There are worlds, and there are worlds.
Mordred's always known it to be true. Sometimes when he and Merlin go the standing stones to practice their magics, or when he meditates with Morgana, it almost feels as though he's taken half a step through the veil between the worlds, lying right alongside one another yet separate all the same.
This is no half-step.
He stands in the centre of a ring of standing stones placed amid a lush glade, a great green bowl in the cupped hand of the earth, fringed with towering pines. A lake glistens placidly in the distance. Overhead, the sky reels, bright and dark, filled with stars and a pearly moon. Darkness and light are wedded here, no shadows falling anywhere. Everything is visible to him, standing in stark contrast to itself, each pine needle and grass blade, existing and filled with glorious purpose.
Standing in it, Mordred wants to weep. "No! Please, no! I cannot go now!" he cries. "Send me back! Please, Goddess, send me back."
He feels Her presence before he sees Her, vast and mighty and wondrous, the very ground trembling beneath his feet; the bright spark of his magic, that shining presence that is his tether to the Old Ones and the Triple Goddess, is all ablaze with light, so bright and warm he feels he must certainly be aglow from within. He turns in place, following the tug on that cord. On the far side of the circle there is a great stone doorway, two great pillars of stone thrice a man's height, a broad slab laid across them, the grain and texture of the granite unlike any other he'd seen. And standing in it, the Triple Goddess Herself in all Her aspects. She is the merciful and wild Maiden, the fierce and gentle Mother, the wise and just Crone, laid upon one another, mirrors reflecting mirrors.
Awed, Mordred falls to his knees, head bowed. "I have always done what I can to honour the Old Religion," he whispers, addressing the grass with reverence; he cannot bring himself to look into Her face again, lest his heart burst free from the delicate confines of his ribs. "I have cherished the gifts bestowed on me, no matter their cost. I have walked the path set before me and tried to do so rightly. If I am yours, if I am your child, then I beg you, please, let me go back. It cannot end like this, not now, when we are so close," he implores, hands clasped before him. "For the sake of all those I love and who love me, let me go back."
A warm hand brushes the top of his hair, and he raises his head, gazing into the face of the Goddess Herself. Her eyes are gold and wise, filled with knowledge older than time, regarding him with infinite compassion, hard and fierce, like one of Merlin's embraces, and he knows without words that no matter what comes to pass in his mortal life, he is Hers, Her joy and Her pride, now and always and forever, and when the day comes to pass that he stands in this twilit glade again, She will be waiting for him then.
She leans down to him. Mordred feels Her warm breath on his hair, Her soft lips touch his brow…
…and air rushes back into his lungs in a harsh, scraping rush of life. Mordred flops over onto his side and retches, coughing and sputtering as river water comes up out of his lungs and stomach, dripping from his nose, down his chin. For a moment, he's half-afraid he's going to choke on his own bile, but then he remembers how to inhale again, dragging in ragged gulps of air. His throat is scoured raw, and it feels as though a mule's kicked him in the chest, but he breathes.
For a moment, he can only lay there, gasping, staring up at the sky. It's daylight, patches of painfully bright sky visible between the placid arch of branches. His feet and legs are still in the water. He starts to turn over and winces when something sharp jabs at him. Groping blindly at the muddy bank, he finds what'd pricked him and holds it up before him. A crossbow bolt, the quarrel cunningly barbed.
Letting his arm fall back to his side, Mordred lays for another moment, listening to the sound of his own breath and his heartbeat—alive, alive, alive. Bracing his hands on the bank, he levers himself up, gasping in shock at the pain it sends through every part of him, aching in places he didn't realise he had places. He's definitely alive. With pain also comes memory.
The ambush. Traitors. Camelot. He has to get to Camelot, warn Arthur, warn Merlin.
Slowly, slowly, he drags himself up the bank on hands and knees, clutching at the reeds and grasses to pull himself up, every movement a cacophony of dull-edged pain. Once he gains the top of the bank, he sits back on his heels, trying to gain his bearings.
Still in the forest. He must not've been washed that far downriver. The camp. He'll have to go back to the camp. Goddess only knows what he'll find there, but he'll never get back to Camelot like this. The horses might still be there. Supplies. Something. The memory of the camp burning, the screams, rises in his mind, but he presses both hands over his eyes, shoving it back down. He cannot think on it now. They are dead, he is alive, and there are lives still hanging in the balance.
There's a willow tree just by him, leaning over the river as if to admire its reflection, and Mordred crawls his way to it, grasping at the trunk to pull himself upright, leaning his brow against the ridged bark. He can feel the tree's life, deep and placid and slow, and he inhales slowly, trying to draw its strength to him, just a measure of it. Searching about, he finds a fallen branch sturdy enough to support him, and leaning against it, he starts making his way back upriver towards the camp.
He can smell the smoke before he sees the camp again, charred flesh and bone and human fear; his legs tremble, a deep ingrained instinct telling him to run. Bracing himself against the willow branch, Mordred closes his eyes and breathes deeply, remembering Her touch, the kiss She had laid on his brow. She had sent him back. He won't bow out now. He needs to get to Camelot. Emrys will know what to do, he and Arthur, and then Mordred can rest. He just needs to get to Camelot, and he cannot do it without supplies.
The thought runs through his head in steady mantra, and it's what he braces himself against as he approaches the ruins of the camp.
Never once would he think the day would come that he would mourn to see soldiers of Camelot slain, and yet he does. Half of them he knows by name. Some had taken up defensive positions in front of his own people.
Gripping the willow branch tighter, he starts towards the cavern, knowing there will be supplies there if anywhere, and hopefully there's at least one horse somewhere about—
"Mordred?"
The voice, so painfully familiar, is startling enough to make him drop the branch, staggering from a mix of surprise and disbelief. "Iseldir?"
The Druid elder appears as though he's aged ten winters since their arrival, his silver hair darkened with soot. He holds his left arm close against his side, the flank of his robes torn and disconcertingly stained, and yet he is still on his feet, alive, limping out of the cavern to enfold him in a one-armed embrace. "Mordred," he repeats, a half-laugh coloured with relief and surprise. "Come, come in, child, sit down." In the cavern, there is a small fire kindled, a woven mat of rushes laid out beside it with a familiar figure stretched out across it. "Name of the Mother, I thought that brute had killed you."
"I'm not entirely certain he didn't," Mordred replies dumbly, falling down to his knees beside Lancelot. The knight's face is ashen, lips pale, but his chest still rises and falls in shallow rhythm. "Will he live?"
"His skull was cracked, and he was bleeding inside. I managed to stop the bleeding. The bone, I've had less success with," Iseldir replies, one hand pressed against his injured side as he gingerly lowers himself to a kneeling position. "I didn't want to risk exhausting my magic and dooming us both. How are you alive? I heard that beast had shot you down."
Mordred opens his mouth, then closes it again. He doesn't know how he can put it to words, what he had seen. The twilit glade, the stone doorway. The Triple Goddess.
His thoughts must show on his face somehow, for Iseldir reaches over to touch his arm, his voice gentle with understanding. "Never mind it. You're alive. That is what matters."
"As are you. Anyone else? Necthana? Aglain?"
The elder shakes his head slowly, shoulders dropping slightly. "No. Other than myself and Sir Lancelot, there is only Princess Morgana and Guinevere, as well as Sir Leon. The Priestess said they would make useful hostages," he explains. "We were believed dead and left as such. They were taken."
"Which means they'll be alive for a time yet. A dead hostage is a useless hostage," Mordred declares, affirming his decision. "I need to get to Camelot." It is a skill Merlin has taken great lengths to impress in him, coupling it with the hard-learned lessons of survival he already knew. Think deeply in leisure and swiftly in action, and do not return to the crossroad of a decision once made, for only madness lies that way. Ragged as he is, he cannot hope to stage any kind of rescue on his own, and Arthur is still vulnerable. Whoever has betrayed them is still in Camelot, a fox in their henhouse.
"That is not all they took, child." Iseldir's hand closes around his wrist, hard and intent, pulling sharply to bring Mordred's attention. "She took the Cup of Life."
The breath leaves him in a rush. "Ah, no!"
Iseldir's eyes are dark, jaw set in a hard line so unlike him. "You know what can be done with it, then?" he demands, and Mordred nods shakily. He has heard the tale before. Seven hells, he'd first heard it in this very cavern, sitting at the knee of Aglain and making his first birdbone whistle. "Then you know what is coming. If this Priestess has truly fallen so far, it may well be that Emrys is our only hope of standing against her and the evil she means to summon."
Mordred bobs his head rapidly, his heart taking a faster pace. "Can you summon one of the horses? I'll take Lancelot with me back to Camelot. We'll warn them." His gift for beasts lies only with the feathered breed, and he needs to get Lancelot out of his mail if they're to have any chance of getting him in the saddle. As for the man's injury, Mordred will have to simply pray he's not beyond saving by the time they reach Camelot. He's never had a gift for healing.
Iseldir gingerly draws himself upright again, making his way out of the cavern as Mordred sets to work. It's no easy task with Lancelot unconscious, but nonetheless, he manages it, stripping off the bulky gambeson as well, leaving him only in his tunic. Lurching to his feet, he grasps the edges of the rush mat and starts dragging Lancelot to the mouth of the cave, slow and struggling; by the time he reaches open air, Iseldir has called one of the horses. Mordred gives a sound that's half a laugh and half a sob. It's Flick, Lancelot's gentle chestnut mare, loyal to the last.
"What will you do?" he asks once he manages to get Lancelot up over Flick's saddle, having to lash him in place. It'll not be the most comfortable of rides, but it can't be helped. The effort of it makes black spots swim around the edges of his vision for a moment or so.
"I will warn the other camps. This shadow will not be sated with Camelot alone," Iseldir replies, holding Flick's bridle as Mordred pulls himself astride.
"Will you manage on your own?" He casts a pointed glance down at the man's bloodstained robes.
To his surprise, Iseldir chuckles, a wry smile curving his lips. "Children, always so quick to discredit their elders. I have survived the reign of the Bloody Tyrant. It will take more than a poorly thrown lance to put an end to me." He pats Mordred's knee. "Go, child, and be safe."
Mordred puts his heels to the mare's sides, urging her forward, though he has the sickly feeling that no matter how fast they ride, it shan't be fast enough.
Bellegere flops down on the sun-warmed grass with an exhausted huff, aching arms falling limp at her sides, staring up at the cloud-speckled sky. Her arms hurt all the way up to her shoulders and back, and her hands are stinging numb from the repeated shock of impact. The back of her tunic clings with sweat, as does her hair, and yet, she's happier than she has been in over a month. She's only just closed her eyes when cold water is dumped over her face, sending her lurching back upright with an indignant sputter.
"You looked a bit warm, m'lady," Ione cackles, corking the waterskin; Bellegere scrapes up a clump of newly muddy soil and flings it at her in retaliation.
"You're improving." Grinning, Mhera drives her spear into the ground; even though its the blunt end, she's strong enough to drive it deep enough to stick, the sharp spearhead pointing skyward. "Merlin's taught you well, eh?"
Sweeping her wet hair back out of her face, Bellegere reaches down to pick up her daggers where she'd dropped them on the trampled-down grass. It's the matched pair that Arthur had given her for her natality. The cross-guards are shaped to the likeness of phoenixes, exacting down to the feathers of their spread wings, and there's a cabochon sapphire the size of a marble set in the pommels. "He's a good teacher. Did you spar with him when he lived in Silverpine?" she asks, gesturing at Ione wordlessly; the other girl throws her a scrap of oilcloth, which she uses to wipe down the blades before sheathing them, one strapped to each thigh.
Mhera nods as she sits down in the grass, leaning back on her arms. "Aye, we did. Him and that quarterstaff of his." She lets out a barking laugh, grinning in amusement at the memory. "We used to put the green lads through their paces right quick. You fight like him. Sort of…" One hand makes a circular motion midair. "…roundabout." That's Merlin's fighting style, circles within circles; he calls it telling the hours. Bellegere likes how it almost feels like a dance when they spar, turning round and round one another without ever colliding. It's better than any other dance she's had to learn, at any measure.
"Hey, look there," Ione remarks, nudging her with one elbow and pointing.
Bellegere turns, curious. On the far side of the field, there's a rider emerging from the trees, the horse shambling along at a slow pace. "Where are they coming from?" she wonders aloud; there's no roads that way. That forest only leads into, well, more forest, no towns or villages nearby.
Mhera pushes to her feet, shading her eyes with one hand. "There's two of them," she says, a strange tone to her words. "I think one's injured…." She inhales sharply, face paling, and she utters a sharp string of curses. Reaching down, she snatches Ione to her feet. "Run back to the citadel, go and find Percival, he'll be on guard," she orders firmly.
"What do I tell him?" Ione asks, her voice pitched higher with nervousness.
"Tell him it's Sir Lancelot and Mordred," she orders, and Ione takes off towards the city as though hellfire's at her heels. Mhera snatches her spear from the dirt, pointing at Bellegere. "You wait here."
"But—"
"No! You stay there until I know it is safe," Mhera barks back, already striding forward.
Bellegere's stomach knots over hard, her chest tightening in fear as she watches Mhera. Mordred and Lancelot are supposed to be at the peace treaty. They're not due back to the city for at least another sennight. For them to be back now, alone…. She grips the hilts of her daggers tightly, blood pounding in her ears. Mhera approaches the riders…then turns and brandishes her spear in Bellegere's direction. In an instant, she's sprinting towards them, the rough grasses whipping against her legs, heartbeat echoing her in skull.
As she gains them, she can see that it is indeed Mordred and Lancelot riding Flick, the mare trembling faintly with exhaustion. Mordred looks as though he's been thrown down the side of a mountain, bedraggled and pallid save for the bright flags of fever-colour in his cheeks, eyes glassy. Lancelot isn't even conscious, slumped over Flick's neck, tied to the saddle to prevent him from falling. "Mordred!" Bellegere exclaims, reaching up to grasp his arm; Mhera is on the other side of the exhausted horse, trying to rouse the knight.
He startles at her touch, as though he hadn't even realised she was there, looking down at her dazedly. "Well met, Belligerent," he slurs out. His voice is rasping and hoarse.
Before she can ask what in seven hells is going on, Mordred slumps over in the saddle, and Bellegere snatches at him before he can fall clean from the saddle, staggering under his weight. She stumbles back a step and falls hard on her arse, Mordred's dead weight lying across her legs. He's stone-cold unconscious, giving only a faint moan when she tries to shake him awake.
"Gods' mercy," Mhera exclaims softly, looking between the two of them.
Bellegere heartily agrees.
When Merlin reappears from whatever hole he's slunk away to, Arthur is going to strangle him with that thrice-damned neckerchief of his. His morning had been foul enough, waking to damn George knocking on his chamber door, late for his own damn council meeting, no breakfast in sight. As if to make matters worse, there has been no word from Leon or Morgana, even though he knows full well that they should've reached the camp by now, and of course, now the ones who had spoken against his making peace with the Druids are muttering about the treachery of sorcerers.
"Enough," he barks, raising his voice just loud enough to bring them to silence. Arthur is too hungry to be dealing with this now, still groggy from oversleeping, which is contradictory in its own right, but true nonetheless. He leans back in his chair for a moment, aware of the council's eyes on him, and resists the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose. Instead, he settles for tapping his fingers against the arm of the chair, ring clicking faintly against the wood. "Send a rider to the camp."
"Sire," Agravaine interjects, "are you certain that is entirely wise? It would be most unbecoming if we were to give the impression that we did not trust the very people we are attempting to make peace with."
"It is wise to ensure that my sister is safe," he replies shortly. Beneath his irritation with the world in general, something about this sits wrong with him. Merlin's absence is disconcerting in its own right, and perhaps it's spilling over into this as well, but he knows Morgana, and he knows Leon. They should've sent word by now, if only to tell him they had arrived safely. Mordred had taken three of his ravens with him for that very purpose.
The forming knot of unease in Arthur's gut grows heavier when the council finally disbands and he steps out into the corridor to find Merlin's surly friend Will waiting for him out in the corridor, shifting his weight like a skittish beast, uncomfortable in the castle. "Well?" he asks in an undertone, striding over to him. He hadn't bothered sending George to look for Merlin, as the two avoided one another whenever possible, so he had sent along George to ask Will instead.
"I can't find him, or anyone who's seen him since last night," Will replies. "I even asked Dara. Nobody's seen him."
Unease blooms into outright worry, prickly and hot. Arthur blows out a hard breath, and he takes a step back, reaching up to shove a hand back through his hair. "Well, he didn't turn to smoke. There's over a hundred people in this damned castle at any given time, at least one of them must've—" He stops midsentence and turns back to Will, the other man staring at him with puzzlement. "Go down to the kitchens, find Cook and ask her which of the servants drew the short lot last night. Merlin brought the dishes down to the kitchen, and one of them had to be there to wash them." He remembers Merlin had told him about the scullions drawing lots to see who did the last of the dishes; he'd likened it to the guards drawing lots for the dungeon shift.
For a miracle, Will doesn't argue with him, taking off down the corridor at a rapid clip.
The warning bells toll a single, ominous note.
"Oh, fuck," Arthur exhales heavily. This day is clearly going to be an exercise in trying his patience.
His irritation evaporates, however, when he emerges into the courtyard with the intent of finding out what's happened now, only to be greeted with a chilling sight. There is his cousin and her maidservant, both of them looking uncharacteristically fearful. There is Mhera and Percival, head and shoulders above near everyone else. Both have another person in their arms, carrying them up the front steps into the castle. Two people who should, by all means, be on the other side of the kingdom. Lancelot, unarmed and stripped of his armour. Mordred, white as bone and scarce breathing.
"What—?" He can't get anything else out, chest tightening too much to speak. Out of reflex, he moves aside to let Percival and Mhera pass him, then falls into step behind, knowing they are going to the physicians' chamber.
Bellegere grips his hand tight enough to hurt, nails biting into his palm. "We were out in the field sparring, and we saw them riding in," she explains, her voice strung tight. "Lancelot won't wake, and Mordred collapsed when we got to him. Arthur, what's happened?"
He shakes his head mutely, pulse quickening; she squeezes his hand tighter. "Gently with them," Arthur orders, finding his voice as their strange little party makes the physicians' chamber. Percival and Mhera must duck to get through the doorway, passing by a startled Hunith and Gaius, stooping to let the injured pair down gingerly on the patient cots.
Hunith recovers from the surprise of suddenly having half a dozen people present first. She pushes to her feet and turns to face them, and though she's not taller than a single person amongst them, her voice carries above nonetheless. "If you are not a physician and you are not wounded, I want you out of this chamber now," she orders. The natural command in her voice, the complete and utter expectancy to be obeyed makes Arthur back up as well, taking a step towards the door before he remembers that he is meant to give the orders, not follow them, and holds ground. Hunith raises her brows at him but doesn't argue. The others, however, clear out obediently, though Bellegere has to be assisted by Mhera's firm hand on her shoulder.
Once the chamber is cleared, she marches over and shuts the door firmly, then turns to look at Arthur. "What's happened?"
"I don't know," Arthur admits, watching uneasily as Gaius peers over Lancelot, searching for injuries. "That's what I intend to find out."
"Ar-Arthur," Mordred rasps out as he struggles to sit up, then goes into a fit of harsh coughing.
In an instant, Hunith is at his side, pressing both hands against his shoulders and pushing him back down onto the cot. "No," she says in a tone that brooks no argument. "You stay right there, child, not a word out of you, either of you." She casts a pointed glance towards Arthur at that last, and he nods, obediently moving to sit down on an unoccupied stool. It makes him feel strangely like a boy again, ten winters old and being given a lesson in rudimentary herblore by Gaius, though now he is not memorizing what plants to use for infection and pain. Instead, he's watching two of his dear friends being examined for injury.
"He's taken a severe blow to the head," Gaius announces first, his wizened fingers gently sorting through Lancelot's hair. "It's partially healed, however. It looks to be the work of magic."
"You have my permission to finish the task," Arthur says immediately. In a strictly technical sense, it is still illegal and an act of treason to practice magic in Camelot, but seven hells, he's the king; he'll pardon the old man later. Nodding, Gaius begins to sort through his many books, shifting them aside to reach the backs of the shelves.
Hunith has sat Mordred forward, the lad hunched over his own knees, and she's peering at his back. "What happened here?" she asks, staring at something Arthur cannot see from where he sits. In lieu of answering aloud, Mordred shoves one hand in his pocket and pulls out a crossbow bolt with a razor-edged quarrel, like a lethal star, crusted with dried blood; Arthur swears aloud. "Gods' mercy, child. Breathe in deep. I need to make sure you've not punctured a lung."
"I've not," Mordred coughs, then turns his head towards Arthur. His eyes are fever-bright and dilated. "Traitor in Camelot."
"I said hush," Hunith repeats, but he shakes his head rapidly.
Arthur's back prickles, the skin between his shoulder blades tight and hot. "Who? What traitor?"
"Don't…don't know. Betrayed us. Ambush…at the camp." Mordred coughs again. "Hostages…Morgana, Gwen. Leon."
"They're alive?" he murmurs, and the young man bobs his head, panting as though he's just been made to run laps of the training field. There's a disconcerting rattle in his chest. "Alright, enough, lay down. Listen to Hunith. You're no good to anyone dead," Arthur instructs, clasping one hand firmly over Mordred's shoulder and pushing him back with gentle insistence to lay on the pallet.
When he makes to withdraw, however, the lad's hand comes up and grasps his wrist painfully tight, fingertips digging in hard, and Arthur stares down at him in surprise. "Morgana's visions," he rasps. "Traitors…bound her…."
"Someone's used magic to bind Morgana from her visions?" Arthur prompts, understanding. "The traitor, the person here in Camelot?"
A small nod. "Emrys. Tell Emrys."
Arthur tastes bile in the back of his mouth. "I'll tell him. Sleep." The lie is bitter on his tongue, but if it shows on his face, Mordred doesn't see it, his hand falling limp from Arthur's wrist as he slumps back on the pallet, his rough breath evening out.
"Have you found him?" Hunith asks in a whisper, grinding herbs together into a poultice.
He shakes his head, already turning towards the door. "I'll need to speak to them when they wake," he orders, stepping out of the physicians' chamber and yanking the door closed behind him. For a moment, Arthur leans back against the wall, head tilted back to stare up at the ceiling above him, breathing raggedly. A part of him wants to scream with frustration and rage, find something suitably heavy to smash to pieces against a wall, set the entire forest on fire to smoke out whoever is responsible for this, but he wrestles it back down, forcing it down into that deep, bottomless pit he'd carved into himself long ago. He is the king. He cannot be weak, and he cannot be out of control. Instead, he presses the heels of both hands against his closed lids until he sees white starbursts, pieces aligning with terrible clarity in his head.
They'd already had their suspicions about a traitor to be found in Camelot and had since Talorcan's murder, but now, now he knows it for certainty, and more than that as well. It's a member of the council. It must be. He hadn't informed anyone of who he would send to the Druids until the night before as a precaution, and he had told only the council, not the entire court. He knows from a tactician's viewpoint that there is no possible way to stage an ambush large enough to overcome an entire Druid camp and an armed escort in the time it had taken Morgana's party to journey from Camelot to the camp, not to mention ensure that they didn't accidentally kill the hostages. But it might be done if they knew a day ahead of time.
They'll be alive. Morgana, Guinevere, Leon. If they were all taken hostage, then they will be alive. A princess of Camelot and the commander of the knights, they'll be valuable. And Guinevere, she'll have use as leverage against Morgana as well. Cold of him, perhaps, but he has to look at it thusly. As for Morgana's visions…. That can only be the work of Morgause. The High Priestess is the only person outside of Camelot who knows of Morgana's visions, and he imagines she's the only one who would have the knowledge and ability to put a binding spell on Morgana strong enough to stifle her dreams and hide the evidence of it. And the only person who might be able to break that binding is Merlin.
Merlin, who has disappeared without so much as a bloody trace.
Taken. Not disappeared.
Whoever is spying for Morgause, whoever has betrayed them, they have taken Merlin.
Consciousness returns slowly, painfully, like dragging oneself out of a thick black mire that clings and drags.
"…not simply give him more?"
Everything hurts. The base of his spine throbs with dull fiery pain.
"Not without damage. Serket venom must be applied with care."
Venom. A silver needle. Fire in his blood.
"Do we need him undamaged? He's a serving boy."
Frigid, burning weight around his wrists, ankles, throat. His magic, guttering low like a flame half-smothered.
"The king's serving boy. Servants hear more than anyone. He knows, I'm certain of it."
Three voices. A woman, familiar. Two men, not. He clenches his fists, testing.
"And soon you will know as well. He may be of sterner stock than most, but he is still only a man."
Manmade walls of stone. Hot, heavy air and a dark metallic scent. Blood. Curls his toes; no boots, no socks.
"We will see."
Footsteps, fading away. Tenses the muscles in his legs.
"Work swiftly. Things are at last beginning to move, and we cannot afford to delay them."
Flexes his shoulders. A hot ripple of pain follows down his back, knotting up low in his spine. Bearable.
"It will be as you wish, High Priestess."
Footsteps again, the step lighter, the stride shorter. A distant door slamming shut.
"Artless cunt."
Footsteps, a different stride again, softer. Bare feet? Coming closer, too. One, two, three paces. A hand on his cheek, pressing and then moving up, drawing away the darkness with it, rough cloth dragging against his skin. A dazzling onslaught of light, braziers and torches all aflame. A young man's face, clean-shaven and fair, a surprisingly kind smile and two pale, pale eyes, like moonlight made tangible.
"Glad to see you are awake. I was very nearly concerned. I told that mute to take care with this." A silver needle is held up in front of his face, long and thin and glittering, deadly sharp. "Serket venom is dangerous enough, even when properly diluted, but if it ended up in your spine…mm." The point of the needle traces feather-light down his cheek, cold despite the stifling heat of the chamber. "Even my arts could not help you then. Now." The young man smiles. It would've been a kind expression, if not for the eyes. Cold as the silver and sharper still. "I have been instructed to ask you questions. If you do not answer…" The needle presses more firmly against his cheek; so much as a twitch, it'll break skin. "…I will persuade you otherwise. It is no good to lie to me. I will know. It is my gift, you see. That, I did not learn. My art, however, I have studied long and hard. You understand?"
He blinks in affirmation, afraid to move his head. When he swallows, the cold iron collar around his throat scrapes against his skin.
"Good. Let us begin." The needle withdraws. "Now, speak the truth to me." Pain, sharp and bright, slides into his arm, and a prickling heat blooms outwards from its source, hotter and hotter the further it moves up his arm. "What is your name?"
"Merlin." It leaps from him unbidden, compelled by the stinging, seeping heat.
"Who do you serve?"
"Arthur Pendragon."
"Very good. Now." Those moon-pale eyes stare into him. "Who is Emrys?"