I should say something here, but I know you'll all just snap, "Get on with it!"
~14~ Out of Time
Merlin's heart was overflowing with despair as he was forced to stand before the archway, the portal, of Caedeşqụe, Bloodshed. The name had been engraved into the apex of the doorway, and the warlock stared at it numbly. He was right. There was more to Mėtû than met the eye, but it was much bigger than he had ever imagined. Bigger, and more dire.
He turned, for he could move his feet in place but not in any direction, and glowered at Fear and the Night Mare. He felt hate rise within that alarmed even himself. Magic uncoiled in his chest, hissing and spitting, threatening to expose him.
No! He forced the power away. Not yet. If I must use magic, it will be when I have the best advantage possible. He tried to focus his attention on the next archway over, about seven paces away, before which stood Arthur, still black-eyed and entranced.
"Arthur," he hissed. "Arthur!"
"He won't hear you unless I let him." Morgana was fingering an elaborate dagger sitting on the pedestal.
"What have you done to him?" the warlock demanded, struggling against the invisible bonds.
"Nothing that will yet bring him harm. I have use of him, as I said. And of you."
"What is it you want of us?" Merlin's tone could have made ice shiver. Morgana just smirked.
"All I want is what destiny has written for me. I am the eldest Pendragon, and when King Uther," she said in a contemptuous manner, "weak and dying as he is, finally passes on, I should ascend to the throne, not Arthur."
"Arthur will be a great king, a better ruler than you'll ever be," Merlin snapped. "And you are proving that even now, with this...evil you're—"
"You have no idea of the might of what I'm summoning," cooed Morgana, and the warlock had to rein in a shudder. "You have seen what Mėtû and the Ňocte'ĕquả can accomplish, even separated. But you have not witnessed the true power of the Knights. At least, not yet. But you will. Soon."
Merlin's gaze was drawn back to the archway, where Bloodshed stood like a sculpture on his horse of flaming red. Caedeşqụe never turned his helmet eye slits away from the warlock. Even as Merlin tilted slightly to the side, Bloodshed followed with his head. When he snarled, the Knight appeared to simply chuckle. There was no sound, but it was clear that he was amused, yet unimpressed.
"I will never help you," the servant spat, turning back to Morgana. "Nothing you say or do will convince me—"
"That's what they all say. Here's the snag, Merlin: I don't have to 'convince' you to do anything." She began to finger the dagger on the pedestal again, which Merlin abruptly recognized. It was the very same dagger Arthur had presented her for her birthday years ago. She had nearly killed King Uther with it before Merlin stopped her. "How did you like falling asleep at night knowing that it wasn't going to be a peaceful rest?"
The question caught the servant off-guard. "What?"
Morgana sneered. "It seemed fitting that the Archon I chose to release first had the Night Mare under his charge. You suffer as I suffered, as Camelot suffers even now. Gaius's potions were useless, but I never told the old fool that, because I never wanted anyone to worry." Her expression grew dark. "Dare I say that I, to use the cliche, hit two birds with one stone?
"I assume you've met my old...acquaintance...in the dungeon, correct?" She took the warlock's silence as an affirmative. "Strange phenomenon, isn't he? Not quite...right in the head. Almost insane, like he had been terrified out of his wits."
Merlin started to feel ill to his stomach. "What did you do?" he demanded apprehensively.
Morgana smiled, as benign as a rusted knife. "I freed him." She nodded lightly at Fear.
With a waved her fingers, Merlin felt a slight, peculiar tug in the air. Arthur and Gwaine sagged where they stood, but did not fall, and breath rushed out of their chests as though they had been holding them for a long time. Merlin watched as Arthur opened and closed his mouth several times, blinking like an owl, before shaking his head and straightening stiffly.
"Wha'? Where 'm I?" he mumbled softly, his throat sounding rough. "Merlin?"
"Here, clotpole."
The prince looked sluggishly over at him, still blinking. His eyes had returned to twin azures, which was a relief. "Where 're we?"
"Oh, the usual. Someplace where we're probably going to die a horrible gruesome death at the hands of a merciless killer, you know."
Arthur saw the Knight beyond the wispy veil blowing in a nonexistent wind before him, and he humphed. "You're such a lemon sometimes, you know that?"
Merlin grinned, and then flinched as something whip-lashed across his cheek, drawing blood.
"Hey!" Arthur snapped, whirling around, and got his own cut on his chest.
"Silence," Morgana said calmly.
The pair was in no position to argue, and they fell into grumbling quiet, hate radiating towards the dark sorceress in waves one could almost see. She ignored their disgust and stood beside the only empty archway at the pentagram, Mėtû's former prison.
"Derek was a lonely man, unloved. No one would miss him." Morgana gazed at each captive in turn with a tiny smile. "I'm actually surprised he's still alive. He was in such pain, and faced so much horror. It was like he was staring into the face of—"
An impatient sigh. "Oh, just get on with it!"
Everyone turned to look at Gwaine curiously.
"Well, come now! All this lip-flabbin' and tongue-wagglin' is enough to make one bonkers. Don't you realize that this is always how the prisoners escape? All the blah-blah-blah—" Gwaine froze as the dagger from the central pedestal spun through the air and halted a mere inch from between his eyes.
"All right then," said Morgana, arm outstretched, slowly turning the blade around in midair. "We shall begin. But...not with you." She moved her arm, and the dagger followed her aim clockwise around the pentagram, stopping at Lancelot. "We'll start with the bravest, the gryphon-slayer."
"Morgana." Arthur's tone had a warning ring. The prince tore his gaze from Fear, and the Night Mare, formerly Smokie. Years of military discipline held his features steady.
Lancelot's deadpan expression held firm, but there was unease in his eyes. Behind him, the entrapment of Fąmem stood tall and foreboding. The starved ebony horse within snorted, stamping a restless hoof. It groaned in hunger as Famine coughed up dust, sitting in his saddle.
The dagger hung before the Lancelot as Morgana stepped towards him. Not far away, Mėtû chortled quietly, failing to hide his anticipation. He stood as still on his unmoving horse as he did a month ago, the day Arthur faced him in combat for the first time.
Merlin's heart thumped in his chest as Morgana took the elaborate dagger from the air, and he tugged uselessly at the unseen bonds holding him. It was like his feet were in ice, stuck, immobile.
So melt the ice, he told himself, and magic rustled its wings in eager preparation.
Unbidden, Lancelot's arm rose to chest level, hand turned up towards the sorceress. Morgana put the tip of the knife against his palm.
"Wait!"
For a moment, all that was heard was the warbling of wyvern high above.
Merlin reached towards Morgana and Lancelot, a pleading expression on his face. "Wait, don't hurt him."
"Merlin—"
The warlock ignored Arthur. "Please...do me first."
"Bad choice of words, mate," said Gwaine softly.
Morgana just smiled coldly and drew swift, short cuts across Lancelot's palm. The knight did his best to be silent, but the suddenness startled a gasp from his lips. Then Morgana, one hand in her pocket and touching the blue Phoenix Feather, began to chant in a low voice, slow and methodical, as blood dripped freely off Lancelot's fingers. The language was entirely alien.
"Dai poteri Antichi, ho rompere la barriera dei due mondi..."
The man looked at his hand as he was forced to face the archway of Famine, and Merlin was able to see the insignia traced into his flesh from behind: it was a circled star, like the giant one they were standing on now.
"Libero il re di vecchia, Carestia."
The companions watched in distress as Lancelot's palm unwillingly pressed against the transparent, wavering veil of the portal. As his hand touched the material, tendrils of red spread out like blood in water, and suddenly, the Knight's black horse on the other side started to dance. It stepped from hoof to hoof, nostrils flared, ears flat.
Within moments, the others, including the Ňocte'ĕquả, were doing the same. Mėtû began to hit his lance against his armour, rhythmically, like a beating drum. Behind Merlin, Bloodshed did the same with his broadsword. Halosĭs, host of Gwaine's portal, pounded his fist against his chest, and lifted his longbow in anticipation. With these beats, in sync with each other, a hum filled the air, and Lancelot's shoulders started to shake, his limbs jerk spasmodically. The last of Morgana's incantation was lost in the riot.
"Lancelot!" Arthur's attempt to lunge forward was in vain. He snarled as Morgana cut open his cheek with an unseen whip, but still he refused to hold still. He was not alone.
"That's far enough!" Gwaine snapped.
"Let him go!" Merlin roared. Hurry up, hurry up! he yelled at himself, his magic still trying to pry his feet free.
Mėtû laughed darkly from within his helmet at the futile attempts. Merlin desperately wanted to throw something at him.
Lancelot started to gasp and choke. Fąmem slowly reached down from his seat in the saddle. His horse stepped lightly to an angle so that the rider could easily touch Lancelot's palm. His fingers brushed the veil—
—A ring of force exploded from the archway, gusting everyone like a storm's wind. The tower walls groaned and cracked in protest. Dust fell, but only Merlin seemed to notice...
Lancelot's hand began to shrivel and die. The flesh withered, leaving the limb bony and latticed with black veins. Tongues of grey flicked from the knight's arm to the Archon's.
The companions witnessed in horror as the rest of the brave man's body was sucked of life and flesh. Years seemed to pass through Lancelot, years of famine. His hand remained touching the Knight's even as he fell to this knees, his clothing hanging from his starved frame. His features were thrown into sharp relief, becoming more and more like a skull with every moment: his eyes sunk into their sockets, his cheeks hollowed. By the end, he had the appearance of a man who had been starved for a very long time.
With a sigh of contentment, Fąmem released Lancelot, who collapsed lifelessly, a skeleton in a coat of skin. And then the second Knight of the Apocalypse kneed his horse forward, towards the archway. He passed through the veil, which fell like torn wisps of cloth, and into freedom.
† † †
There was no earthquake, no blustering storm or rain of fire, yet Merlin felt the catastrophic aura of Fąmem unite with that of Fear, and their strength expanded like great bellows, sucking hope and determination from the air.
It was clear now who the man in the dungeons was and how he had become so insane. When Morgana liberated Fear, her sacrifice had been him, and he lost his wits in terror. Now Lancelot suffered through Famine's plague of hunger. What would the others do?
Merlin glanced at his own archway behind him, again reading Caedeşqụe, Bloodshed. To the right was Mėtû's empty portal, and beside that was Famine's. Merlin had to squint, but he definitely read Conquest's true name, Halosĭs, over Gwaine's head. His throat closed as he saw the name above Arthur: Môrtęm, kin of Death. Though the results of his own and Gwaine's sacrifices were unclear, Arthur's was unmistakable.
Merlin was running out of time.
Gwaine was screaming threats and insults at the top of his lungs, yet Arthur remained silent. His fury was evident, even as he stared at the fallen form of Lancelot. The knight was moving, but slowly, weakly, and he was so pathetically thin—
"You'll regret all you have done, Morgana," toned Arthur gravely, his voice cutting through Gwaine's shower of vulgar language.
"Moęnĭbus, putrô," said Merlin, dangerously soft.
Arthur glanced at him inquisitively. "What did you say?"
"I said, 'my thoughts also.'"
They all heard the low groan of ancient rock, and paused as a chunk of rubble fell from one of the tower's walls. Morgana turned in shock to watch it fall as Merlin felt his magic chip away the remains of his bindings. The plummeting rubble shattered against the courtyard in an explosion of stone and dust. Merlin broke free of his bonds and charged at Morgana from behind.
His plan, composed in about four and a half seconds, fell apart a moment later as Morgana saw the reaction of the liberated Knights, whirled around and thrust the dagger into his chest.
With a gasp, Merlin stumbled into the sorceress, but she side-stepped before he overbalanced her, and he fell in a wave of fiery pain.
He dimly heard Arthur scream his name as he hit cold stone, eyes seeing nothing but red, smelling only the tangy saltiness of sticky, messy blood. Shock was no relief; agony pounded through him with every heartbeat. As he lay there on his side, he grasped the protruding hilt with his left hand, and feebly tried to pull it out. He couldn't.
Morgana reached down and remorselessly yanked the blade free, wiping it clean on Merlin's shirt. As the warlock writhed onto his back, groaning, Morgana ignored him and beckoned to the two Knights.
"Put him back. Hold him up," she ordered. When they hesitated, she snapped, "Now!"
I'm mean, ain't I? *Wolfish grin*
Latin translation:
moenibus, putro: walls, crumble
Rough Italian translations:
Dai poteri Antichi, ho rompere la barriera dei due mondi: From the Ancient powers, I break the barrier between two worlds.
Libero il re di vecchia, Carestia: Free the king of old, Famine.