Chapter XXXIV: Rain and Fire
There wasn't anything that could be done to save Arthur. The Questing Beast's bite was invariably fatal, inescapably deadly. Not even magic could save him, so all that they could possibly do was make the prince as comfortable as possible before his passing.
At least, that is what Gaius said. Merlin was of an entirely different opinion.
The bite had to have a cure. It had to.
His first impulse had been to summon Kilgharrah. He'd nearly done that on the frantic ride back to Camelot, but Leon's competence had prevented him. The Questing Beast was smaller than it should have been, without the spiky crest that it was supposed to have, and the knight had concluded that the creature Arthur (actually Merlin, but he could hardly say that) had killed was a juvenile. If it was a juvenile, Leon pointed out, it might have parents or siblings nearby, so he'd given orders that no one could go anywhere alone. While Merlin could probably have snuck off anyways, doing so was risky. If someone followed him or went looking for him and found Kilgharrah, everything he'd worked for would be over.
Assuming that it wasn't over already.
Merlin forced the thought away. Arthur would survive. He would.
On the way back, he'd consoled himself with the thought that Gaius would know what to do. The physician knew more about healing than anyone Merlin had ever met, and he was knowledgeable about creatures of magic as well. Gaius would know what to do.
Gaius had not known what to do, so Merlin would obviously have to find someone who did.
Once again, his initial thought had been to summon Kilgharrah. Then he realized that he couldn't call the dragon in broad daylight, that it would be hours before darkness fell and the city slept. Arthur might not have that time.
Merlin's next idea was to retreat into his room, ply free the loose floorboard, and bring out the inventory of Uther's treasure vault. Many of its items were illusory, the originals stashed in Kilgharrah's cave in the White Mountains, but the dragon was a fast flier and he'd be able to retrieve any item that could magically heal Arthur. Yet there was nothing in the inventory that could work.
So Merlin had resorted to his third option. Hopefully this would be more fruitful than his first attempts. After all, third time's the charm, right?
"Arthur was bitten by the Questing Beast and Gaius says there's no cure and there's nothing in—well, from—Uther's treasure vault that can help. Please tell me you know some secret ritual or something that can save him, because I don't think he has a lot of time left."
"A Questing Beast?" Blaise repeated, incredulous.
"Yes, a Questing Beast. Hadn't you heard about the one terrorizing Gedref? We went after it and it bit Arthur and now he's dying but he can't die and now I'm babbling worse than Gwen."
"Who?" asked the befuddled druid.
"A friend of mine. She babbles. But do you know how to cure the Questing Beast's bite?"
The look in Blaise's eyes was answer enough.
This was a nightmare. It had to be. Surely there was no other explanation for how things had gone so wrong so quickly.
It had been a beautiful day, neither too hot nor too cool, with a gentle breeze rustling the leaves. There had been sunshine and butterflies and happily twittering birds, but then they'd found a place where all the birds were silent. They found the mouth of a cave, created by nature and enlarged by something with huge claws.
The sensible thing to do (as Merlin had told Arthur several times) would have been to set up an ambush at the mouth of the cave. The Questing Beast gets thirsty, comes out of its den, and is immediately fallen upon by knights with axes and swords and whatnot.
Arthur, being an idiot, had accused Merlin of idiocy before commanding his men to search the cave for other openings. Oh, yes, and they were supposed to split up while searching, even though they had no evidence that the cave was empty and they could easily run into its sharp-toothed, sharp-clawed, extremely dangerous resident at any given moment. Admittedly, Arthur had a couple justifications. The knights were smaller than the Questing Beast, so it made sense to confront the creature in a relatively enclosed area. Additionally, the teams of two knights could easily block off most corridors in a cave this small, and splitting into teams would allow them to cover more ground more efficiently. And anyways, they might find it sleeping.
They did not find it sleeping.
If the Questing Beast really had been immature, then it was a very big, very scary baby. It loomed above them as they rounded a corner, its teeth glinting yellow and red in the light of Arthur's torch. Its hackles were raised, its claws unsheathed, its serpentine hood flared, a snarl emanating from its throat.
Most of its body was feline, covered in dark-spotted fur, but the head was all snake, fur giving way to scales somewhere around its throat. Green on top, with paler scales covering its belly. Its tongue was forked, its fangs full of poison. The Questing Beast's teeth were hollow, Gaius had said, but the strength of the enamel made up for its thinness. Full of magically strengthened poison, they were the monster's most dangerous weapon.
A sensible person would have backed away slowly. Arthur, not being a sensible person, had decided that the dangerous venomous creature of magic didn't look that scary and that he should charge at it by himself rather than escape, regroup, and form some sort of plan with the knights who had been sent with him specifically to help him fight the blasted Questing Beast.
It had been a short, brutal fight, with Arthur hacking at the creature with his sword and the beast snapping its huge fangs at him. Then Arthur was down and Merlin levitated a blue-burning sword through the monster's neck, severing its head from its body.
What had happened next was almost a blur. Leon said that the knights had heard him shouting at Arthur to wake up, that they had followed the noise to find him shaking his prince's unconscious body. They'd had to drag him away from his future king, his friend. Then came the hard fast ride to Camelot, with one knight sent ahead on their fastest horse to make Gaius aware of the situation (something Merlin had not remembered when he first asked for the physician's advice) and the rest following as quickly as they dared.
"Okay," Merlin breathed. He was pacing now, though he didn't know when he'd started. "Do you know someone who might know about Questing Beasts?"
"Another druid might, but it would take a long time to relay my request for information."
Eight steps one way, turn, eight steps the other way. "Does the Questing Beast have any natural enemies?"
"Not to my knowledge."
Merlin's pace increased. He had been hoping that there was some sort of creature that—wait. Wait.
The warlock closed his eyes. He had never tried to communicate with someone from such a distance before and would need all his concentration. "Anhora, can you hear me?"
A few long moments of silence, then a small voice in his mind. "Emrys?"
Merlin strengthened the connection, throwing some of his own magic Anhora's way so that the Keeper could speak more clearly. (Later, he would wonder how he did that, because he really had no idea.) "Is it true that unicorns have powerful healing magic?"
"It is," the Keeper confirmed. "Why do you ask?"
"Arthur has been bitten by the Questing Beast."
Merlin sensed Anhora's sharp intake of breath. "That is grave news indeed," the older spellbinder professed.
"The stories say that unicorns have powerful healing magic. Is that true?"
"It is, though I know not if they are powerful enough to overcome the bite of a Questing Beast. Magic requires a balance, Emrys. For a life to be spared, another must be taken."
"The Questing Beast's life was taken. Will that work?"
There was no response. Anhora hesitated so long that Merlin worried he'd lost their connection. Finally, the elder spellbinder admitted, "I think…. I do not know for certain, but a great deal of magic is convincing reality to see things your way, as it were. If anyone can use the magic so, it is you. Perhaps it will be enough."
"And if it's not…?"
Once again, Anhora remained silent for a long time. Finally, he quietly said, "I am old, Emrys, and my heir is ready to take up his appointed task."
"But you can't—"
"Can you control the power of life and death?"
"I can," Merlin remembered. "There was a Sidhe—"
"If the unicorn's magic requires a life to balance that of Arthur Pendragon, the sacrifice must be willing. I am willing, Emrys."
"So am I."
"No."
The sound of a voice—a true voice, not a whisper in his mind—startled Merlin into opening his eyes. Anhora stood before him, his face solemn. "You have your entire life ahead of you, and your destiny outshines mine as the sun outshines the stars. I am the Keeper of the Unicorns, yes, but no unicorn has ever knelt before me. I am not the first ray of dawn. I am not the greatest hope of our people. I am not magic's champion, Merlin Emrys." He knelt, head bowed, like one of Uther's courtiers paying his respects.
"I am not magic's champion. You are."
"Please get up," Merlin begged. His cheeks were burning.
Smiling, Anhora rose. The smile faded. Blue eyes went wide with alarm. "Duck!" he cried.
Merlin ducked, but not quickly enough. A force grasped him, flung him like a child's doll into—through—the walls of Blaise's hut. The force of his impact knocked the breath from him, left a visible indent in the ground.
He lay there for a time, panting in an effort to refill his lungs. He knew he had to do something about the attack, about the attacker, but it was hard to move when he was bruised and battered and probably full of splinters. Still, with a great effort of will, he forced himself onto his belly, his knees, his feet.
Blaise's hut was burning, the flames growing with alarming rapidity. The sight and scent of the fire startled him out of his daze.
Blaise was nowhere in sight. Anhora lay unmoving on the floor, his white robes dangerously close to the flames. Horrified, the younger warlock ran to him.
"Astrice!"
"Scildan!" Merlin yelped instinctively, throwing up his arms. Pure force met golden-tinged resistance, causing the hastily conjured shield to ripple in midair. The hostile spell dissipated, giving Merlin enough time to catch a glimpse of his foe.
Nimueh. Of course it was Nimueh. The sorceress's eyes burned like the fire near Anhora's crumpled form, golden and furious. Her dark hair was loose and wild, her white teeth bared in a feral snarl.
She looked like she had finally snapped.
"Why are you doing this?" Merlin yelled. Another astrice collided with his shield spell. The rippling was more pronounced this time, a few hairline cracks appearing at the point of impact. Merlin swallowed hard, pumped more energy into his protection.
"Because Arthur Pendragon is not your destiny," Nimueh spat. "He is your enemy. Our enemy! Why can you not understand that?" Her power slammed against the shield. Merlin's knees buckled, but he stayed on his feet. Sweat trickled down his brow, stinging eyes that burned golden with power.
"He is my king," the warlock declared. "The prophecies—"
"You stupid boy, didn't you know that Emrys chooses the king?"
"What?" Merlin pulled up short.
"You are the Kingmaker," she hissed. "You are the true power of Albion, for you choose who sits in its throne."
No one had said anything about him choosing the Once and Future King. Kilgharrah hadn't. Neither had the druids. Gaius hadn't either, back when he'd confessed to Merlin that he'd been trying to research the old tales so he could be well-informed when he told his ward about the Albion Cycle. Yet Nimueh seemed utterly convinced of her assertion, completely certain she was right.
What if she was?
Time seemed to slow, though there was no magic involved. Merlin's mind simply sped up, presenting him with fragments of memory. A prince in Ealdor, out of place but determined to help. Defying Uther to retrieve the mortaeus flower. Staring at the unicorn with doubt in his eyes, firing at its feet to frighten it away from Camelot. Laughing with Morgana. A blossoming friendship with Gwen. Leon's quiet respect. Speaking with Lancelot, telling him that he should be a knight, hinting that perhaps, when Arthur sat the throne, he would be. Looking back at Edwin Muirden over two goblets of wine. Softly thanking the spellbinder—the enemy—who had guided him home with a globe of light.
Those were the times that Merlin saw what kind of man his prince was becoming, what kind of king he would be.
The warlock's shoulders squared as he drew himself to his full height. His eyes blazed their native gold. "If I am the Kingmaker, if I choose who sits upon the throne of Albion… then I choose Arthur Pendragon."
Nimueh screamed in pure fury. The force of her wordless, formless attack shattered Merlin's shield, sent him flying back into a tree. His head ached, ears ringing from the force of the blow, but somehow he landed on his feet. He wasn't balanced particularly well, but he was on his feet.
"I will never bow to Uther Pendragon's son!" the sorceress screamed, her hands full of flame. She clapped them together, and a huge stream of fire shot out towards Merlin. The warlock gasped out a shield spell, but the flames just kept coming.
His shield was trembling, flickering, about to go out.
For the first time, Merlin well and truly understood why Gaius and Kilgharrah were so insistent on keeping him away from Nimueh. Perhaps he had more raw power than her, though it didn't feel like that with her magic pounding at his defenses. But that didn't make Nimueh weak, not by a long shot, and she was a thousand times more skilled. Had he been training hard for this past year? Yes. Was he gifted, quick, with a deep reservoir of powerful instinct? Yes. But Nimueh was powerful and skilled and experienced, and he was no match for her.
And yet he had to be.
Arthur. Gwen. Morgana. Gaius. He remembered the afanc, the griffin. He thought of what might have happened had Arthur killed the unicorn that Nimueh had stolen, of all the people she had hurt and would hurt again if he didn't stop her.
The shield stopped flickering.
And Blaise and Anhora were here, immediately in danger, because of him. Blaise only lived in this hut (risking his life every day, a fact that continually haunted the back of Merlin's mind) because he'd agreed to teach Merlin. Anhora had come at his request. If Merlin hadn't asked for his help, the Keeper of the Unicorns would be safe in Gedref now, watching his charges in peace rather than risking fire and death.
Merlin lifted his head, eyes ablaze with gold.
And time stopped.
Flames froze in mid-leap. The golden shield keeping them at bay disappeared, vanishing from existence when it was no longer needed.
He couldn't hold this for too long. Emrys or not, he had his limits—limits of which he was acutely aware now, with Nimueh's assault so fresh. So Merlin ran towards where he'd last seen Anhora. The Keeper wasn't there. Horrified, Merlin looked around, sighed with relief when he saw Blaise (bloody and bruised but alive) dragging the older man away.
And yet….
Trapped behind Nimueh's firewall, Merlin hadn't seen how far her flames had spread. Now he could. The hut was completely ablaze, a charred skeleton on the verge of collapse. The brush had lit up in all directions, and several trees were losing their leaves and needles. There was no telling how much destruction this fire could cause if it wasn't stopped.
The warlock bit his lip. He knew the theory, but he'd never actually tried….
Well, he rather had to now.
First things first. There was no way he'd be able to do this while holding time still, and he probably couldn't do it while fighting Nimueh. Yet he couldn't leave, because then she'd remember Anhora and Blaise. She'd hurt them then, he knew. So he could only be a few seconds away from her.
It was a balancing act. He needed enough time to cast the spells and prepare himself for Nimueh's inevitable next attack, but he couldn't go too far away. With that in mind, he jogged over to one of the few trees not wreathed in flame, hid behind its bulk.
Time started again.
"Wægfatu, cume æt mé."
Heart pounding, a lump in his throat, Merlin looked up at the skies.
It was working. His spell had called the clouds, which were swirling high above him in a vortex of white and gray. Now for the next part.
"Tídrén!"
Nimueh spun around just as the first drops of rain began to fall. "Astri—"
"Gescildan!" Merlin spat.
The shield that appeared before him was bright and solid, and Nimueh's attack rebounded off of it.
It was strange, but Merlin felt stronger, fresher, now than when the battle had begun. He should be getting tired by now, but instead he had been invigorated. Perhaps it was just that the shock had worn off, or perhaps he had finally gotten his bearings. Or maybe—just maybe—it was because now he had Arthur's face fresh in his mind, Arthur and everyone else in Camelot, and he could see Blaise and Anhora right there.
Nimueh shrieked in rage, hammering at Merlin's shield in bursts of wordless force. The warlock's lips curled. "Not today," he muttered, and took a step forward.
The shield moved with him.
Some of the fury and madness faded from Nimueh's eyes, replaced by shock. She sent another blast at him, but he just kept walking.
Nimueh began to look worried.
"Give it up, Nimueh," Merlin ordered. "This is not the way."
"You're wrong, Emrys," she whispered. "You damn fool, how can you not see how wrong you are?" Suspicion twisted her features. "Was it them?"
Merlin followed her gesture to Blaise and Anhora, who seemed to be waking up.
"It was them, wasn't it," the sorceress said. The maddened rage was returning to her face, but it was no longer directed at Merlin. She raised her hand, opened her mouth to hiss a spell—a spell that Blaise, with his limited magic, could not hope to block.
"NO!"
Merlin's magic had always been different. It was automatic, instinctive, sometimes fulfilling his needs without spells or even conscious thought. His control had improved immeasurably since arriving in Camelot, but now he needed his natural gifts. Instinct and intent, reflex and resolution, skill and power and just enough intuition to tie it all together.
Lightning.
Blinding white light accompanied by the stink of ozone and a deafening clash of thunder. A woman's scream abruptly cut off.
A charred corpse falling to the ground.
A life taken.
(Merlin's eyes blazed gold.)
A life for a life.
In the heart of Camelot, for the briefest of moments, Arthur Pendragon opened his eyes.
Alternate chapter title: "Wherein Merlin Performs Immensely Powerful Magic Without Quite Realizing How, Exactly, He Is Managing To Do So"
Next chapter: ...Well, I was supposed to get this up two weeks ago, so four weeks from then is two weeks from today, so let's say February 26. Hopefully I can pull that off. As to what will happen then, well, we'll see a bit more of Anhora and Merlin and Morgana might start a certain conversation.
-Antares