Author's Notes: I see the number of my reviews are creeping up to forty, and I would love, love to get over that mile stone. I've picked up a few new followers, so please don't be shy. It's wonderful when you're writing a long story to hear what people actually think about your creation.

This is a slightly shorter chapter, but it is a more dramatic one, which I hope you enjoy. Please let me know what you think of the new developments.

Once again, I don't own Merlin.

Chapter Eight

The Demons in the Dark

In Merlin's new chambers, he and Iseldir, talked long into the night, sharing their experiences. Merlin had never felt more satisfied; happy in the knowledge that he could now speak openly of all things magical with people who understood his great gift.

The two men sat in high-backed chairs either side of the small fire burning in the grate; the nights were unseasonably cold and the castle servants had been instructed to light fires in the main chambers.

Merlin smiled a little uncomfortably, not yet at ease with the fact that he was now being waited upon. "When first I came to Camelot, I dreamed of the day magic would be accepted, but I never thought I'd be living in a grand chamber like this."

"That doesn't surprise me, Emrys. You have never used magic for your own gains," Isledir replied, looking around Merlin's new room. To tell the truth, as a Druid, he wasn't exactly comfortable living in the walled confines of a castle. His element was the rolling hills and high mountains, clothed in green forests and threaded by sparkling streams. And always, he preferred the air, free and fresh on his skin. However, it was right that he be here at this time. Iseldir suspected Emrys had not yet realised the extent of his dominion, but even the most powerful needed a friend and ally, now and then. "You are a true paragon of magic, so it is only right that you gain recognition for all you have done. But do not run too fast, because the laws on magic have not yet been overturned."

Sitting forward and resting his elbows on his knees, Merlin sighed. "Indeed, I know. We have only taken the first step. Forgive me for being too optimistic,but I am just relieved that Arthur knows who I truly am and has not renounced me. I was afraid I'd be exiled, but I find myself living next door." Merlin's boyish grin burst through again. At the moment, it was difficult to restrain his enthusiasm.

The older Druid could not resist his new friend's joy and he too smiled, though more gently. "That was never your destiny. We have always known you and Arthur would work together, though we waited long for the moment. Were we not so sure of the prophecies, we would have worried more. But fate moves at its own pace." Iseldir gazed into the flames, a more serious expression descending over his features. "Does Arthur yet know of your immortality?"

"No. So much has happened over the last few days, I haven't had time to tell him about that part..."

"Or about The Once and Future King?"

Merlin's fingers twisted. "He's heard the saying, he just doesn't realise what it means."

"Do you intend to enlighten him?" Iseldir asked, his eyebrows raised in question, with just a tiny smidgen of judgment. "While it is true such a discussion needs to take place in an atmosphere of quiet and contemplation, and there doesn't promise to be much of that around in the near future, I would urge you not to wait too long. What he needs from you now is your candour."

Pushing up from his chair, Merlin walked towards the table and the flagon of wine. He offered another drink to Iseldir, who refused with a small shake of his head. Merlin noticed the Druid preferred to drink water. He, however, took another for himself. His courage needed boosting whenever he thought of all those things he still had to inform Arthur about their future.

"I know I have to tell Arthur, but it's not going to be easy. I mean, it's not exactly a mundane topic of conversation... Oh, Arthur, did I forget to tell you, I'm immortal and you're going to die and come back to life when the kingdom is in a desperate situation? But don't ask me when that will be or what kind of danger will call you back, because the stupid dragon never told me that part." Merlin downed another mouthful of wine, the tart taste making him shiver involuntary. One thing he'd have to suggest to Arthur was to change his wine supplier: that, at least, was easy. "He might not exile me, but he'll surely lock me up for being totally insane."

"Do not underestimate Arthur's ability to surpass the commonplace, Merlin," At last, Iseldir relented and used the warlock's given name. "I think Arthur might surprise you. One thing I do know... Arthur will never turn his back on his country or his people, whether that be now, or in hundreds of years' time." Iseldir, too, rose. "But it is getting late, and Gaius has offered me a bed for the night, so I will wish you goodnight."

Moving to cut off Iseldir's progress to the door, Merlin asked, "Didn't Arthur and Guinevere offer you a room? I'm sure they would have instructed..."

"Merlin, calm yourself. Queen Guinevere was very gracious, but I declined." Once more his gaze strayed around the chamber. "I am not suited to such luxury. Believe me, I will be more comfortable with Gaius. I think I am to sleep in your old room, so I consider myself honoured. Now I wish you goodnight. Tomorrow promises to be a momentous day."

Once on his own, Merlin felt somewhat lonely. For years he'd shared Gauis' chambers, or he'd slept in inns, or under the stars with Arthur and the knights. His feelings of isolation were stupid. He wasn't a boy anymore, and his friends were just next door, but somehow he didn't suppose Arthur or Gwen would appreciate a visit right now.

He took a walk around his spacious chamber, unable to suppress his astonishment at his change in status. He had asked for magic to be recognised, not for this jump up the social scale, but no doubt he'd become accustomed to it in time. At last, he shrugged and went to bed, forcing aside the disturbing questions Iseldir had raised.

Meanwhile, in the chamber next door, completely unaware of Merlin's dilemmas, Arthur and Guinevere had retired to bed early, to peruse the records of previous grand councils in comfort; matters of state were less tedious now they shared ideas, and they both accepted they should learn the protocol, at least. Yet, protocol was boring, and there were other more exciting things to share; it had been a very long day and both contented themselves with a few kisses and warm hugs between loving whispers. Finally, they, too, closed their eyes. However, as sleep came to the residents of Camelot, far out in Albion's countryside, strange happenings were being put in motion.

Night fell on the Pool of Nermain, the lochan's waters murky, still and deep, while a weird chill crept over the land. Clouds marched like ranks of an unruly army across the sky, imprisoning the brightness of moon and stars. Natural light had fled from this place; there was no room for its radiance at this dread moment.

The hooded man held aloft a burning torch, which glanced off the mirrored water, but failed to pierce the darkness of either land or sky. In his other hand he held a golden disc, a precious commodity if he was to retrieve the one person who could aid him in his quest. In his mind, he repeated the spell the old crone had taught him, an enchantment of too much importance to make a mistake. When, finally, he was satisfied, he cast the disc far out over the water, and glimpsed it sink below the surface, muttering the words quietly as he stared. It wouldn't help his cause to be overheard, though he was sure no one dared live by this doomed lake, and the dead did not listen physically.

Long moments passed, and nothing stirred. Had he spoken the spell wrong? He repeated it more forcefully. He had tried so hard, had sought help from all he could think of after finding the body. From the Sidhe on the shores of Avalon, to the Dochraid in her dank lair, they had all offered aid. The Sidhe Elder had gifted him the golden coin... it needed the finest metal to buy the soul of a High Priestess, and sent him to see the Dochraid, an experience he had found unpleasant. Yet she had instructed him where to go and what to do and, only when he had refused to give up the coin, did she finally repeat the spell which must be spoken. If he got it wrong, only a shade would rise from the depths.

He glanced at the body, lying frozen in death. His torch glinted off the ivory skin, the black lashes resting motionless against high cheekbones. She had always been a beautiful woman, and his heart had quickened at his first sight of her so long ago. Though, even then, he had used her for his own ends.

How could he have known? How could a renegade Druid, with only a smattering of sorcery, have realised the power of the woman she would become? She had helped him escape from the dungeons and, since his band of freedom fighters were either dead or scattered, he had flown Camelot's borders. He had traveled north west, across the sea to where he had found a place where sorcery was welcomed. This country of forests and high hills, with only a tiny population, most of whom were afraid but revered all things mystical, gave him a home. There he had honed his skills, such as they were.

Then came the rumours, seeping their way slowly across the known lands, of a new High Priestess, who was waging war against The Pendragons. For a time, no one had credited the whispers, yet they grew in strength and detail, and he dared believe that the woman, whom he had met briefly, might be this divinity of The Old Religion.

He had returned with as much speed as he could muster, but still he had arrived too late. The Battle of Camlann had been fought and lost, yet both sides had lost much. The great King Arthur was dead, or so he had heard. Which meant both Uther and Arthur had gone beyond his vengeance.

At first, it seemed the High Priestess had triumphed, but then came new murmurs from the earth itself. The hope of The Old Religion had been killed. Someone had found a way to slay her... Emrys!

The Druid could not allow this act of heresy to go unpunished. He visited the battle site, yet found no sign of his mistress's body; but, again he listened to the surviving Saxon's tales, of how their warrior princess had survived and gone in search of her arch foes, her half-brother Arthur and his servant Merlin, who were heading to Avalon.

Without hesitation, he had picked up the trail, following alone and on foot, since the Saxons, defeated and licking their wounds, had retired east to their heartlands. It had taken him some time, yet he had found what he least wanted: the dead body of Lady Morgana.

His worst fears had come true. He could not help her; could not repay her for saving his life; could not share in her triumph and aid her in returning The Old Religion to Albion.

But the Druid was nothing if not persistent. He was a fighter, just as this beautiful woman had been. To free herself from The Pendragons' snare, to take over Camelot's throne not once but twice and, finally, be instrumental in killing both Pendragons, took tenacity, courage and great power.

And, if the latest rumours were true, then Arthur had beaten death, and he was not magical, but Morgana was. Surely, a High Priestess could outdo her mortal brother?

Repeating the spell once more, he hardly dared breathe as his eyes scanned the lake. Was that a ripple on the water, hardly more than a quiver? But it came again, spreading outwards until a dark mist lifted into the cold air. Swirling, twisting, black upon blackness, drifting towards the shore, coalescing as it floated towards him. Only he wasn't the fog's target. It eddied around him, seeming to touch him with ghost-like fingers, before moving onwards, hovering over Morgana's corpse. There it stayed, surrounding her like a halo, until it settled upon her waxen skin.

Gradually, the ethereal cloud permeated Morgana's form, and the Druid waited for a sign of life. He stepped closer, but time seemed to stand still. Desperation crawled along every sinew and muscle, and clawed at his nerves. He needed proof that all his efforts hadn't been in vain.

Morgana!

But his cry was inside his head, though there was no one to hear. With a groan breaking from his twisted lips, he slumped to the ground, weary beyond bearing. There was no reason to live.

How long he sat there, he couldn't say. It could have been moments, or hours. In his state of abject misery, time meant little.

So it was he didn't see the flutter of Morgana's eyelashes, of the sporadic movement of her eyes behind those smokey black lashes. However, he did feel a hand tighten around his wrist, with uncommon strength for a slim young woman.

"Morgana!" He scrambled onto his knees, as she stared at him with unfocused eyes, then sent her gaze wandering over her surroundings.

"Where am I?" she asked in a weak, croaky voice, as if her lungs and vocal chords were still locked in a challenge with death. She did, however, manage to sit up, staring with fascination at the black waters of Nermain. "Wait, I think I know this place. I remember someone rising from the waters." Morgana pressed her hand to her forehead. It was a man, she thought, a handsome man, but so long ago, she could scarcely remember. "I don't believe it was you." She turned her attention back to the man at her side, who appeared to shrink from her.

"No, milady, not me," he said quietly, unsure how to treat her.

The Sidhe Elder and the Dochraid had explained, that under normal circumstances, a body which rose from the pool would be an empty shell, but given magical help from both these ancient sorcerers, the water had yielded Morgana's spirit.

Since he already had her body, and the Sidhe had created an enchantment which would slow down the process of its decay, he hoped with all his heart that the two would meld and the last High Priestess would take her place in the world once more.

"Do I know you?" Her voice broke into his musings, as she edged backwards, placing some distance between them. "Why have you brought me here?"

This was not going to plan. Morgana was regarding him like he was a piece of horse's dung beneath her shoe.

"My name is Alvarr, and we met a long time ago. I like to think you considered me a friend." But at Morgana's continuing suspicious look, he went on. "You're here because I am acting on advice. They told me to bring you here," he explained, stretching out a hand to lay it soothingly on her arm. "They mentioned you might be disorientated at first, but you are safe now, and alive. That is all that matters."

Ignoring the first part of his statement, Morgana demanded, "Who told you, and did they threaten my life?"

"No! They only wanted to help." His voice rose in frustration. "They are your allies, the Sidhe and the Dochraid."

There was a moment of complete silence.

"How dare you treat me like a fool!" Pushing his hand aside, she rose into a crouch as if she was preparing to bolt, like a delicate young doe from a hunter. "These people are sorcerers, and you must know I have no dealings with magic!"

The Druid stood, but his stance was loose, as if every bone in his body had turned to liquid. This was not how he dreamed their reunion would be. Morgana was supposed to view him as her saviour and together they would continue her fight to destroy what was left of Camelot, bringing sorcery back to the land. In his wilder moments, he had even imagined she would return his unspoken feelings and they would rule this broken land, forging it in their image.

"Sorcery is evil." she cried out as she, too, stood, though rather unsteadily, but only in body, her spirit was strong. "Is that what you are - a sorcerer? Did you kidnap me? You have no right. I am Morgana, Lady of Camelot." Her voice took on a haughty tone. "I demand you return me, with haste, if you value your life, to my guardian. King Uther Pendragon!"

As Lady Morgana ordered her return to Camelot, inside the citadel another dark haired woman was stirring. At first, she dreamed. She dreamed of her husband dying, and even in sleep her brow drew down.

No! It was not true. He lived! Merlin and Percival had brought him home and he was safe. He had held her in his arms and she had kissed him. Oh, how she had kissed him.

But if that was the way it happened, then why did she see him lying here in their bed, so white, so silent, his breath scarcely marking Gaius' mirror? She had seen all that; watched Gaius try to save him, while everyone in Camelot waited for his death. She had sat by the bedside... and she had not felt pain, nor sorrow.

No! She had felt joy?

At that she woke. She pushed herself upright, staring into the dim room. Her breath heaved, as if she had run for miles, being chased by a... monster... a monster called truth? Her heart pounded so loudly in her chest, she was sure Arthur would wake.

Arthur!

Almost too afraid to look, she forced herself to turn. Even in the darkness, she could see the sheen of his blond hair. His head was hard up against where her shoulder must have rested, his hand still stretched across her body. Lightly, she touched his arm, trailing her hand up towards his shoulder, the column of his neck. His skin was warm and firm, his muscles now relaxed in sleep. Under her fingers she felt his pulse beat, steady and strong.

There, at the end of the bed, the scrolls they had been studying earlier were scattered; fallen in disarray, as their attention had strayed to each other and more pleasurable pastimes.

All was well.

It was a nightmare, just a nightmare. After all, they had been through so much these last days, it was no wonder her subconscious was still afraid for him.

Gwen drew some deep, calming breaths, then slipped back into Arthur's arms. In time she slept again.

I hope this chapter lived up to expectations, and are you interested to know what happens next? Looking forward to reading your reviews.