A/N: Thanks to my reviewers and sorry that this was very late. Hopefully the length kinda makes up for it? I hope you like the Merlin/Arthur interaction in this chapter and that you like the direction this is going. I love all the support I'm getting, so thanks all so much!

I don't own Merlin.

Chapter 5

He woke, but not with the normal blinking of eyes and stretching of cramped muscles. He felt oddly disconnected, and realized with a start that he couldn't feel his hands or feet or legs or arms. The fear rose, but without the familiar quickening heartbeat or shallow breaths.

He hadn't opened his eyes, but then, he wasn't quite sure if he had any. The world around him was pitch black, not the flickering darkness of closed eyelids, but simply the complete absence of light. He couldn't hear, feel, see anything. Panic choked him.

He didn't know how long he floated, immersed in a sea of nothingness. Eventually, threads of whispers began to ghost by him, a susurration like the soft flutter of birds' wings. He strained to listen, grasping frantically for proof that he wasn't alone in this all-consuming darkness. As the whispers increased in volume, he realized with an unpleasant jolt that they were human voices, murmuring in a language he half-understood. He tried to cry out to them, but he had no mouth or lungs. Where am I? The question reverberated in his mind, unexpressed.

Shards of memories gradually returned, and he recalled those last frantic moments, his body sinking into the stone of the city walls as his escape from Camelot was within tantalizing reach. He must be trapped within the wall, Merlin eventually concluded reluctantly. It was a strange position to be in, but he had learned, through long experience with magic and the troubles that Arthur seemed to find, to never declare anything as impossible. The panic and confusion (where's my body, why can't I move, am I still breathing) he pushed firmly away.

Instead, he continued to try to call out to the ghostly voices that murmured softly around him. He hoped in the faint possibility that they would hear him and could help him in some arcane way. However, he also prayed that they couldn't hear and were simply figments of his imagination, fevered dreams of company in this lonely wall, and not other people like him, trapped in stone.

He begins to chant, his hands dripping with blood, and he tried to ignore the terrified faces –

With a gasp, Merlin pushed the intruding memory back. It was too much to hope for, he supposed, that Sigan's memories would stop overtaking his mind now that they couldn't possibly do harm to other people. Perhaps it was lucky that he was trapped in here, Merlin thought, uncharacteristically sardonic. Sigan was now firmly contained, in crystal and in stone. He realized that he was being uncharitable to the wounded and persecuted man that he had begun to understand and that his anger at the continuing lack of equilibrium between Sigan's memories and his own was irrational, but he was tired and afraid and terribly confused. It felt so good to have a small tantrum where there was no chance that someone could see him.

Eventually, Merlin's emotions calmed and his rationality asserted itself. However much harm Sigan's memories could do when they took over, staying in a wall for the rest of his life was simply not an option. He had to continue to try to escape this situation now.

Merlin resumed his efforts with communicating with the voices. No matter how much he tried, though, he remained voiceless and the whisperers failed to respond. Never a patient person, he reached for his magic, only to feel it slip between his fingers like water. After a few more tries, he gave it up, and racked his mind for a solution. There wasn't going to be help from anyone; the whisperers couldn't hear him, and the last place that Gaius would search would be in the walls of Camelot. His magic was out of reach, and Sigan was still in his mind, his memories twisting through his thoughts…

He froze as it hit him. It was a stupid, reckless, utterly brainless plan, with only a slight chance of working, but then, there wasn't much else he could do. Sigan obviously knew something about the voices, if Merlin had judged the snippet of memory he had seen correctly. If Sigan's memories once again overtook Merlin's own, well, hadn't he noted that there was nothing Sigan could do if he was trapped within stone?

Revolted by the idea of consciously accessing Sigan's memories, Merlin tried to call out to the voices again and reached for his magic a few more times. Eventually, he ceased all of his efforts and simply just floated in the darkness, trying to work up that foolhardy courage of his. Gradually, his misgivings subsided in the wake of his increasing determination. He couldn't protect Arthur from in here, and so nothing would stop him from emerging back into the crisp air and warm sunlight. His fear and feelings of impotence slipped away and he reveled in this familiar situation, his mind and innovation against an "insurmountable" obstacle. Pushing all other thoughts aside, he wondered about the voices again, and felt the memory rise and swallow him…

He stood in the center of a plain that stretched for leagues on every side. The ground was scoured clean of plant and soil, and his shoes clicked on the exposed bedrock as he slowly strode towards the exact center of the barren land.

He had chosen this location because it was already powerful. The magic thrummed under his feet, humming in tune with his own power. He breathed in the cool spring air, pride welling up in him. This city would be a place where destinies converged, he knew. Magic would infuse the stone, pulling it up into tall spires and imposing battlements, and the city would sing with life. His creation would shape history; the echoes of his actions would be felt for generations. He would never truly die, not with this city as an everlasting monument.

It was a goal worth sacrificing much for, and in his opinion, the lives of these criminal scum were a small price to pay for it. He studiously ignored the screams from the five cages that marked out the vertices of a giant pentagram. He understood now, too well, and tried to pull away… They were murderers and thieves and rapists, he knew, and deserved to die. They should be grateful that their deaths served a higher purpose, unlike his mother, burning as the bandits fled with their loot… He forcefully suppressed those memories and the familiar guilt that welled in his throat.

It was more difficult to force the emotion away as he stepped into the center of the pentagram and met the eyes of the man bound to the slab of stone that Sigan had erected just this morning. No, no, he did not want to see! The man's summer-sky blue eyes were filled with a numbing, helpless terror, he tried to push the memory away, because he knew, and Sigan felt pity and understanding and guilt bubble in his stomach. A criminal, but a man, just a man… He looked away, collected himself, he knew what was going to happen, and told himself that it was necessary. Eyes still averted, he withdrew a long knife from the folds of his clothing, no, he screamed, but had no voice, and slit the man's throat in one brutal slash.

The blood spurted onto him and the stone. Instantly, Sigan could feel the magic in the bedrock begin to stir and become agitated. The power flowed out along pre-drawn lines towards the cages. The screams had increased in volume, he noted faintly as he withdrew into his mind. Drawing his magic about him like a cloak, he steeled him and pushed outward and suddenly he wasn't in his body, but flying, higher and higher…

Merlin felt sick, vaguely nauseous, and he was sure, if he was in his body, he would be trembling uncontrollably. The whispers ghosted by him, and he wanted to rage and apologize and scream because he had held that knife and felt the magic thrumming through his veins and he had killed them, impotent to halt their destruction. It was a beautiful city, he acknowledged, but it was blood-stained and held rot within its walls. He felt disgust welling up in him, and without a thought, he tore himself away from the voices, still feeling the up, up, up of Sigan's soul.

He burst out into the sunshine, the light surprising him violently and causing him almost to jump back into the wall. He laughed at his clumsiness, a bright, vibrant, relieved sound. Out in the brightness of day, his recent experiences and Sigan's dark memory all seemed like a simple nightmare. He turned around to insure that the wall was nice and solid, unlikely to swallow him at the most inopportune moment, reaching out his hand to touch the stone. It passed right through.

He froze, laughter dying on his lips. Slowly, he retracted his hand, noting hazily that he could see the dirty cobblestones through his skin. He wasn't corporeal, he realized. His body was still in the wall, but he was… out here, in sunny Camelot.

How could he get his body out of the stone? He reached for his magic, but, like before, it slipped frustratingly away. He felt his brief moment of triumph slipping away, his feelings of helplessness pervading his body and dragging it downward, into the ground.

With an effort, Merlin rose so that his ghostly feet hung slightly above the ground. He couldn't interact with anything physical, obviously, but perhaps…. An idea came to him suddenly, and Merlin felt a jolt of hope. Could Gaius perhaps see him and extract his body with magic? It was worth a try, he decided. Besides, he was wondering how long he had floated inside the stone and what had happened in his absence.

Bobbing in the air, still unfamiliar with this strange mode of travel, Merlin clumsily joined the stream of midday traffic flowing into the bustling market. No one noticed him, not even the tipsy drunkard that had stumbled through Merlin as he staggered down the street, leaving Merlin staring at his incorporeal stomach with an expression of incredulity and faint horror.

The entire experience was uncomfortably surreal, and Merlin hurriedly extricated himself from the throngs of people as soon as possible. He was accustomed to being ignored and overlooked, but this invisibility was much more severe and disturbing.

As he floated up the path, towards the castle, a familiar face passed him, going the opposite way. "Gwen," he cried, happiness bursting through his body.

But no sound immerged from his mind, and she passed by him without a flinch. Despondent, Merlin turned to watch her beautiful black hair retreat with the crowd. He had thought that, maybe…. Unbidden, doubts began to bubble up in his mind. If Gwen couldn't see him, if he couldn't speak… perhaps his visit to Gaius would be a fool's errand.

Nevertheless, he thought, as he laboriously began his journey to the castle again, he had to try. The feeling of being hedged in, having only one opinion, was becoming frighteningly familiar. However, there was a small chance that Gaius could see him, Merlin realized. Gaius had magic, and perhaps that was what was needed for him to be able to interact with people. Heartened by this thought, his movements picked up speed, and he soon found himself flying up the familiar stairs to Gaius' workroom. Without pausing, he flew through the wooden door.

He stopped dead, stunned by what he saw. Arthur, Arthur Pendragon, was sitting at Gaius' table in Merlin's habitual spot. Merlin resisted the childish urge to push Arthur off of his chair, knowing that it would be a pointless action. Besides, once he looked closely at Arthur, he could see that expression on his face, the one that heralded hours of frantic pacing interspersed with bouts of sulking and mood swings that would be felt by any servants in the vicinity. It was infrequent, but often appeared when Arthur felt particularly impotent, a state that he could simply not tolerate. Merlin wondered what had gotten Arthur so agitated and hoped that it was something that he could fix without a body.

Gaius was looking even more worried than Arthur was, Merlin noticed with horror. Something must be utterly wrong in the kingdom for this level of anxiety. Gaius' hair hung limp about his face and he moved with all of his years weighing down on his shoulders. He was grinding up something with a mortar and pestle, but his movements weren't the professional, smooth twists of the wrist that Merlin was used to seeing. Instead, his hands were slow, jerky, as if his mind was far away. The room was pervaded by a stifling silence that seemed terribly out-of-place in Gaius' usually comfortable workroom.

Arthur was the first to break the oppressive silence. "Still no sign?" he asked wearily, running one hand over his face and rubbing his eyes tiredly.

"No," Gaius replied after a moment. "He hasn't…. I don't know where he is."

"It's been a week already!" Arthur exclaimed. "Where could he have gone?"

Merlin wondered if they were discussing him, but dismissed the idea. Both of them looked like they were contemplating the apocalypse, which he was fairly sure was not synonymous with "absence-of-Merlin." Perhaps Uther was missing, or some foreign dignitary had decided that poison was a good way to ensure the success of peaceful negotiations. And, he thought, with a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach, it had been at least a week since he had tried to leave Camelot. He hoped that he would know if his body had died, but disconnected from the physical world like he was, he had no way to be sure.

"I don't know!" Gaius' sharp reply shocked Merlin from his thoughts. "I've searched everywhere that the boy usually frequents, but I haven't found a sign of him." He paused, staring searchingly at Arthur. "You said that he was acting strangely before he left, but was there something that you didn't dare tell Uther? I myself noticed that he was absentminded, his mannerisms slightly… off. He stayed out in the forest for an entire night before he left, did you know?" Merlin started, surprised that his first suspicions were correct. Were these two haggard men really that affected by his absence?

Arthur shook his head at Gaius' question. "I didn't. I noticed he was gone, and my armor still unpolished, obviously. However," his expression became chagrinned, "I didn't investigate. Merlin… he had been uncharacteristically angry at me that day." He shook his head again, a raw, wounded, bemusement on his face that made Merlin's heart clench. "He had a right to be angry at me," Arthur admitted, a wry, deprecating smile on his face, and Merlin realized that if Arthur could see him, he wouldn't be hearing this. Emotion was painted on Arthur's face in broad, vibrant strokes, and Merlin suspected that Arthur had forgotten that Gaius was even there. Arthur was guilty and confused and hurting, and it was all Merlin's fault. He reached out instinctively, and his hand passed through Arthur's clenched fist.

Arthur continued to speak to a sympathetic Gaius, detailing Merlin's strange conversation with him, but Merlin didn't hear a word, his eyes fixed on the ghostly hand surrounding Arthur's solid one of flesh and blood. He couldn't touch, couldn't comfort. Arthur was sitting there, confused, anguished, looking like Merlin had driven the sword into his heart on that training ground, and Merlin couldn't reassure him that it was all Merlin's fault. It was Merlin's hubris (That pride will be your downfall, Sigan), believing that he could defeat, without a price, the man whose blood-spattered hand had raised the walls of this city. (You must pay with blood or soul, Cornelius.)

With a cry, Merlin pushed away Sigan's memories and pulled back his hand from Arthur's. Wildly, he searched the faces of both men in the room, but neither had noticed him. "Look at me!" he screamed, but the two of them didn't turn their heads and the anxiety and stress remained on their exhausted faces.

The hopelessness and depression welled up in Merlin, strong and burning, and he felt the negative emotions weighting him down. He didn't fight it, but let them drag him lower and lower, through the floor, obscuring the painful sight from view.

He sank into the bowels of the castle, unmoving, letting the darkness swallow him. He had always fought tooth and nail, even against impossible odds, to save Arthur, to preserve the kingdom, but what could he do when the problem was himself? When corporeal, he almost kills Arthur, and when incorporeal, he carves deep furrows into Arthur's brow. He drifted lower, through the dungeons, lost in a haze of self-pity and recrimination.

He passed in and out of a cross-section of tunnels, some vaguely recognizable, but most unfamiliar. He eventually floated into a gigantic cavern, and he spied the Great Dragon perched on an outcropping, staring at the stone ceiling as if he could force the stars to shine through rock by the power of will alone. Merlin drifted through the dragon's field of view and watched with disappointment as the magnificent creature's eyes failed to see him.

Eventually, the Great Dragon disappeared from view as Merlin sank into another system of tunnels. These were less well-kept than the dungeons above, and Merlin noticed the creeping mold and the scurrying rats. A part of his mind impassively noted the odd fact that he seemed to be able to see in the dark while separated from his body, and Sigan's memories whispered of past experiences and theories written in innumerable books.

All of these tunnels were foreign to Merlin, so he was shocked out of his musings when he entered a painfully familiar room. The treasure was still there, the gold glittering in the faint, flickering light of the crystal heart clutched in the stone hands of the tomb's guardian. The trap was in the same place that Merlin had remembered, but reset, he realized.

However, the most impressive, unsettling detail of the room wasn't the piles of metal cruelly glinting in the unnatural light or the constant drip of water down the walls, but the man sitting imperturbably above the crystalline heart.

"Hello," Cornelius Sigan said impassively. "It's a pleasure to see you again," his mouth twisted into a cold, unfeeling grin, "Merlin."