With the exception of Uther Pendragon, cold iron is undoubtedly a sorcerer's worst enemy. It strangles magic, restrains it, cages it up inside the sorcerer, which goes against everything magic is meant to be and causes it to burn against the skin. A sorcerer of exceptional power might be able to manage a few small charms, but not enough to make the pain involved worthwhile. Unless, of course, they are creative in how they choose to spend that power.
Merlin has been experimenting with cold iron since he was a boy. Upon repeated insistence, Sir Lionel had given him a few links of it, pieces from a broken chain, and he'd spent countless hours working with it, testing his power against it. The trick of it is not to force the iron itself, but everything else. The table he lies upon is crafted of stone, and it is to the table his binds are attached, the cold iron shackles bolted fast. Half-smothered and tainted with whatever corrupt tinctures coat the interrogator's needle, his magic cannot break the cold irons. But it can crack stone.
After the endless sessions with his interrogator, the same questions over and over, the needles and the fire that scorches through him, when he feels a measure of strength creep back into him, he repeats the same two words over and over. Stán, tócínan. Again. Stán, tócínan. Again. Little by little, one fissure at time, he's crumbled the stone around the bolts holding the cuffs. He's careful to do it slowly, to avoid garnering the interrogator's notice, but finally he knows it'll take only one sharp pull to free himself, the stone reduced to nothing more than gravel still aligned.
He shudders as the last needle is drawn free of his flesh, feeling blood well up and trickle over his skin. The pale-eyed man uses a piece of clean cloth to wipe it clean, neat and precise as ever. "You make things needlessly difficult," he says. Even the manner of his speech is pointedly tidy, each word and syllable pronounced in full. "I would suggest you cease before the High Priestess returns. She will be displeased, and I have seen personally what she does to those she is displeased with. As she cannot deliver such harm upon me, have no doubt that she will instead deliver it unto you." He turns and lays his needles down on the worktable, removing his gloves with delicate care. Turning back to face Merlin, he reaches over to lay a chilled hand on his chest. His fingertips are frigid. He lingers there for a moment, gazing down at Merlin with those strange moon-coloured eyes and incongruously dark lashes. "You are a very curious creature, Merlin. I will be sorry to see you die."
He imagines that is about as near this unnatural man gets to friendship.
Withdrawing his hand, the interrogator turns away from him and walks out; with the collar around his throat, Merlin can't lift his head enough to see, but he imagines there's another chamber attached to this one where the interrogator's been taking his rest. Merlin starts counting. Once the interrogator leaves him, he doesn't return, but still he waits, counting. When he reaches five-and-seventy without hearing any returning motion, Merlin closes his eyes. Turning his hands in their binds, he clenches his fists and pulls, curling his arms upward.
The crumbling stone gives way, the bolts falling loose. He bites the inside of his mouth to keep from sobbing aloud when his magic leaps joyously, warm and bright and sweet. Reaching up, he grasps the collar and pries it free, gritting his teeth against the frigid scald of it against his fingers, setting it aside gently as to not make noise. Sitting up, he reaches down and frees his ankles. For a moment, he can only sit there and try not to weep as his magic sweeps through him unrestrained, and he feels it setting him to rights, off-colour blood seeping from his wounds as the toxins are purged from his veins, the small wounds closing up and leaving behind tender scars. Listening for any sign of movement from the next chamber, he swings his legs over the edge of the table and rises, wobbling unsteadily. No windows, no light, he doesn't know how long he's been down here. Once he's certain he can walk without falling, he takes a step over to the worktable.
There are three-and-ten needles in all, different sizes, each fashioned of bronze and banded about three-quarters down their length, laid out in a neat, burnished row. Arranged with similar precision are one-and-ten small glass bottles, a stack of folded cloth squares, three wooden bowls of differing sizes. Merlin doesn't know what all the bottles are, what they're concocted from. Sweat from a madman's brow and slime from a horned toad, blood from a maiden's heart and ashes from a murderer's pyre, he cannot say. Whatever it is, he knows not one of them are friendly in their effects, as he's felt for himself. A bright gleam of silver catches his gaze, and he turns towards it, staring. Set apart from the rest of the tools, on its own separate piece of lambskin, a silver needle two handspans long and a small glass bottle. It looks like ink. He knows it isn't.
He takes up one of the clean, folded cloths and winds it around his hand, remembering the gloves the other man wears when handling the needles. Holding the bottle steady with his bare hand, he pulls the cork free with his wrapped one. The Serket venom has a peculiar smell to it, terribly bitter yet sweet enough to gag, akin to rotting meat.
With utmost care, he drips the Serket venom into the shallowest of bowls and rolls the needle through it; when he lifts it from the bowl, the venom dries scarce seconds, forming a clear coat over the silver that gleams with a faint rainbow sheen.
Thus armed, Merlin takes slow, measured steps into the next chamber. There is a sleeping mat of woven rushes on the floor beside a folded stack of clothes, all the same pure white. The interrogator sits at a small table on a chair, writing in a small journal. His back is to Merlin.
He has more skill in breaking the body than he does in healing it, but he isn't ignorant of the physician's art. Mother and Gaius have taught him a great deal over the years, and he has a number of tomes in his library involving healing magic. He knows how to strike a man to make him suffer, where to cut to make him bleed out. And he knows how best to strike a target as narrow as the spine without missing.
The needle goes in with ease; the interrogator takes care of his tools, sharpened silver passing neatly through flesh and bone. Merlin is stronger than him, muscle in his arms and shoulders built from years of training. He drives the needle in all the way up to where his hand grasps the haft.
The young man doesn't scream. Merlin's not certain he can. All that escapes him is a gasp, soft as a lover's sigh, and he falls back in the chair, rigid as a corpse in the cold. When his head tilts back against the chairback, he sees Merlin, and his eyes widen slightly, pupils enormous, only a thin band of moon-pale colour visible at their edges.
"Speak the truth to me," Merlin whispers, leaning over him. "What is your name?"
The man's body twitches fitfully, without conscious thought. In his lap, his hands are curled into stiff claws. "Brienus of…of the…Azdaha." Black foam froths at the corners of his mouth.
"Brienus of the Azdaha. You've asked a question of me. I'll answer it now." He leans in closer, unafraid; this man can do him no further harm. Those pale, pale eyes follow him even as his lashes flicker, rapid and unevenly. "I am Emrys."
"Checkmate. Are you looking forward to tonight?"
Bellegere scoffs as she resets the board, turning it so this time Mordred plays white. "No," she replies flatly.
With all that's been going on, she hadn't imagined the feast of Mabon would still be held, but Arthur had agreed with Father's suggestion to have the feast as normal, to reassure the people of the city. With Morgana captured and the Southrons clearly planning to move against Camelot, she doesn't see much reason to celebrate, but there's a certain reasoning in it, she supposes. People are nervous. It'd be wise for Arthur to reassure them. The feast simply isn't all that reassuring to her. She's five-and-ten now, which means she is of age to be playing games of courtship and to have proper suitors, and she knows full well that Father is doing his damndest to have her wedded off quickly. He's a fool if he believes she'll go quietly, though she doesn't imagine he'll have much luck to begin with. Lady Belligerent doesn't attract many suitors.
Turning her thoughts away from Father and courting and other shudder-worthy subjects, she raises her gaze to Mordred. "You've not been sleeping, have you?"
"No, Mother," he retorts; she kicks him under the table. He yelps in pain then curses her with inventive colour, though it lacks the usual vehemence he puts behind it. Letting out a sigh, he sits back in his chair, gazing absently at the board. There're shadows beneath his eyes, bruise-dark against his pallor, and if she had to guess, she would say he hasn't been eating either. "The townhouse is so quiet," he admits, voice soft. "Allegra's miserable. Beryl, Sam, Elfgifa…even Clory, though she's better at hiding it. They're afraid. So am I."
"They'll be alright, Mordred," she replies, jostling his leg under the table with one foot, though this time as reassurance. Most might only see Merlin as a servant, but she knows he's made of sterner stock than anyone. She knows the same to be true of Leon and Morgana, and even of Guinevere, strong in her own ways. "So, what do you think of these Southrons, hm? I wonder what's made them brave enough to move against Camelot now when they never have before. And are you going to move sometime before Samhain?"
Mordred gives her a flat look, unamused, then reaches forward, moving a pawn. "There. And I don't know."
She moves a pawn of her own. He's lying. She would've thought he would know better than that by now, but considering that he's nearly died and Arthur's been speaking to him in private, she imagines he either doesn't want to speak of it, or he's been ordered not to. The memory of the scar on his back, small but so deadly, like a silver-white star between his shoulder blades, drifts across her mind, and she lets the lie go. "Perhaps they've made an ally of someone powerful," she poses, carefully testing. "The camp was near Essetir's borders, was it not? Cenred's invaded Camelot once before."
Mordred is adept at dissembling. He'd taught her the nine telltales of a lie. It's only because she knows him so well that she recognises it in him, the half-heartbeat of pause before he answers. He moves a knight into play. "Maybe. I wouldn't think they'd be able to be allies. It takes a certain sort to command an army, and those personalities tend not to keep company very well."
Bellegere props her chin on one fist as she surveys the chessboard, drumming her fingers against the arm of the chair. "Cenred doesn't strike me as a man who takes failure well," she says at last, reaching out to touch the black king with a fingertip. "He attempted to invade once and failed. That failure will weigh on him."
Mordred cocks his head in that birdlike way of his. "Do you think he'd be so rash, though? Arthur defeated him when he was only the prince. Would he attempt it again now that he's the king?"
"Fair point." Bellegere moves her finger to trace the crown of the black queen. Reaching forward, she moves her bishop out, taking one of his pawns. "Still, it will be interesting to see what they will do."
"That reminds me. Here." Mordred pushes back from the table and stands, going to the cupboard; Ione must've let him in earlier, if he's hidden something there.
Bellegere gasps softly when he turns back around. "My bow! Where did you find it?" she asks, rising to take it from him gently. After they had returned from Castle Fyrien, Father had taken it from her chambers, and she had been quite convinced he'd turned it to kindling.
"On the roof," he replies in amusement. "I think he threw it from a window. I'm sorry I didn't give it to you earlier. I had to take it to a bowyer."
Once he says it, she notices that the bowstring is new, as is the fletching on the arrows. The metallic green of peacock has been replaced with the white feathers of snow goose, painted with blue stripes. Setting it aside, she embraces him hard, squeezing him tightly about the ribs to hear him grunt and whinge, though she's still careful of his back; he groans and pushes her away with feigned irritation, though the curve of his mouth gives away his humour. "Will you be coming to the feast tonight?" she asks, taking up her bow again, testing the draw. "Or vigil again?"
"Vigil. I've never sat it by myself before." Mordred scrubs his hands over his arms as if to stave off a chill. "But at least it's the last year I'll have to," he adds with a smile.
"Good." Bellegere grins and punches his shoulder. "I expect a dance out of you." She prefers to dance with steel in hand, but after seeing the looks of borderline panic on his face whenever someone even mentions dancing to him, she'll gladly take her turn in the ballroom.
"Expect to have your toes stepped on," he retorts, rubbing the offended shoulder, and then groans, making a face.
Bellegere laughs at his expression. "What is it?"
He scowls unhappily, arms folded, and there's a certain amount of sulking in his voice when he replies, "I have to go make nice with your father." He huffs out a breath, giving her a flat look. "You're my friend and I love you dearly, Lady Belligerent, but I don't like that man."
She snorts and claps a hand to his shoulder. "Don't worry, neither do I. Alright, go on. Out with you. The feast is soon to start, and I have to get ready," she announces, seeing Ione enter the room with an armful of clothes—she'd asked for her best outfit to be laundered before the feast. Bellegere loves him well too, and she's always grateful to have another person who treats her as a person rather than just a girl, but she draws the line at undressing in front of him. If anyone ever discovers that she's stripped in front of him, Father will turn him into the smoothest eunuch from here to Constantinople.
Grasping his shoulders, she turns him about and pushes him towards the door, laughing as he purposefully drags his feet, leaning back against her hands. Finally, she gives him a hearty shove into the corridor. "Joyous Mabon to you, and have a happy vigil," she drawls with exaggerated feeling, and Mordred makes a rude gesture recognised the world over. Laughing, Bellegere shuts the door between them.
He stands in the corridor for a moment, arms folded over his chest. He doesn't want to apologise to Agravaine. Lancelot had asked it of him, if not for his own sake, then at least for Arthur's; the king has enough to worry on without there being dissent in his own household. He doesn't want to sit vigil beneath the quickbeam tree in the gathering cold, either. He's never sat by himself, and he's always been fearful of what he'll find if he goes too deeply into himself without Merlin to draw him back.
Finally, Mordred sighs and starts towards the kitchens. Surely someone there will know where Agravaine is, or at least where Arthur is, as the two haven't been far from one another in the past sennight. He supposes he owes such to Merlin, to keep the vigil he's held so long and to give Arthur whatever help he can. He touches his wrist lightly, feeling the shape of Merlin's throwing knife under his sleeve. Arthur has the other one, as well as Merlin's broken quarterstaff in his chambers; Mordred believes he has the right spell to make it whole. He'll ask Arthur in the morning.
None of the kitchen servants have seen Lord Agravaine, though they're kind enough to inform him that the King is in the Great Hall finalizing the events of the feast. Mordred waits until Cook's back is turned, then takes a linen napkin and snatches a thick slice of venison dressed with currants. Just because he's to sit vigil during the festivities doesn't mean he should deprive himself of all enjoyment.
"Oy!"
Recognising his impending doom at the hands of Cook and her skull-cracking ladle, he beats a hasty retreat with his prize, chortling all the while. He savours the treat as he walks, having to switch from hand to hand as the hot grease soaks through the linen napkin. As the servers begin to make their march to the Great Hall, bearing fragrant dishes between them, Mordred starts making his way home. Wherever Agravaine has gotten to, it's doubtful he'll find the man now, as he's probably already taken his seat at the table with Arthur.
Licking the last bit of currant from his fingers, he starts to turn down the last flight of stairs that'll take him out to the courtyard when he catches glimpse of two unfortunately familiar figures at the far end of the corridor, one garbed in grey, the other in sable. One would think that a man as wealthy as Agravaine would be more than capable of affording clothes in more than one colour. He's going in the opposite direction of the Great Hall—no doubt Bellegere's tardy and he's going to fetch her from her chambers and scold her personally. "My lord Agravaine!" he calls, hastening to catch them up and hopefully give her time enough to get down to the feast.
Sayer halts firm, and Agravaine whirls on him sharply, and for the briefest moment, Mordred would swear there was something akin to fear in his eyes. But then it disappears behind his usual air of superiority, chin lifting. "You're Merlin's ward, aren't you?" he asks. Distaste colours his tone. Faintly, perhaps, but still there. "My daughter's…companion."
"Yes, my lord." Name of the Mother, Lancelot owes him so dearly for this.
"Well? What do you want?"
He takes a deep breath and inclines his head, forcing a contrite tone. "I would ask your forgiveness for my behaviour at the Druid camp. I acted out of turn. I did not mean to give offense."
"Yes, well, one would assume you have been taught better, but I understand that tensions have been high," Agravaine says in that idly condescending tone of his. He isn't looking at Mordred at all, adjusting the cuffs of his jacket.
A glimpse of colour there catches Mordred's gaze—a loop of thick red yarn knotted around Agravaine's wrist, bright against the luxuriantly dark-dyed fabric of his coat. It stirs a memory, Sayer's hard hand on the nape of his neck, yarn standing out sharply scarlet against a sombre grey uniform.
The lord goes on in that same damn voice, as though he is speaking to a simpleton, "I understand the King is looking to move past the prejudices of the past, but one cannot deny those of magic are inclined to be of a cunning nature, especially now with the Southrons working in tandem with a priestess."
Mordred freezes on indrawn breath, feeling for a moment as though the earth has dropped away beneath his feet.
And understands too late.
They have been played from the beginning.
Agravaine has been on the council since he arrived in Camelot, sat at Arthur's side, privy to the King's every plan, there to offer him counsel at every crossroad. Morgana, they hadn't found anything in her chambers or belongings that could bind her from her visions…. Yarn. Wrapped around a bar of cold iron and soaked in salt water, red yarn could be used to make charms that prevent one from being seen in a scrying mirror. Or by a seer. And the more he integrates himself into their future, the less anyone will be able to see of it. But still…Bellegere's father, Arthur's uncle, his own kin….
"Priestess, my lord?" he asks, proud his voice stays steady. "I have not heard of any priestess." Do not let it be true. Say nothing more of it. Let it be a mistake.
Agravaine gives a small, patronising smile that doesn't come near to his eyes. "Yes, well, the King does not hold his council with children, does he?"
Heart and mind racing, Mordred tries to swallow past the abrupt tightness in his throat. Agravaine isn't at the feast. The celebration of Mabon had gone forward on his insistence, and he isn't there. But Arthur is. His most loyal supporters are. The rest of the council is. And Merlin…Agravaine would need a scapegoat to blame, but he would also want Merlin out of the way if he needed unhindered access to Arthur's chambers…to the keys kept at his bedside. The vaults. The kingdom's most important documents. The siege tunnels.
"No, my lord. He doesn't," Mordred whispers, aware of the man's dark gaze boring into him, narrowed and suspicious. "And he does not share it with you."
The flicker of Agravaine's gaze is the only warning Mordred has before metal flashes in front of his face and a steel cable pulls tight around his throat.
Morgana can feel her magic leap back to life the instant Gwen opens the first shackle, a banked flame suddenly fed, and she bites back a sigh of relief. The sensation is akin to having a tight bandage abruptly unwound, blood rushing back into a numbed limb, except she can feel this in her very soul. The silver leaves no mark on her skin when it comes off.
"You know, my lady, I have served you for years," Gwen observes as she moves to Morgana's other ankle to open that shackle as well, fitting the bent nail to the keyhole. "I would follow you to the ends of the earth if you wished it." The shackle clicks open, and Morgana kicks the chain away; Gwen takes her left wrist next. "But this is, without a doubt, the single most insane thing you have ever conjured." Another click, another soul-bright leap of magic freed. "And I want you to know that I believe you fully mad to attempt it." Both hands free.
Morgana turns her back to her maidservant, moving aside her braided hair. "I know, but we have no choice. This is our best chance," she replies, keeping herself still as Gwen carefully slips the nail into the collar's lock.
Whoever betrayed them in Camelot has worked quickly; Morgause is moving against Arthur already. From the tower window, they'd had a clear view of Cenred's army moving out, ranks and ranks on march towards Essetir's border with Camelot, coupled with the black-clad forms of the Southrons. Morgana had hoped to make an escape before, hoping to get ahead of the army and perhaps reach the city before them. Now all she can do is pray that her message has reached Arthur and Merlin. With the army gone, however, they have the greatest chance of making a clean escape.
The collar springs open, falling from her neck to join the chains coiled in her lap, still cold to the touch, and she gives a relieved sigh, running one hand along her throat. She doesn't have long to relish her freedom. Speed is of the essence. Rolling up the silver chains in their thin blanket so they do not rattle, she hands it over to Guinevere, rises from the bed, and goes to the door. Pressing her hands against the wood, she pushes her magic through the solid wood, feeling her way through to the other side. It is locked from the outside, the crossbar set in place. "Aliese," she whispers; the bolt slides.
They're silent for a span of heartbeats, listening for any sign of movement. When there is none, Morgana eases the door open slowly, peering out. There's a small landing before the door, then a narrow staircase leading sharply downwards, which means the guards will be posted at the bottom of the stairs. Gwen stays a step behind her as she descends the stairs on stockinged feet, having taken her boots off for stealth. At the curve of the staircase, she peers 'round and grins. At the foot of the stairs, facing out towards the corridors, two guards stand. One is slouching back against the wall, the other idly drumming the beat of a popular tavern song on the haft of his halberd with two fingers—the corridor is empty.
Morgana squeezes Guinevere's hand twice, then moves further down the stairs towards them. When she can come no closer without entering their peripheral vision, she releases the other woman's hand. "Swefe nu!"
The guards collapse to the ground in ungainly heaps. Thankfully, they are wearing boiled leather and heavy robes rather than mail, so it doesn't make too terrible of a noise, though Morgana does have to lunge forward to catch the one's halberd before it can fall. Again, there's a moment of tense silence, listening for any sign that they've alerted anyone else. Exhaling slowly, she holds her hand out towards the guards. "Flēogé."
There's a surprising sensation of weight, though it isn't any kind of weight Morgana could explain in so many words, not like lifting something physically. The crumpled bodies lift from the ground; only a few inches, but enough for her to move them up the stairs into the chamber, dropping them unceremoniously to the floor. Neither man stirs. Leaving the door open to better hear any noise from below, they immediately set to the task of stripping off their armour and uniforms.
"How long do you think we'll have before they notice us gone?" Guinevere asks as she strips off her gown. Once down to her smallclothes, she wraps the rolled-up blanket around her waist, tying the corners together, then starts pulling the guard's uniform on over them.
"Nobody's bothered us thus far. I don't believe they mean to until after the invasion." Morgana gathers up her braid and ties it in a lover's-haste knot, tucking it beneath the cowl. If Cenred and Helios cannot take Camelot, no doubt they'll set the city to siege and use her as a bargaining tool to force Arthur's surrender. That, or they'll use some dire magic to sap her will, a mummer queen for them to rule.
The guard's uniform fits her well enough, and the stiff, spacious boiled leather helps mask her form. The boots are too large, but with the laces tightened, they stay on her feet, which is all she truly needs of them. She winds the scarf around her neck and head as the man had worn it, covering the lower half of her face; rising to her feet, she grabs the halberd and stands at attention. "Do I make a convincing guardsman?"
Gwen manages a smile as she fixes her own scarf. "Quite. Let's go."
Locking the door behind them, they go back down the stairs to stand at the guards' post, trying to affect the same bored casualness the men had, slouching back against the wall. Morgana begins to count in her head, measuring out her breathing just as she'd learnt to in meditation, praying for the Crone's wisdom that she has timed this properly.
When she reaches eight-and-seventy, the sound of footsteps becomes audible, coming closer. Her palms prickle with sweat, and she draws herself upright just as two guards come around the corner. They're similarly garbed in cowls and scarves against the deepening chill, and they give her and Guinevere small nods as they approach. She returns the gesture, moving away from the wall and walking away, Gwen at her side. The guards take up the posts at the foot of the stairs, leaning against the wall on either side of the staircase.
The muscles in her legs tremble, the skin between her shoulder blades tight and prickling as she walks down the corridor, drawing on every ounce of patience and control she has to keep a steady pace, to not break into a wild sprint once they round the corner. The moment they are alone in the corridor, Morgana takes Gwen by the arm and draws her into an alcove, pressing back against the wall. With her maidservant keeping watch, Morgana carefully pulls out the glossy black feather she'd taken from their message raven, a green pine needle twined around the shaft and tied with a few strands of wool from their blanket. Cupping the feather in her palms, she closes her eyes and gathers up her magic, combined with her desire to find, and breathes out Leon's name to blow it from her hands. The feather drifts downwards…then catches and flies, bobbing along delicately through the air.
Tugging the scarf back into place, she grabs hold of the halberd and follows; Guinevere stays directly at her side, matching her step for step. Her grip on the halberd is so tight the leather of her gloves creak.
True as a lymer on a blood-trail, the feather leads them through the corridors and staircases of Cenred's castle. There are only a few other guards present, and though her heart pounds so hard she is certain they will hear it, nobody stops them. They earn not a single glance. None of them pay mind to the feather drifting idly through the air above their heads.
When they come to a flight of stairs descending sharply, she knows without knowing that they've reached the dungeons. Morgana's mouth goes dry, but she forces her legs to continue moving. Confidence. They must appear to have purpose. Nobody will question them if they move with purpose and do not hesitate. There are no guards in the dungeon proper, and Morgana internally sends a prayer of thanks to the Maiden for her mercy.
The feather drifts to the floor in front of a heavy door. When she tests the handle, it turns with ease. She cannot decide if it's confidence or arrogance. The moment she draws open the door, however, a lean, dark shape lunges out of the room, tackling her about the middle and bearing her to the floor. Sparks explode across her vision when the back of her head collides with the stone floor. Through her spinning vision, she sees Guinevere step forward, halberd raised, but then she tumbles backwards as if yanked by an unseen rope.
Magic, bright and familiar.
"Merlin!" Morgana gasps out. "Merlin, stop, it's me!" she cries, reaching up to scrabble at the scarf, yanking it away from her face.
Straddling her middle, the young man blinks in surprise, the—is that a needle?—clutched in his fist halting only a few inches above her throat. "Morgana?" he whispers. He raises his head, staring at Guinevere, sitting up with a pained grunt, scarf askew. "Gwen? What in seven hells are you doing here?"
"We're hostages, and we are in the middle of an escape, so if you would please…?"
A hoarse laugh escapes him as he gets to his feet, pulling her up. He's paler than is wont, with dark shadows lingering beneath his gaze, but there's a fierce brightness in his eyes, a savage energy. "As are we. You felt it, then? That magic?" he demands of Morgana, and she nods brusquely. The night before the army had departed, she had felt a terrible surge of power within the castle, her own magic flaring in alarm even through the stifling silver chains. She can still feel it now, a coiled knot of cold, unwavering knowledge that something is very wrong in the world.
Leon appears in the doorway, leaning against the doorframe; he looks truly haggard, though she can see no visible mark on him, tremors running through his frame. "We have to get to Camelot," he rasps out as Gwen moves to his side, drawing his arm around her shoulders.
Morgana shakes her head. "The army is already marching. We won't get in front of them. I sent a message—"
"Arthur won't get it." Merlin's jaw is set in a hard line, throat moving convulsively as he swallows. "Agravaine is the traitor," he grinds out, voice strangled with emotion. "He betrayed you to the Southrons, he had me captured and brought here, and he'll keep Arthur blind to the invasion until they've knocked in the gates."
For a moment, she cannot breathe, and her body goes cold to think that Arthur is alone in Camelot, unaware of the serpent sat at his table. Morgana presses a hand over her mouth, eyes closed tightly as she takes a deep breath, then another, centering herself. "What can we do?" she asks once she knows she won't scream the moment her mouth opens.
He shakes his head rapidly. "Arthur would sooner die than give up Camelot, but Mordred, Lancelot…they'll get him out of the city. We'll find them. And we will need reinforcements if we are to retake our kingdom," he adds, then plucks at her sleeve, pointing further into the dungeons. "Down here." With that, he turns and marches in the direction he had pointed, moving at a rapid stride.
Bemused, Morgana goes to Leon's other side, supporting the tall knight between herself and Guinevere as he stumbles along, barely able to lift his feet from the floor. They find Merlin standing in a long, low-ceilinged chamber hosting easily two dozen cells, each bearing a handful of prisoners. Though it's difficult to make out much in the darkness, she can see that the closest prisoners are bound in cold irons; from the faint rattling and clinking, she guesses they are all bound in cold iron. "Who are these people?" she whispers.
"Sorcerers. The ones Cenred captures for his army, the ones who refuse to join with Morgause," he murmurs, then steps forward. He carries himself upright, shoulders firm and jaw set, and she can feel the power rolling out of him even from where she stands, bright and hot, spilling over his edges in a roiling bath. If it'd been water, it'd be lapping at her chin and rising. "It ends," he declares, voice ringing from the walls. "The Bloody Tyrant is dead, and the Great Purge is over. The Old Religion lives, the new age has begun."
When he speaks, Morgana can hear another voice with his, a woman's voice, echoing in and with Merlin's.
"In the name of the Maiden…"
[In the name of my sisters…]
"In the name of the Mother…"
[In the name of my children…]
"And in the name of the Crone…"
[And in the name of all those who have come before…]
["It ends now!"]
The last is spoken all at once, ringing double tones that she can feel echo in her very bones. There is thunder without sound, a vast impact upon the air, and the dungeons are full of the smell of heated metal and the wild places of the earth. There's a tremendous cracking sound, loud as life, a great cloud of dust billowing.
Morgana coughs, waving away the dust and smoke, and when it clears, she sees where it had come from.
The doors of the prison cells have been ripped clean from the stone, the iron twisted into pitiful, skeletal shapes on the floor. Every chain has been similarly torn from the walls and the floors, the collars and shackles shattered into so many fragments, cold iron rendered harmless as brittle wood. The imprisoned sorcerers are all unharmed, not a scratch to be found. They stare up at Merlin in awe and fear and hope, some falling to their knees, bowing low; the name Emrys is whispered in the darkness, feathery and reverent.
Merlin turns to face them, gold still dancing through his gaze, giving off magic like heat. "Now we may go."
"We have to get out of here, now."
Mordred's voice strident despite his bruised throat, and though he's still shorter than Lancelot by half a head, he looks quite savage, covered in blood that isn't his and clutching Merlin's quarterstaff, somehow whole again.
"Move the tables against the doors!" Lancelot orders. "Barricade them as best you can!" Once, just once, he wants there to be a normal feast day in Camelot that doesn't involve bloodshed or conflict in any shape or form. Suddenly, despite everything, he wishes desperately that Guinevere was here with him. Her steadfast calm would do well in this. Half of the people in the inner chamber are noblewomen who have likely never seen anything more violent than a tourney, the other half are unarmed noblemen either too young or too old to be of use. The only ones armed at all are the two knights and six guardsmen who had managed to make the inner chamber before the doors closed, along with Lancelot, Arthur, Mordred, and Bellegere. That made two-and-ten. Two-and-ten against hundreds, thousands.
On the other side of the chamber, Bellegere climbs up onto one of the benches and pulls herself up towards the window, peering out. "Cousin, there's more of them coming through the square. The lower town is burning," she exclaims.
Arthur lets out a string of colourful words, one hand clutched tightly against his side where one of the Southrons had managed a lucky blow before they closed the doors. "How did they get through the gates? Why did no one ring the bells?"
Again, Mordred hisses like a scalded cat. "They did not come through the gates, they came beneath them, through the tunnels." He grabs hold of Lancelot's arm, fingertips digging in hard enough to bruise. "Do you not hear me? These men cannot be killed, and soon they'll overtake every part of the castle. If they find Arthur, they will kill him. If we go quickly, we can still make the postern gate."
Lancelot presses his lips together, shifting his grip on the hilt of his sword. It sounds a terrible thing, to relinquish Camelot with so little struggle, but what can they do against men that cannot die? Mordred has a gift of survival, and Lancelot knows he's right. Better to be a living coward than a dead fool, and if they fall here, who will be able to stand against Morgause? "I know, but Arthur won't abandon his people. He'd rather die," he says, inwardly cursing the other man for all he's worth; abruptly, he has a deep and profound understanding of Merlin's occasional frustration in dealing with royal self-sacrificing idiots.
The young man casts a glance at their king, braced against a table and grimacing as Hunith binds his ribs. Taking a deep breath, he looks back up at Lancelot and claps a hand against his arm. "Do your best to keep him from lopping my head off after this, yes?" he says with forced levity; before Lancelot can ask what he means to do, Mordred pushes past the others and vaults over the table with ease, sliding up to kneel on the tabletop behind the king. "I'm sorry, Arthur," he apologises, then grasps the back of Arthur's neck with one hand.
He cannot see Mordred's eyes flash gold from here, but he hears Arthur's strangled cry, and the blond goes limp against the table. Hunith gapes up at the lad.
Mordred twists around to face him. "You are in command now, Sir Lancelot."
Lancelot blinks at him. A thought flashes across his mind, swift as a bird on the wing—are you certain you are not truly related to Merlin?—but then he snaps back to himself sharply. Turning in place, he seeks out Percival, helping to move one of the tables against the doors. "Attend the King," he orders, then faces the rest of the chamber, terrifyingly aware of all eyes turned towards him. "Everyone on their feet. We're leaving. The city is overrun. Camelot is fallen."