"I'm surprised you didn't do more complaining about coming along on this hunt," Arthur says in an undertone, crouched on his heels as he studies the rain-soft ground for animal sign. How something as large as the Questing Beast could travel without leaving a noticeable trail is a mystery.
Merlin glowers at the top of the prince's golden head, arms folded across his chest. "Yes, well, I've learnt that if I beat my head against a stone wall, the wall will not break first," he replies tartly.
"I take it that I'm the stone wall, then?" Arthur muses.
"About as intelligent as one."
The other man levels an unimpressed look at him as he straightens up, then turns and gestures to his knights. "This way. There's caverns ahead, it's probably sheltering there." As they start trudging onwards, all of them quiet and somber, Arthur spares another glance towards Merlin. "You don't have to be here, you do know that? We aren't hunting deer."
"Oh, yes, I do. Considering the…nature of this beast," Merlin says carefully, not daring to speak of magic with so many others in earshot, "it is absolutely in your best interests that I am here with you. And Morgana would've ridden out in here in her nightgown if I hadn't."
The prince's brows draw together in a frown. "Is she alright? She didn't seem… well." Which is surprisingly tactful of him, considering that the young woman had come out to the courtyard barefoot and in her nightgown, pleading for him not to go.
Merlin frowns. It's been months since she's had a nightmare so vivid as to send her into such a state, especially since she's learnt to control her visions. He would've liked to stay with her, as he leant her strength to walk through her visions until she could achieve it on her own, but when it'd become clear that she couldn't dissuade Arthur from going, she begged that Merlin stay at his side to keep him safe. A few of the other knights had gotten a laugh out of it, the scrawny manservant with a fancy stick protecting their warrior prince. "I don't know," he replies. "But you are not to go anywhere without me."
Arthur throws him a sideways glare. "I don't need a nursemaid," he says with a touch of indignance.
"Arthur," he murmurs urgently. "You heard what Gaius said. The Questing Beast foretells upheaval. Morgana has a nightmare so severe that it sends her into such a state, begging you not to leave Camelot. And even if your father denies it, this is no ordinary creature. Gaius warned me of its power. One bite means death. So, be irate all you want, but I am not letting you out of my sight until this beast is dead and you are safe."
"I don't know if I should be touched or insulted," Arthur says dryly.
"I'll settle for you being alive. Do you have your sword?"
It sounds a foolish question, considering that the weapon hangs openly on the prince's hip, but they both know exactly what the young man means. Arthur grasps the hilt and tugs, drawing the blade just slightly from the sheath, showing a gleam of rippling red steel. If it can slay a wraith, then hopefully it will be able to kill a Questing Beast as well.
The sporadic tracks lead into one of the caves that Arthur had mentioned. Merlin sighs deeply. Again with the caves. Always with the damned caves.
Pausing to strike torches and draw blades, they begin to make their way into the cavern. Merlin already knows that they have indeed come to the right place. The air carries that musky animal scent and the smell of decaying flesh and old blood. Elbowing Arthur's side, he gestures towards the ground with his torch; bones litter the cavern floor, some old and picked clean, some with ragged flesh still clinging to them. Not all of them are animal bones.
Jaw tightening, Arthur silently gestures for the knights to move forward and fan out as they venture further in.
Merlin grasps Arthur's arm. "Did you hear that?"
A dry hissing, a harsh scraping, like metal scraping over a whetstone, echoing from the darkness ahead of them.
"I did. Hush."
Glancing around, Merlin realises with some dread that they've become separated from the others. Before he can open his mouth to suggest they rejoin the knights, the Questing Beast lurches towards them with a screech, fanged maw opened wide. One bite means death, his mind repeats endlessly.
Arthur shoves him back out of the way, slashing at the beast with his sword; it shrieks and backs away from the blade, stirring Merlin's hope that it can indeed be slain. The prince makes another lunge forward, blade flashing for its throat. Its head snakes forward sharply, jaws snapping, and Merlin cries out as Arthur tumbles backwards, the sword falling from his grip. With a snarling hiss, the Questing Beast advances towards the fallen prince.
"Fléoge! Bregdan anweald gafeluc!" he hisses out, extending one hand towards Arthur's fallen sword. The blade, forged in his blood and magic, responds smooth and easy, lifting from the ground and plunging forward into the creature's breast. It shrieks piercingly loud, its body igniting into flame as it falls to the ground.
He doesn't care a whit for it, turning towards Arthur. The prince hasn't stirred from where he's fallen. Merlin falls to his knees beside him, stone biting into his knees as he turns the blond over onto his back. "No. No," he whispers, chest constricting to the point he can scarce breathe in. "It didn't bite you. It didn't. Arthur, wake up." He gives the prince a shake, going cold when he feels broken mail rings against his palm, and when he lifts his hand, his palm is smeared with red. "Arthur! Arthur, wake up! Someone help me!"
"He's not going to die," Merlin whispers past the solid knot in his throat, staring at the still, pale form of the prince laid up in bed. The King's only just left the room, tears still on his face.
"Merlin…" Gaius's voice is heavy, resigned.
"He won't. He can't. We've not done all we're meant to do together, I know it," he insists, clenching his hands tightly behind his back, nails biting painfully into his palms. "I'm going to go to the Druids. Perhaps they might know something that could help."
Gaius is wearing that damn look of his again, that look that says he doesn't believe it'll work but won't say anything about it.
Merlin turns away from it, walking over to Arthur's bedside. The prince has been stripped to the waist, and Mother is fixing bandages around his chest and shoulder. He can see the inflammation already forming around the wound, and worse, faint blue-black blood lines. He reaches over to lay a hand on his unhurt shoulder, brushing his thumb along the line of Arthur's collarbone. "I'm going to make you well," he murmurs in an undertone. "You are not going to die. Hear me, you…you big dollophead? You're going to live, and one day you'll be king, a greater king than your father could ever be. You'll be the man I've seen inside you, and Camelot will be fair and just to all and will have a sovereign her people will love and be proud of. I know it. So don't die before I get back, understand? You do not have my permission to die." Biting his lip, he reaches over to smooth down a stray bit of blond hair, then forces himself to stand.
"Go," Mother whispers, brushing his sleeve with her fingertips. "We'll keep him alive until you get back."
As he's striding down the stairs towards the courtyard, Leon and Lancelot fall into step beside him. "Let us come with you, Merlin," Lancelot insists. "You shouldn't do this alone."
"No. I'm thankful for your help, my friend, truly, but there is no danger," he insists, though he's not entirely certain that it's true. "The Druids are kin to me, and they'll speak easier without a knight of Camelot in their presence. Besides, Guinevere will need you now." When they emerge into the courtyard, he sighs. "Oh, not you, too."
"I know you're going on your own," Will reassures him with a halfhearted smirk. "I'm just here to tell you not to do anything stupid on the way."
Merlin takes the reins of the Hellion from his friend, smiling. "Me? I would never think of it." He sets one foot in the stirrup and mounts up; the Hellion dances under him, eager to be off.
Will has to sidestep to avoid having one of his feet trod on by her striped hooves. "You sure you're going to save your pretty boy's royal ass again, then?"
"Just another day." Merlin glances over at Lancelot and Leon, watching him with poorly-masked worry, then lowers his voice slightly. "I know you don't like nobles, Will, but be kind to them. You'll like them, I promise. And you'll be kind to Gwen, too," he adds. It'd taken a bit of coaxing to convince Tom to take his stubborn friend on as an apprentice in the forge, and the deciding factor, he knows, had been Guinevere.
Will throws him a sly little grin. "I'm always kind to ladies, Merlin, you know that," he chortles, and Merlin rolls his eyes. He backs up a wide pace. "Go on, then."
Merlin turns the Hellion towards the gates and puts heels to her flanks.
For all of Uther's truly prodigious efforts, he has yet to completely exterminate Druids from the kingdom of Camelot. They've simply dug in deeper, moved their camps further into the woods and mountains, stopped keeping permanent steadings. Some have become almost like the gypsy caravans, taking up a nomadic lifestyle on the fringes of society. There is at least one camp Merlin knows to be found in the woodlands around the Ridge of Chemary. He'd seen them from a distance once before, when they moved from their winter camp in Brechfa, though he hadn't met them personally.
Tilting his head upwards, he spies the dangling pieces of red yarn tied around branches, well-spaced and easily missed by one who didn't know to look for them. Nudging the Hellion forward, he keeps peering upwards to follow the path they mark. Abruptly, he draws rein. Sitting on fallen tree directly ahead is a Druid man in the simple, homespun garb of their people, greying hair silvered brightly by the sunlight.
[Welcome, Emrys. My name is Iseldir.]
"Do you not trust me to enter your camp?" he asks.
[We have every faith in you, Emrys. But you are here for a serious matter. I did not think you would appreciate the stir of unwanted attention.]
"True enough." He dismounts and leads the Hellion over to the deadfall, looping the reins around one of the exposed roots, now at shoulder-height. "You know what I'm here for, then?"
"We have heard of the appearance of the Questing Beast," the Druid replies aloud, nodding his head. "And if you are here, then one can only come to the conclusion that the Prince Arthur has been felled by it. Does he breathe?"
Merlin nods jerkily, his throat tightening. "Only just. So if you know of anything that can help him, I beg you, tell me now."
"You needn't beg. The Questing Beast is conjured by the power of the Old Religion, you know this. That same magic is the only thing that can heal its victims. We do not hold it. Healers we may be, but our magic is sourced in life, not death, so we cannot hold the balance true."
He drops down to sit on the deadfall beside Iseldir, dropping his head into his hands, wanting to sob and scream at the same time, biting his lip so hard he tastes blood. A warm hand on his back makes him look up.
"Do not despair, Emrys. So long as the young prince draws breath, there is time still to heal him."
He scrubs both hands back through his hair. "Yes, but that time shan't last long. Will you tell me one thing, though?" he asks, and the Druid raises his eyebrows. "Why do you call me Emrys? I've heard the Old Ones call me such. They say it is my true name, though I have no name but the one my mother gave me."
"Ah. Emrys is the greatest sorcerer ever to walk the earth, it is said, the salvation of our kind. Champion of the Old Religion, chosen by the gods themselves." When Merlin stares at him in disbelief, Iseldir only smiles, calm and serene. "There is a prophecy about Emrys, you know, one that is well-known. It says that—"
"Iseldir," Merlin says quickly but not unkindly, holding up a hand to forestall him. A dry little laugh slips out of him. "You and your people may call me whatever name you wish. I'll not dictate your faith to you, nor tell you how to have hope. But I am my own man, and I will not have my life dictated to me by the words of some prophet whose bones have long since turned to dust. I've come to you to heal my friend, no more than that. Anything else, I don't much care. So, Iseldir, I say with all due respect, fuck prophecy. My life is my own."
He is far too weary and far too stressed to hear anything of it now, if there's even a scrap of truth to be found in it, and if he could stand to hear it, he doesn't want to. The Old Ones might have named him their champion, and the Druids might want to put their faith in him as well. But he holds no truck with prophecy and never has. If there is some prophecy about him, he doesn't want to hear it. He will make his own choices. It is up to him what he does with his life, not the scribblings of some ancient seer long-dead.
Iseldir raises his eyebrows, but his lips curl in amusement as well. "If it is your will."
"It is. So…you cannot help me?"
The Druid gazes at him for a long moment, then sighs deeply. "We cannot. But there are those who can. There is a place called the Isle of the Blessed, where the priests and priestesses of the Old Religion once practiced great magics. It was scourged in the Purge, but there are some who remain. The power to heal your prince can be found there," he explains, then holds up a hand to stop Merlin from rising, a mirror of the gesture he'd made only a few moments ago. "But know that it comes with a price, Emrys. The balance is exacting."
"I know," Merlin agrees lowly. "I will pay it for him. Where is this Isle?"
Iseldir nods, lowering his hand. "Very well. The Isle of the Blessed lies beyond the White Mountains, past the Valley of the Fallen Kings, to the north of the sea. There, you will find the lake. I can give you a map." He gives Merlin a long, studious look. "You are a warlock. You are the champion of the Old Religion. And yet…you would give your life for the son of Uther Pendragon? The Bloody Tyrant, who has killed so many of our kind?" He doesn't sound judgmental, merely curious and perhaps a touch confused.
He knows how it sounds. Surely there are even some who would name him a traitor to magic. But how can he explain it to them when there's days he can scarce make sense of it himself? "Arthur is not his father," he replies at last, as insufficient as it sounds to his own ears. "Why should one be held accountable for the sins of their forebears? Where does it stop if you do? If you mark it all up, we would all surely drown in the past."
"Well-said. But how do you know that he is not his father?"
He shrugs. "He knows what I am, and he hasn't harmed me. He has pled clemency for those accused of sorcery, rescued a child that his father ordered executed. He might not appear so at first, but…he's a soft heart under it all," Merlin says, echoing the words that Morgana had said to him years ago. "One merely has to bother to look for it." He holds out one hand, and Iseldir grasps it. "Thank you for your help. I'm sure we'll meet each other again."
"I'm certain we will, Emrys."
With that, he unlashes the Hellion and mounts up, turning her in the direction Iseldir points.
He rides for the Isle of the Blessed.
When he comes running back up to Arthur's chambers, Mother is tending to the prince, looking drawn and weary, and she turns to give him a small, grateful smile. "Merlin, you're back," she murmurs.
He holds out the flask of blessed water, breathless from his sprint up the stairs. "Here. Give him this, please."
"What is it?"
"It's going to heal Arthur."
"What is it?" Mother asks, sounding more suspicious.
"It'll heal him," Merlin repeats stubbornly. "Help me sit him up." Pressing the flask into Mother's hand, he shifts aside the pillows stacked behind Arthur and slides up to sit in the empty space, leaning the prince's shoulders against his lap, hands cradled behind his head. Arthur's hair is slicked down with sweat, his skin cold and clammy to the touch but for his bitten shoulder; even through the swathe of bandaging, Merlin can feel the sickly heat coming off the wound. "Make sure he drinks it all," he says as she pulls the cork from the flask.
Careful, so careful, she tips the blessed water into Arthur's mouth, having to go slowly so he doesn't choke. Merlin watches his throat move, gently running his fingertips through Arthur's sweaty hair. Praying and making vows at the same time. Praying that Nimueh has told the truth and it will heal Arthur, and vowing that if she's lied, he is going to kill her himself. Magic be damned, he'll do it with his bare hands if he must.
"That's the last of it," Mother says, setting aside the flask. She raises her gaze to Merlin. "Was it…?"
"Yes," he murmurs, knowing what she dares not ask now, when the King might well walk in at any moment to see his son. Perhaps it is only his wishful thinking, but he's certain that the wound isn't quite so fever-hot anymore. Gingerly, he lifts up the edges of the bandaging. It's sticking to the wound, but what he can see doesn't look as inflamed, and the ugly blue-black blood lines have receded as well. Tears spring up in his eyes. "It's working," he whispers. "Mother, it's working. Look."
An expression of reluctant hope coming to her face, she leans forward and begins to gently feel around the injury, peering beneath the bandages. A small smile comes to her lips. "It is," she agrees, grasping Merlin's wrist tightly. "You've done it. Whatever you did," she adds, giving him that knowing look.
He forces a smile in return, ducking his head. "Will he wake?"
"Perhaps not for a while. Perhaps in a few moments. I can't be sure," Mother replies. She lays the back of her hand on Arthur's brow, nodding. "He's not as cold, and his breathing sounds easier. Let's let him be. I need to inform Gaius and the King."
She stands up, but Merlin doesn't shift. "I think I'll stay," he murmurs.
Mother leans forward over him and kisses his brow, smoothing his hair down before she draws away and leaves the chamber.
Once the door clicks shut, he turns his gaze back down to Arthur. Some colour's come back into the prince's face, and that awful rasp is clearing out of his chest. Merlin lets himself sit there for a moment longer, then carefully slides off the bed, replacing the pillows beneath Arthur's head. There's a basin of clean water beside the bed. He soaks a cloth to just short of dripping and lays it over the bandages, dampening them. They're stuck onto the injury, so it'll have to be softened before he can remove them. Mother's left her bag beside the chair, and sorting through it, he finds a roll of clean bandaging and a jar of liniment, one he recognises.
Careful not to irritate the wound further, he starts to peel up the dampened bandages. Softened by the water, they don't stick quite so badly to the injury, so he can remove them without tearing at the healing scabs. Once off, he gently rubs the liniment over the shoulder, careful not to get it into the wound proper. It'll help keep the muscles from stiffening up and will keep the scar tissue from becoming too tight and limiting movement of the arm. Wiping his hands clean, he bandages the shoulder again, drawing the blankets back up over the prince.
Merlin stays sitting on the edge of the bed, gazing at Arthur's sleeping face. His chest tightens, throat thickening, and he reaches out to brush his knuckles over the other man's cheek, feeling only the faintest bit of stubble. Withdrawing his hand, he turns to pack the bandages and liniment back into Mother's bag.
"M'rlin?"
He turns back in surprise at the slurred sound of his name to see Arthur's eyes half-lidded, blurred but at last coherent. Grinning, he steps closer and rests his hand on Arthur's arm. "I'm here, you prat," he murmurs. "I'm here. You're alright."
"Arthur?"
Merlin snatches his hand away and backs up, bowing as the King enters the chamber, striding over to his son's bedside. On the surface, it doesn't seem that Uther's composure changes, but Merlin can see his shoulders relax slightly, a strain of relief in his voice. He rests one hand atop Arthur's head, gently ruffling his hair like a he's a boy, and the young man manages a slightly dazed smile up at his father.
"What did you give him?" Uther asks.
"A tincture made from the lobelia plant, sire," Mother replies, having followed the King into the chamber unobtrusively. "An ancient remedy for venomous bites Gaius found in his books. He needs to rest, sire. He will still be weak from its effects."
Merlin considers himself a brave man, but he would never dare to tell the King what he should and should not do. Mother does it without flinching.
Perhaps too relieved to care, Uther nods. "Of course. I shall inform the court their prince lives," he says with a rare, true smile on his face.
Once he leaves, Mother smiles at Arthur. "I'll send down to the kitchens for you, Arthur. You'll need something light until you are more fully recovered." There's a subtle note of command in her voice, stern gaze flicking between them. She no doubt knows that Arthur is banned from the kitchen after the theft of a great many honey cakes. "And I don't want out of that bed until you're examined by myself or Gaius, understood?" she orders, and he nods drowsily. With that, she leaves the prince's chambers.
"How do you feel?" Merlin asks.
Arthur gives a vague little hum in his throat, eyes closing again. "Hungry, mostly. How long have I been…?"
"A few days."
"That explains it then."
There's a knock at the door, and Merlin goes to answer it. Sarah, one of the kitchen girls, is on the other side, balancing a tray on one arm. "For his majesty, Lady Hunith's orders," she says, trying to peer past Merlin without being obvious about it, no doubt having already heard the news of Arthur's recovery. He nudges the door open a little wider than necessary to take the tray, smiling as he sees a look of blessed relief cross her face; she bobs a quick curtsey and darts off.
Arthur's making an attempt to sit up when Merlin turns back towards him, holding the tray; he stifles a pained gasp when he tries to put his weight on his left arm, blanching. "Easy now, you heard Mother," he scolds, setting the tray on the bedside table. As she'd promised, it's light fare: broth, small pieces of bread, some berries. Once he helps Arthur sit upright, pillows braced behind him, Merlin hands him the bowl, then goes about tidying the chambers, though it's hardly become much messier with Arthur bedridden.
"Were you speaking to me?" Arthur asks, blinking fuzzily at Merlin.
"No. Are you hearing things now?" he asks, only half-teasing. He walks back over to the bed, relieved to see that Arthur's eaten almost all of his food.
The prince shakes his head slightly, brow furrowing. "No, no, not now. Before. You…you were speaking to me." His mouth curls up into a small grin, unbearably smug despite his lingering pallor. "You were nice to me. What did you say? Hm?"
Merlin swallows hard and busies himself with fixing the blankets. "Nothing."
"Oh, come on. I remember you said something. You did. Something about the man I am inside, the kind of king I'd be," he murmurs.
"No, you must be imagining things. I never said that."
"Merlin."
"I'm taking these back to the kitchen. You should rest, Arthur. You need to sleep." He notices Arthur's necklace resting on the table as he stacks the dishes on the tray, the red gleam catching his eye. Without thinking about it, he palms the necklace when he goes to pick up the tray, using two fingers to slide it up his sleeve. "I'll see you tomorrow, sire. Goodnight."
He can feel the prince's gaze boring into his back on the way out. The necklace burns against his wrist.
When he returns to the townhouse, Leon is still awake, drinking a glass of perry brandy in front of the hearth. His curly head lifts at the sound of footsteps. "Merlin. I heard that Arthur's recovering. Is he well?" he asks.
"Well, he's already being an ass, so I would say he is indeed recovering," Merlin replies with a smirk, and his brother snorts. Walking over, he pours himself a cup of brandy, sinking down to sit on the rug; Allegra lopes over to flop across his lap, and he roughs a hand through her wiry fur. He sips his perry slowly, savouring the sweet burn of it.
"You're quiet tonight," Leon observes.
Merlin shrugs. Against his side, out of sight, he rolls the crystal pendant of Arthur's necklace between his fingers. "I'd rather just make the most of my last night of peace before the royal ass recovers." He drains the rest of his goblet and coaxes Allegra off his lap so he can stand. "Speaking of peace, I believe I'll retire early. I've spent most of the last three days in the saddle. I've missed my bed." When he passes his brother's chair, he leans over and embraces Leon as best he can from the chair, resting his cheek against curly hair a moment.
"Lightweight," Leon chuckles, patting his arm indulgently. Merlin always gets affectionate whenever he's drunk, a perfect excuse.
Mumbling his goodnights, he retires to his chambers, changing into his bedclothes absently. For a long time, he simply sits on his bed, gazing into the empty air before him without seeing. Allegra, having followed him up, lays beside him, and he runs a hand through her wiry fur. In his other hand, he holds Arthur's necklace, watching the lamplight gleam redly in the crystal pendant. "You'll be good, won't you?" he murmurs, patting her flank. "I know you will. Make sure you scare off at least a few beasts when Arthur takes you hunting, yeah? You mustn't let him get lazy." Allegra rolls her eyes up to peer at him, tail thumping a few beats on the covers. "Good girl."
He slides beneath the blankets and leans over to extinguish the lamp. As the flame dies out, he wraps the cord snugly around his wrist and closes his hand around the pendant, squeezing it firmly until he falls asleep.
Early morning sun falls warm across the bed, and the starling nesting above his window is welcoming the day with its unmusical song. Merlin opens his eyes slowly, seeing the familiar walls of his chamber, and sits up, cautious. Same room. All his books are where they were last night, not a thing stirred. He holds up his hand, sees the pendant hanging from his wrist, then glances down at himself, searching for any kind of injury or mark. None to be found. He's…fine. Whole and hale as he had been last night. "What in the name of the Mother?" he murmurs, touching his own chest just to reassure himself that his heart is indeed still beating and he's not some lingering shade.
A knock on the door startles him. "Enter."
Elfgifa opens the door. "Mistress Clory wonders if you'll want breakfast before you leave for your duties, my lord."
"I…yes, please."
Leon's already dining in the hall when he comes downstairs, already dressed, though his hair is still a mess. "You really need to learn how to use a comb, you know that?" Merlin remarks, sitting down and helping himself to still-hot sausages and warm bread, thankful the mistress of the household understands their early-rising habits.
"Bold statement coming from a man who doesn't match his socks."
"Nobody can see through my boots." He folds the last bit of sausage and cheese into a piece of bread and pushes back from the table. "I'm going to go see how Himself is faring. He'll be an absolute nightmare recovering, I'm certain. He hates being kept from his duties. I'll see you on the practice fields later. And comb your hair before you leave this house!" he shouts back as he departs, sliding his quarterstaff over one shoulder.
As he walks up the street towards the castle, he begins to relax despite himself. The balance is indeed exacting. If he was to die, he would have been dead already. And yet he lives.
He makes his way to Gaius's chambers first. "Good morning, Mother, Gaius. Have you more of that—" The words die in his throat when he sees his mother kneeling beside the bed meant for patients. Gaius is lying upon it, breathing in small, shallow gasps, his skin covered all over with sores. "Gaius! Mother, what's happened to him?"
"I don't know. I woke this morning to find him like this," she replies in a tremulous voice, tears in her eyes. "Whatever ails him, it is no common illness."
Realisation drops into his stomach like a stone, and Merlin falls down to his knees beside her, covering his face with both hands. "No, no…this isn't what I asked," he whispers.
"What?" Mother grabs his shoulder. "What are you talking about?"
He lowers his hands from his face, shaking his head. "To heal Arthur, I went to the Isle of the Blessed. I had to bargain with the powers of the Old Religion. I met the sorceress Nimueh there. She demanded a price be paid, a death in exchange for a life."
"Merlin…" Mother whispers.
"I bargained my life, though! Mine, not Gaius's!" he insists, anguished. "It isn't supposed to be like this!" Reaching forward, he takes hold of one of the old physician's gnarled hands, the skin thin and soft where it isn't callused, bones frail as a bird's wing. "I'll make you well. I promise I will." Gently releasing Gaius's hand, he gets to his feet and snatches up his dropped quarterstaff. "If the balance of the world demands a life, then it will have mine. I won't let anyone die for me."
Mother scrambles to her feet, seizing his arm. "No, you cannot do this," she cries. "Stop! Stop and listen to me!" She takes hold of his shoulders, staring up into his face with tearful eyes. "You're young, Merlin, and you are far too precious to sacrifice yourself like this."
"What, my power? Power means nothing if I cannot protect those I love with it."
"Damn your power, you're my son." She takes his face between her hands, expression wrought with pain. "You are my son, my only child. You are more precious to me than any magic in the world."
"I know, Mother, I know." Merlin wraps his arms around her, face buried in her hair. "But I cannot let this happen. I'm going back to the island."
She muffles a faint sob against his chest, trembling against him, and for a moment, her grip is so tight around him it hurts, nails biting into his back through his shirt. "I love you, my beautiful boy."
"I love you too, Mother." Grasping her shoulders, he gently pushes her back and uses the edge of his sleeve to dry her face, forcing a smile. "I don't want you to worry for me, understand? I know the gods will look after me. I will see you again." He kisses her brow. "I promise."
"Go, then. Be careful, Merlin mine."
When he leaves the physician's chambers, he nearly runs full-on into Leon's chest. His brother's face is white and drawn, hand gripped tight around the hilt of his sword. Merlin doesn't ask how long he's been standing there or how much he's heard; the answer is already written across his face. "I will be going, and you cannot stop me," he warns, gripping his quarterstaff a little tighter. He and Leon have had their practice bouts over the years, small scuffles in fits of temper, but they've never had cause to well and truly fight one another. He wonders which of them is better. He doesn't think he wants to know.
"I won't stop you," Leon replies, startling him. "I am going with you. And this time, you cannot stop me."
Now that he knows where the Isle of the Blessed lies, it's easier to get there. Having set foot on such sacred ground, imbued with such power, he could find his way to it in the dark by following his magic alone. They ride hard for it, scarce stopping to rest the horses.
"Name of the Mother," Leon breathes when he catches sight of the Isle's ruins, shrouded in mist not yet burned away by the barely-dawned sun. "What happened to that place?"
"Uther did." Merlin lashes the Hellion to the same tree he had last time, patting her sweat-damp neck, and looses his quarterstaff from the saddle. Wood and steel will do little against her, but he feels better carrying it, having something solid to brace himself with.
"How do we get across?" Leon asks. "And how do you know that she's even there?"
"She's there." He knows her magic now, knows her power, striking a different note in the humming symphony of magic surrounding them. "There'll be a boat down near the shore."
"Good. I'd not like to take my chances swimming. Now, listen, when we get there, I want you to distract her however you can," Leon says. "I'll get around and attack her from the behind. We'll see if my sword is of any use then."
"I thought a knight would be far too chivalrous to run an enemy through the back. Is that not against the code?"
"She's nearly killed you, Arthur, myself, and everyone in Camelot. I'll ask for forgiveness later."
Merlin nods, putting a hand on Leon's back. "Aye. So will I," he says quietly. "Swefe."
He catches hold of his brother before he collapses, staggering slightly from his weight, and lets him down on the grass, wadding up the folds of his cloak beneath his head. Crouched on his heels, Merlin rests his hand lightly on Leon's brow. "No bargains this time. This is between Nimueh and myself," he murmurs.
Walking down the narrow dock, he climbs into the small skiff once again and sets off towards the Isle.
Nimueh is there waiting for him, standing beside the altar in the middle of the standing stones. There is an inexorably cruel smile on her lips, and she drums her fingers lightly against the top of the altar. "Back again so soon, young warlock?" she asks, tilting her head.
"What have you done?" he hisses.
"Your prince lives. Is that not what you wanted?"
He points his quarterstaff at her, shifting into a fighting stance out of impulse. "I bargained my life for Arthur's! Not Gaius's, not my mother's, not anyone else's! My own!"
The smile disappears in a flash, her eyes narrowing at him. "The Old Religion does not care who lives and who dies, only that the balance of the world is restored," she replies sharply, then pauses, sliding her gaze up and down him. "And you… you are too valuable to be an enemy. I am a creature of the Old Religion, just as you are. Join with me. Between you and I, we could rule this kingdom, restore our people to their place in the world."
Merlin shakes his head. "I share nothing with you. It is not the Old Religion who has done this, it is you, your selfishness and cruelty. I will never join with you. No, my lady," he spits out, shifting his weight into a more suitable stance and curling his hands more securely around the familiar ashwood. "I choose to be your enemy. Ástryce!"
"Bescyldian!" Nimueh cries, flinging her arms up. The shield she erects shatters beneath the blow, but she is unharmed for it either way. "Forbærne, ácwele!" A burst of fire rushes from her outstretched hands towards him, faster than he can move out of the way, and it strikes him full in the chest.
At first, he doesn't feel pain at all. Only a vast sense of impact, flinging him clean off his feet to his back. He stares up at the sky gasping for breath, his vision going black for a moment. When it clears, he can smell his own flesh burning, and his entire torso feels as though it is afire, centred around his sternum. But he lives.
And if the balance demands a life, why should that of a priestess not suffice?
Gripping his quarterstaff tightly, he plants the end of it firmly in the ground, uses it to heave himself upward. It hurts every bit of him, but he rises anyways. Everything around him hums with magic, stone and sea and sky, and he draws upon its strength, staring at Nimueh's back. "You should not have threatened my family," he snarls and lifts one hand towards the sky.
"What the hell did you do to your face?" Arthur demands, brows drawing together in a scowl the moment he catches sight of the magnificent black eye Merlin now sports.
"Minor disagreement with Leon," he replies, smiling a little despite the ache in his face. He doesn't even have it in him to be angry about the punch, considering that he had enchanted his brother to sleep. His chest hurts far more than his face, anyways. The burn is already starting to heal, but even with his magic, it's painful. "How's your shoulder?"
"Aches." Arthur rolls his shoulder again, gritting his teeth. "Do you have that liniment?"
He holds up the jar that Gaius had given him. "Sit forward, and rest your arm on the table," he says, walking over to stand behind Arthur's chair. Once he had, Merlin unties his sling and folds it over the arm of the chair, then leans forward slightly to grasp the bottom of his tunic, gently easing it up and over without making Arthur lift his arms. The wound has healed up almost entirely, and the scar left behind looks passing strange and gruesome at the same time. It forms a sort of starburst with the jagged fang mark in the centre; the venom had spread outwards from there and eaten into his flesh, leaving scar tissue shiny and smooth, almost like melted wax.
"Minor disagreement, was it? Over what?"
He's not certain if he wants to explain to Arthur just what he had to do in order to save him; he's not in the mood for yet another shouting-at. His ears have only just stopped ringing from the ones Leon and Gaius had given him. "Just…something I did," he replies as he opens the jar, and spreads some of the liniment on his palms, rubbing his hands together to warm it.
"Stop pretending to be interesting, out with it," Arthur replies, reaching back with his right arm to swat at Merlin.
By an unfortunate stroke of luck, he manages to strike Merlin's chest, directly on the burn. He lets out a strangled gasp and staggers back from the chair, clenching his jaw tight, groaning through his teeth.
"What's the matter with you?" Arthur demands, turning in the chair to stare at him. Sharp blue eyes rake over him, taking in Merlin's pallor, the tension in his body, the hand he has hovering protectively over his chest without touching. Immediately, his irritation cools out into understanding, like steel being quenched. "You're wounded."
"I'm fine," Merlin grinds out.
"Obviously you aren't, or you wouldn't be white as bone right now. Come here and let me see," he orders, his tone leaving no room for argument.
Merlin glares, and Arthur glares right back at him. The prince stands up and sits on the edge of the table instead, using one foot to push the chair out in silent command. With a put-upon sigh, Merlin walks back over but doesn't sit down, contrary to the last. He unties his neckerchief and carefully pulls up his tunic. In the centre of his chest where Nimueh's spell had struck is a ferocious burn, blistered and angry red, with bruises beginning to form around it.
"Gods' mercy," Arthur exhales as though he's been struck, eyes widening. "What did you do? Gaius's chambers, right now."
"I fought a sorceress, you dollophead," he says, the prince's lips parting in faint shock. "I'll tell you another time. And Gaius can't do anything for it." Merlin shakes his head as he lowers his tunic. "It's a magic burn, Arthur. It has to heal on its own. Besides, now we match," he chuckles, nodding towards the healing scar on the prince's shoulder.
Arthur doesn't laugh, however, scowling at the now-covered burn as though his royal displeasure could shame it into healing faster somehow. He wishes that he could tell Merlin to stop being so damnably self-sacrificing. As if it'd do any good. He'd probably have better luck trying to command the tides. He reaches out and brushes his fingertips over the fabric of Merlin's tunic without applying pressure onto the burn underneath. "Don't…do that again," he says at last.
"Well, don't get bitten by an enormous venomous beast again," he replies flippantly, but then something softens in his gaze. Merlin raises a hand and slides his fingertips over Arthur's wrist, the back of his hand, a feather-light caress.
It feels like a burning brand, sending a sharp stab of heat all the way up his arm and into his chest, hollowing out a place in him and filling it. Startled, he raises his gaze to Merlin's but sees no shimmer of gold, only blue, mortal and familiar. His heart gives an unfamiliar lurch in his chest, right in that new warm space. Arthur snatches his hand back and leans away. "I'll see you tomorrow," he says brusquely, proud his voice doesn't tremble. "Be on time for once, would you?"
Something passes across Merlin's gaze, there and gone before Arthur could even attempt to recognise it. "Of course. Goodnight, sire," he replies, accepting the tacit dismissal. He takes a step back and gives a little bow.
Arthur stares down at the floor, refusing to look at Merlin until the younger man's left the chambers; once the door shuts, he exhales heavily, leaning back against the edge of the table. He feels disoriented, off-kilter, as though he's just seen the sun rise in the west. What on earth was that?