his eyes flashed gold, heating the mixture to boiling in less than a second. With another flash, it was mixing by itself and cooling rapidly, time almost seeming to speed up inside the pot. Much faster this way. He hadn't necessarily lied to Arthur about the bruise salve—they were running low—but it wasn't something that took a few hours to make, especially not with Merlin's enhancements.
The tinctures had been a lie, however. Gaius was well-stocked on his most common potions and draughts.
Merlin deftly bottled the salve and—with another glance at the door—magicked the pot clean. Gaius would never know, and what he didn't know wouldn't make him scold Merlin for it. Leaving the salve in the cupboard where it was meant to go, the warlock opened the door to his room. He knelt on the floorboards and pulled out a couple books, ones he'd pilfered from the goblin's room (as he'd taken to calling it in his head) in the royal library.
One was a book on runes, another a book on other realms. He took them out, and rifled through his things to find a quill and inkpot. It would've been better had he used the desk, but he couldn't afford the risk of being seen if a patient or friend walked into the physician chambers. And he'd use the goblin room, except he'd have to take these books back, not be seen with them, and he'd have to figure out some excuse if someone saw him there, and Geoffrey really didn't like him…
Awkward situation all around, so best to do it here.
As he searched through the pages, he scratched his thoughts in the margins. Some things, he thought, were more likely to work than others. But he had a couple hours to figure it out before Arthur would need to be attended to.
One Week Earlier
Merlin didn't often have nightmares. It was strange—as fearful as he felt sometimes, as anxiety-ridden as his days could be—these feelings didn't manifest themselves as bad dreams. And when he did have nightmares, they were usually filled with fire, his friends—especially Arthur—watching as he burned. Sometimes they were warped memories, where he'd been too slow to save Arthur or Gaius or Camelot.
But the dream he had on this night was like none of those.
It started normal enough. Merlin found himself doing chores for Arthur, except he kept forgetting what he was supposed to do. So then he had to find the prince to ask every single time he forgot. Strangely, Arthur never seemed to mind, even as dream-Merlin interrupted an important council meeting (about whether the crops should be counted among Camelot's citizens. Many councilors were in favor, as the wheat was said to be willing to trade the best among them for additional water).
Dream-Merlin stood right next to Arthur and asked him loudly what he was supposed to be doing as the councilors continued to argue the merits of making the vegetables citizens over the table. Dream-Arthur turned in his chair, his crown lop-sided, and said, "You're meant to be washing my socks, Merlin—or don't you remember?"
"Oh, right," Merlin said. He turned to the councilors. "The cabbage should be counted as citizens, but the turnips shouldn't—at any cost." They all nodded and seemed to note the suggestion, their quills scratching at pieces of parchment in front of them.
And then the dream changed, morphing around him. The council chambers dissolved, something entirely different rising in its place. Something tugged at him, sucking and pulling and tearing at his skin and clothes, consuming him until he was somewhere else, somewhere far away from the council chambers.
He found himself in a dark place, dim surroundings lit only by a crimson moon. It hung low in the sky, like a crescent-shaped crack in the otherwise perfect blackness. There were no stars.
Things gurgled and shifted just out of sight. The red light seemed to slide off gray, mottled skin like oil on water. He caught glimpses of long dark talons at the ends of crooked fingers, flashing teeth in the gloom. It all gleamed with a wetness that reminded him of spilled ink or fresh blood. Eyes darted back and forth—watching him, watching each other.
Whatever the things were, they gave off a feeling of hatred, of unease. Of violence. Like Merlin was drowning and being burned alive and stabbed and choked all at the same time—as though their spite was a physical thing, a presence. Their stench hit him like a mace to the face. He clapped his hands over his nose, but he could still smell it: sweet rot and death and festering decay.
He heard someone cry out: a man, by the sound of it. Older, raspy. Merlin looked toward the noise, and in the horrible darkness he could just make out a figure: an old man, stumbling around.
"Help!" he called. He walked with a limp. The things lurking just out of sight snuffled, seemed to watch the old man attentively. Merlin could feel a hunger growing, mingling with the spite, with the vicious deadliness of their emotions. He wanted to tell the man to be quiet, that they heard him, that he was drawing attention to himself—bad attention. But the warlock couldn't move.
"Hello?" the old man shouted. The things answered with little yips of glee—almost a cackling. Merlin felt their ravenous hunger grow. "Who are you? Why—why do you laugh?"
Their giggling grew louder, and Merlin felt sick from the force of their wretched emotions. The things were circling the old man, circling and circling, growing ever closer. The old man seemed to sense something was wrong; he turned to run, but they had him surrounded.
"Help!" the old man screamed. "What—what are you? Somebody—help me!" Merlin tried to make himself move forward, but all he could hear was throbbing, throbbing—the malice and the hunger and the spite thrumming together in one massive beat. Their laughter grew deafening; Merlin wanted to leave, wanted to save the man—
Those black talons flashed, and the man shrieked as red blossomed across his abdomen. The things continued to giggle, and Merlin watched some lap at the ground—the soft, red ground, wet-looking, like mud—but his mind wouldn't process what their faces looked like. He could just see the wickedness of their pale, maggoty eyes and the pleasure of their meal in their long, purple tongues.
The old man screamed and screamed, and Merlin realized that the things had taken their strong, crooked fingers and had grasped his limbs—they were pulling, tugging—his tendons and muscles were tearing, ripping—
He kept screaming, and Merlin finally made himself move; he clapped his hands over his ears, but it didn't seem to do much good. He could only watch as the old man's arms and legs tore off with horrible sounds, blood sinking into the ground. The things feasted: a writhing mass of hideous flesh and long, spindly arms and lapping purple tongues. The man's screams tapered as he died.
In the sounds of their eating, he finally regained control over his body, the spell—whatever had stopped him from moving, fear or something else—broken. He stumbled backward, and his foot squelched. His boot sank deep into the ground. But it wasn't mud, like he'd thought—it was flesh-like, pulsing faintly. Pulsing in time to the hunger and anger and hatred. When he lifted his foot, juices dripped off.
He could tell when their attention moved from their meal; their focus hit him like a hammer to the head, crushing him. They'll tear me apart like they did him. Their soft, cackling laughter started again, and Merlin wondered if it was like wolves howling, if they were communicating somehow.
Or perhaps they were just mocking him.
Merlin knew he had to leave, had to flee; he forced himself to turn his back on them, on that writhing, horrible mass of bodies, of things his mind refused to understand for fear it would go mad.
He tripped as he scrambled away, landing on the soft ground. His trousers and jacket soaked through, he staggered to his feet and ran, the dim moon lighting his way. He could hear their giggles behind him, the squelching of their feet on the ground, the pulsing madness of their fury and aching hunger. Shapes rose around him, alien plant life that was ragged and terrifying.
A forest sprung up in front of him, filled with bizarre trees. They twisted into shapes that didn't seem possible—some growing into themselves or other trees, bone-white bark pale despite the lack of light. The forest floor was a tangle of roots, and the trees were smooth and naked. When he brushed against them, they were warm and malleable like flesh. Merlin pushed himself forward. The laughter grew louder, louder. He reached for his magic, only to find it not responding. He called on it desperately, willing it forward. It swirled just beneath his skin, but it would not come.
So Merlin sprinted through the yielding, horrible forest, racing away from the things behind him.
Their footsteps were meaty as they struck the fleshy roots below—they were getting closer. Their giggles grew louder, louder, like thunder in his ears, like the sky was collapsing on him. Merlin felt sick, as though he might vomit any moment. Sweat trickled down his brow, his breath coming quickly. Something infinitely sharp slashed at his back—those talons, more efficient than any birds'—they would tear him apart, rip him limb from limb—but then his magic finally reacted, rising inside him—
And things were gone, Merlin snapping awake, back in his room. He hurled himself of his bed just in time to sick up all over the floor instead of his sheets. He coughed, on hands and knees, as his magic roiled inside him, telling him something was wrong wrong wrong. It was nauseating, this sensation.
Something clung to him, on the inside. He could still feel the pulsing hunger, the spite. The emotions were foreign and pervasive and wrong. His magic churned around them, trying to flush them out, and he could feel his eyes flashing involuntarily, flickering like candle flame. Calm. Calm! He forced the magic down, focusing it inside, and it quieted, though the feeling of wrongness didn't leave. It was like he was too hot and too cold at the same time, and his body shook, unused to the awful sensation. What was it? That had been no ordinary dream.
Something warm and wet slid down his back. When Merlin reached a hand around, he knew what it was—the slashes that, that thing had given him. Had it been real, somehow?
He wiped his mouth with one sweat-soaked sleeve and rose on shaky legs, glancing at the door. He heard no rustling, only Gaius's faint snores—his mentor still slept. He would have to clean the vomit later; he didn't feel like he could do anything now, not with this miasma of evil surrounding him, suffocating him. Merlin went to the bucket in the corner—filled with water to wash with in the morning—and rinsed his mouth and face.
He might be able to ask Gaius for a draught, but Merlin could feel a faint Working—the term for something much more complex than a spell—just out of range of his senses. The emotions, the madness, the hunger—they were the same. He had to stop the Working, or at least find out what was happening—and why it was happening.
He supposed there was nothing to do but investigate. Fumbling around, he lurched to his cupboards and opened them, trying not to wince as they creaked. He paused, but heard nothing from the other room. Slipping off his nightclothes, Merlin pulled on something more appropriate with trembling hands.
Gods, what is this? He thought he might be sick again. Like a physical illness his body was trying to purge, as though he'd eaten something that had gone off. He needed to be rid of it, whatever it was.
He buckled his boots clumsily and straightened. Maybe I should wake Gaius. But this wasn't an actual illness—this was some kind of magical reaction. If he could just expand the area of his magical sensitivity… But as he reached for his magic, it coiled and shook inside, and the room spun around him. No. No, there's nothing Gaius can do.
He couldn't show up to wake Arthur like this—it had to be fixed as quickly as possible. And if he didn't get help now, who knew how bad it might get? Help, fortunately or unfortunately, meant Kilgharrah. The dragon was wise, ancient, experienced, and—most importantly—had a vested interest in keeping Merlin alive.
Merlin did his best to be quiet as he snuck through the physician chambers and out into the hall. Usually he silenced the creak of the door's old hinges with a whispered spell, but he did it the non-magical way, afraid he might make it worse by using his magic.
From there, it was easy to slip out of the castle and the gate, into the forest. So used to the guards' patterns, he didn't necessarily even need magic to get by. And although this lack of security worried him, he also used it to his advantage.
Merlin crept carefully away from the citadel with difficulty, his legs quaking unsteadily. The wrongness, the thing making his magic react, was still there. It was slick, sharper than a dagger, more potent than a poison. As he reached the tree line, he leaned on a trunk to keep upright, half-expecting flesh to meet his hand. He gagged, a headache beginning to form.
Oh, gods, make it stop.
He forced himself forward unsteadily, one step at a time. The foliage seemed denser than usual, though he knew that was merely his imagination. Still, it took longer than normal to reach the clearing where he could call the dragon. The shadows of the forest reminded him vaguely of his dream, and he was happy to step into the light of a whole, very not red moon, shining brightly onto the grass and dirt.
Raising his head to the sky and hoping he wasn't about to hurt himself, he called to Kilgharrah in the dragon tongue. He was closer to the source of his magic's disgruntlement—he could feel a Working. It was a parting, a rending. It tasted—because to sense another's magic was like sight or smell, but Merlin equated it most to taste—almost like… Almost like Morgana's magic. The other magic was foreign. From this distance, Merlin shouldn't have been able to feel it; he knew that much.
It must've been powerful for him to have felt it, then, and a flash of panic shot through him. What if Morgana was doing something right then? What if she was preparing to attack Camelot, and Merlin was left as useless as everyone thought he was because of this—this whatever? He didn't even know what was happening, and he couldn't tell what the Working was meant to do.
But it seemed as though many sorcerers were there. How had Morgana gathered so many in such a short time? What was she doing? And what of Morgause? He didn't know. He felt sicker by the minute.
A shadow loomed over the clearing, and with a rush of wind, Kilgharrah landed in front of Merlin, his wings tucking into his back. The golden dragon looked healthy, the warlock was pleased to see. His scales had a shine to them they had lacked when Merlin had first met him. And while Merlin could never—and would never—condone what the dragon had done to Camelot, seeing his kin happier didn't upset him.
"Young warlock," Kilgharrah said to his small, shivering form. "What have you done?" Merlin's head pounded. How could the dragon blame him for this? He was sick, feeling whatever it was Morgana—if it was Morgana—was doing.
"What have I done?" Merlin demanded. "I've done nothing! I came to ask what I've been sensing—and why it is affecting me so."
"The two are almost entirely unrelated," the dragon commented cryptically. He brought his head closer to Merlin and closed his eyes, sniffing. Then, he huffed, ruffling Merlin's hair. "Do you not realize what you've drawn to yourself? You must be rid of the ties between you and the beasts trying to tear your soul from this realm."
What the hell is he talking about? Merlin's head fogged, his heartbeat pounding in his ears like the footsteps of a giant. It reminded him of being poisoned by Nimueh. Except then, at least, he'd been unconscious.
"'Tear my soul from this realm'?" Merlin repeated, trying not to fall over. "Could you be a little vaguer, please? It's not like this is urgent or anything."
The dragon snorted and drew back. "The witch and her minions create a Working on this night." He sat on his haunches, like an overgrown, scaly cat.
"Yes I know—I can feel it, Kilgharrah. We must be leagues away; why can I feel it?" Merlin asked. What was the dragon on about? What was happening? "Can you tell what it's for? And how I can stop it?" Whatever Morgana was doing, it couldn't be good for Camelot.
And the fact that she'd managed to do it so quickly, a mere month after they reclaimed the citadel and drove her off…
"You are far more sensitive to any major magicks than an ordinary sorcerer would be," Kilgharrah said. "And this is no petty spell the witch casts. Her magic is full of fury and aided by the magic of many other sorcerers. It is a Working of great magnitude, and it does not bode well for Camelot." Thanks.
"Yeah, wouldn't have figured—Morgana, filled with rage, looking to hurt Camelot. Very unexpected. Could we get to the part where this apparently means my soul is getting torn out?" Merlin asked. He finally relented and sat down as he grew dizzy, his magic spinning in his body like a top. Hopefully, if he passed out, the dragon would help him. Maybe he should've woken Gaius.
Kilgharrah eyed him, displeased with his tone. "The Working weakens the barrier between this world and a far more wicked one. The witch calls upon an army from another realm—the Sluagh. You came into contact with some, somehow, and they have latched onto you, seeking to bring your soul into their realm where they may feast upon it." Was that what had happened to the old man? His soul had been eaten?
"I—" How had he come into contact with them? They must have been the laughing things from his nightmare. How could they have been real? His brain couldn't process it, and Merlin shook his head. But at least now he knew what the wrongness was—those things were trying to take his soul. His magic must've been fighting it, somehow. "I did have a strange dream, before I woke. Rotten, spiteful creatures—laughing, in a place of flesh."
"Foolishness, to project into their world unprepared and alone!" Kilgharrah said. "And now they have attached themselves to you."
"It's not like I meant to!" Merlin cried, pressing his palms into his eyes. "I don't even know how I did it! I was asleep. How do I get rid of them?" And this army Morgana was summoning—so soon after the immortal army had taken Camelot. An army of… those things? Still Merlin could not recall what they had looked like, only that they'd been horrible, awful—if he had truly been able to comprehend them, he would've gone blind.
Camelot was still re-building; they wouldn't be able to stand an assault from a normal army, much less these hellish things Morgana was bringing. They weren't anything like the undead army, which had reeked of unnaturalness and death, but not like this—not like this. Merlin's shaking grew until it almost seemed the world was quaking around him.
Kilgharrah took a deep breath. "I shall help, young warlock. Follow my magic." Merlin barely had time to process the statement before the dragon inhaled and exhaled over him in a familiar golden mist. Follow my magic. Kilgharrah's magic seemed to begin to burn the wrongness off of him—except burning wasn't right because there were no flames. It seemed to burn inside Merlin.
The warlock did his best to copy what Kilgharrah's magic was doing, though his technique felt clumsy by comparison. It grew more deft as he continued, directing his magic to dislodge what had latched onto him. He heard a faint gurgling, though he didn't think he heard it with his ears. He wondered, vaguely, if he were ever to burn at the stake, if the fire would take him as gently as this one seemed to.
It lasted for seemingly an eternity, and somewhere far away, Merlin could feel strength return to his limbs, color return to his face. Eventually, he found himself curled on the ground, dawn beginning to lighten the sky. Kilgharrah stood above him, seeming no worse for wear having spent possibly hours there.
"Do not meddle in soul magic so carelessly," the dragon told him, voice as gentle as he could make it. Merlin looked up—how much time had passed? He'd have to run all the way back to Camelot and sneak in without anyone spotting him.
At least the headache and shakiness were gone. They were trying to take my soul. He shuddered. The "Sluagh" Kilgharrah had called what Morgana was summoning. Those horrifying creatures that had eaten the old man. But how had Merlin gotten there? How had the old man? He still didn't understand.
Wait. Morgana summoning an army—was Camelot in danger? Was Arthur in danger?
Merlin practically jumped to his feet. "Her army—is it here?" he asked. He imagined the creatures coming for Camelot that instant, not having any idea what was coming, and he almost threw up again.
"Calm yourself, young warlock. There is time yet," the dragon assured. "Sit. Fending off an attack on the soul is not something to be taken lightly." When Merlin didn't go back down immediately, Kilgharrah prodded his chest with one claw. The warlock sat with a thump.
"I still don't understand what I did," Merlin said. "Or how I did it. And I have to stop Morgana—you need to let me leave."
The dragon sighed. "You projected yourself. Your soul, rather, into the realm of the Sluagh. To do such a thing in your sleep is not impossible, though I doubt any other would have been capable of the feat. Under normal circumstances, the projector falls into a trance—and they do not go into other realms without numerous precautions," Kilgharrah chided, as though Merlin had meant to project his soul into a different world. He hadn't even known such a thing was possible.
And the Sluagh again—those monstrous outlines in shifting shadows. That was what Morgana was bringing into the world for her army?
"But why?" the warlock asked. "Why would you want to project your soul in the first place?" He rubbed a hand over his face—he was going to be late getting Arthur breakfast. He could already hear the irritation in the prince's voice.
"It is similar to scrying, in that the projector can see things happening over great distances," the dragon replied. "Its advantage is that it is harder to sense than scrying is, and it is possible to access your magic. Its disadvantage is the risk it lends to your soul."
"And I did this in my sleep?"
"It appears so. Perhaps the weakening of the barriers triggered it," the dragon said. Merlin hadn't done magic in his sleep since he was eleven summers old, and the thought that he might start doing it again—here in Camelot—nauseated him. To have no control over it, no say in what his magic did… What if he did something in his sleep while they were on patrol?
You have bigger problems. Focus on those.
"Right," Merlin muttered. He rubbed his head and got to his feet. "This—this army. I don't understand. Was she summoning it tonight?" Kilgharrah didn't protest at his movement, though his eyes seemed resigned. His emotions were difficult to tell from his body language, even if Merlin liked to think he'd gotten better at reading him.
"Feel for yourself, young warlock," he said.
So helpful. Merlin didn't say the words aloud for fear Kilgharrah would be offended and leave in a huff. Instead, he closed his eyes and did his best to let his magic loose—going against what he normally did. He searched for what he had sensed hours before (oh, gods, how late he was), and found it leagues away, on the border of Camelot. It would have to be powerful indeed for him to be able to feel it so far away.
But it seemed incomplete, somehow. Half-finished, the tear just below the surface of the normal world, standing ready.
"When will it be finished?" Merlin asked, opening his eyes.
"A month's time," the dragon said. "To rend a hole in this world requires thinner space between them. She called the army forth, likely spoke with what passes for a leader in the Sluagh's realm. Perhaps sent them offerings of souls, a taste of what she will give them later. She will summon them as a plague upon Camelot."
A month. A month and another army, an army made up of those things I saw in my dream, will be upon Camelot. They hadn't fully recovered from Morgana's last attack. Uther was ill; Arthur was settling into his new role as regent… It was a disaster. He could feel the panic start to choke him, its cold fingers wrapping around his neck.
They had just fought off an army—and now stopping this one rested on Merlin. Camelot didn't know about it, and how could he explain to Arthur how he knew? Oh, yes, I had a strange dream, and I sensed something magical happening with my magical magic, and also I have magic and please don't burn me at the stake Arthur…
Merlin took a deep breath.
"What are the Sluagh?" he asked. "What is this… realm they live in?" If he was going to be this late already, he might as well make the most of it. And he needed to be as prepared as possible. He couldn't recall seeing the Sluagh in any of the books he'd read; such information might not be available back in Camelot.
"I shall tell you no more, young warlock," Kilgharrah said. "The rest you are capable of finding out on your own. But I will monitor the witch."
Merlin couldn't believe his ears. An army was arriving on Camelot's doorstep in one month, and the dragon was refusing to tell him. "You won't tell me anything else?" he demanded. "Fat lot of good you are—half mention something and then not even tell me about it!"
"Perhaps next time I will allow your soul to be eaten," Kilgharrah said mildly, and Merlin flushed. He had saved him. And he'd offered to watch Morgana, which was more than he usually offered. He was likely tired from expending the magic and staying up half the night (though Merlin didn't exactly know what the dragon's sleep schedule looked like).
The warlock stood and reached up to pat Kilgharrah's neck. "You're right—I'm sorry. Thank you, friend. I owe you my soul, apparently." He scratched at the scales.
"I am not a horse. Give me the dignity of not being treated like one," Kilgharrah protested, but he was leaning into Merlin's touch. The warlock didn't know if dragons were social creatures, but this one didn't seem to mind when Merlin pet him (which Merlin did not do in a derogatory way, thank you—he knew Kilgharrah liked it, no matter what the big lump claimed).
"Fine, fine. I have to be going back anyway." He looked up at the sky. "Thank you again." He was going to be very, very late.
Present Day
"Very well. Off with you then," Arthur allowed and whirled around to take his place at the council table. He heard the guards shut the door behind him, and the councilors turned to face him. Most were stuffy old men, though there were a few stuffy old women. This was the general council, here to discuss things such as trade routes, taxes, and infrastructure.
Today, they would likely be discussing how the recovery from the witch's attack fared—among other things. Merlin had organized the reports that were most pertinent to the meeting and had helped Arthur memorize the relevant information.
Arthur took his place at the head of the table, trying not to feel irritated at Merlin for abandoning him to hours of boredom without his faces or commentary to allay it. But maybe it was physician work that was keeping him. The prince would have to talk to Gaius to confirm his suspicions. The physician didn't always make the meetings, forsaking them for his duties. He was absent today.
The councilors had risen in his presence, and Arthur motioned for them to sit back down. "Gentlemen and ladies," he greeted, taking his own chair. "How do you do on this fine afternoon?"
A servant behind him came up and began pouring wine for everyone at the table. He was much more efficient than Merlin would've been, and he didn't stop to whisper some inappropriate comment to Arthur under his breath. Though with how strangely Merlin was acting, his manservant may not have whispered anything.
One of the lords asked after his own health, and the prince gave the customary reply, trying to focus on the meeting and not on his blasted manservant.
"The first matter we need to discuss—" Arthur began, but was cut off as the doors burst open. Sir Leon stood there, two other knights behind him. He looked disheveled, his hair and clothing askew.
"Pardon, my lord," he said, bowing low. "I come bearing urgent news." Arthur didn't waste his breath asking whether the news was urgent enough to interrupt a council meeting. Sir Leon was first among his knights; the man knew when something needed to reach the prince (or prince regent, in this case).
"The report from patrol?" he asked, standing. Such news would likely be necessary to bring to the council anyway—and it sounded as though it couldn't wait. He would hear Leon's tale here.
"Yes, sire," Leon replied. "Grave news indeed." He paused, as if searching for the words. Arthur again resisted the urge to drum his fingers on the table. "It's M-Morgana, sire. She stirs on the border with Essetir."
Arthur's blood went cold, frozen in his veins. Morgana? His sister—half-sister, who had marched an immortal army on Camelot only a month before? That Morgana? He fought to keep his face impassive, though thoughts he'd been trying to keep down stirred darkly in his heart. How long had she been betraying them? Why had she taken up magic?
He didn't know. He might never know.
His mouth tightened imperceptibly. "The patrol came across her themselves?" He needed proof—he needed to know what she was doing. He saw her bitter, spiteful smirk in his mind's eye, so different from the mischievous one he'd come to know and love. Always, he'd felt as though she was the sister he'd never had, the one person who had staved off the loneliness he'd felt as prince.
Somewhere inside, he knew that it couldn't have all been a lie. But how much of it was truth? He'd avoided thinking about it for months now, putting aside his horror and hurt in favor of re-building the kingdom she'd almost destroyed. The immortal army she'd let pillage the landscape, the innocent citizens she'd murdered herself. It was flooding inside him now.
Control. You're the prince.
"No, sire." Leon straightened. "But many townsfolk reported hearing that the witch had been looking for sorcerers—and mercenaries. They could not tell us why, only that it was so."
"You have done well, returning to Camelot swiftly instead of investigating." Magic was a devious thing, and Morgana had always been clever. One meager patrol would not have been enough to take her, and few of his knights were skilled in subterfuge.
The knight dipped his head. "Thank you, my lord."
"So the witch fled to Essetir, sire. Perhaps we could flush her out of Camelot entirely," one of his council members said—the bulky, balding Aldwin. Merlin had once commented that the man was irritating to cater to. The manservant said that the man was a pompous, whining git: he talked big about being able to handle this and that because he'd been a knight, but he was really very particular about the smallest things and preferred every convenience.
I think he retired voluntarily, Merlin had confided. He can't spend two seconds in chilly bathwater, much less spend a night on the ground.
"Perhaps," Arthur said noncommittally. "But Camelot seemed to be her target—she was intent on becoming queen. I doubt she has put those ambitions aside—or would."
Lord Aldwin frowned. "But is it not better, then, to drive her out? Essetir is a mess, sire. No ruler has yet risen to take control of the kingdom; there would be none to blame us." He clasped his hands in front of him.
"You make light of something difficult to do, Lord Aldwin," Arthur said. And besides, Arthur added silently, I would not inflict Morgana's wrath on the innocent people of Essetir, all the more unprepared for their lack of a monarch. He wouldn't say that aloud, however. He turned to Leon. "Was there any word of Morgause?"
The knight shook his head. "None, my lord. There were whispers that the witch has already gathered a number of sorcerers to aid her, though she searches for more."
Arthur's mouth felt dry. Morgause and Morgana had controlled the immortal army and taken Camelot on their own. He couldn't forget the damage Sigan had done—or any number of individual sorcerers. It sounded as though Morgana was gathering a force.
"Alert the war council," Arthur instructed to a guard behind Leon. "We shall discover Morgana's purpose in bringing so many sorcerers together. We have prevailed against magic before, and we shall do so again. Sir Leon, you are dismissed. I expect a full report to the war council after this meeting is concluded." His knight would have time to rest, eat, and bathe before then.
"Yes, sire," the guard and the knight said in unison. Leon bowed as he exited, the guard going to alert the war council of the new meeting to take place just after this one.
Merlin had better attend me during the second meeting, Arthur thought as he sat down. He rubbed his temple, hints of a headache forming in the tightening of his forehead, little shoots of pain running up his neck.
"Now, I believe our first order of business is to determine how the new taxes are affecting the townspeople," the prince began.
"My lord, are we truly to discuss these things as the witch runs amok on our border?" Lady Muriel asked. She was an ancient old crone, one of the oldest on the council, second perhaps only to Geoffrey. Merlin had sworn up and down he could hear her bones creak like rusted hinges whenever she moved.
"We have day-to-day matters to attend to," Arthur said. "The kingdom will not stop—not even for Morgana." I bet she would enjoy knowing she strikes such fear even into the oldest of my councilors.
He couldn't get her smirk out of his head. What did Camelot do to deserve such hatred? Morgana had been prone to bouts of vengefulness—but never hatred. It was the magic. It was always magic. It made everything wrong, defying nature's conventions and twisting even the best of people into something unrecognizable.
He rubbed his temple, wondering how he was meant to stop her this time when they had done so last time just by the skin of their teeth.
AN: New story! Yay! I've been wanting to do a Merlin fic for a while now. This is mostly pre-written (I have two chapters left to write), so I'm going to try and update consistently. Feel free to bug me if it takes more than a couple weeks to post the next chapter lol. What did you think of the beginning? Does it seem like a good set-up?
