This chapter is a bit of a filler. I wasn't sure how to put it any other way than how it has come out, for I wanted it to remain realistic in the way that Merlin handles his current predicament.

Ha! Realistic.


~28~ Refuge with Fallen Kings

Rowan managed to catch Arthur twice because of superior speed and strength, not to mention the absence of injury. Both times, Merlin would distract the grey werewolf, giving the king time enough to make his escape. He wasn't sure what he was going to do once they left the city and reached the forest, for he couldn't stop even one of them for long, let alone both. But what else could he do? His plan had failed. All he could hope to achieve now was either kill Rowan or at least hold him off long enough to let Arthur get away. Both very precarious endeavours.

Arthur topped the battlements of the outer walls of the city. He wasted no time in dropping down four stories to the grassy ground below and bolting for the trees. Rowan followed suit a moment later, with Merlin slightly after.

The silver werewolf began to catch up at the edge of the forest. With a spurt of strength, Merlin lunged forward and managed to bite Rowan's tail, just as he had Arthur's, before the monster could catch the king a third time. This new interruption was the last straw.

Rowan whirled about and slashed at the side of Merlin's face. The blow was more powerful than the strength of three bears, and the warlock was stunned as he crashed to the ground. He was just fast enough to raise an arm and protect his neck as Rowan lunged to bite, giving him the time to recuperate and lash back.

The hellish din they made as they chomped and tore at each other would put any dog fight to shame. Rowan's thoughts were to kill. Merlin's, to distract. Blood half-blinded him but still he battled on, both the beast before him and the beast within. He seriously contemplated on just letting his internal wolf take over, but the thought of having no control at all scared him too much.

I just have to get him in the right spot! he growled inwardly.

Rowan's foot paw caught him in the side, near his broken ribs, and he cringed away, yelping. Merlin tried to retreat then, for enough was enough. He could only pray that Arthur had reached a safe distance as he dodged around the other werewolf's next strike and bolted for the forest. Rowan was on his tail immediately, but the warlock used the trees to his advantage. He wove in and out of the trunks, preventing a clear line of attack from Rowan. A peculiar sensation numbed his pain and he was able to put on a fresh burst of speed. Foliage was crushed and torn beneath his feet, leaving a very clear trail in his wake. There wasn't much he could do about that.

Rowan snarled in frustration as he noticed that he was falling behind. Invigorated, Merlin felt all pain melt away as he bounded over a stream. He knew this place.

Go that way...A bit further...There! Sure enough, a pair of statues, nearly green in the forest's grasp, marked the beginning of the Valley of the Fallen Kings. Merlin made eagerly for the narrow crevice slicing into the earth, only to stop and sniff worriedly. An instinct, so pungent and alien that he figured it had to be that of the werewolf, urged him not to go in there.

But I must. I have to escape! He could hear Rowan gaining. There were saplings and bushes being rustled and crushed just beyond the immediate foliage. Growling, Merlin slipped into the Valley, ignoring the uneasiness. He has, after all, been unsettled by the secret place since the first time he'd set foot in it.

Finally, he risked a glance back just before the first bend. His knees weakened as he saw Rowan charging for the entrance, but gave a wolfish sigh of relief when the beast stopped, scattering old leaves as he skidded to a halt. He howled in frustration, pacing before the ravine opening. His instincts were stronger than Merlin's, more animal.

Without thoughts of taunting, which would only serve to antagonize Rowan and encourage him to enter, Merlin turned tail and fled further into the forbidden place. He did not stop until the pain forced him to.

An unbidden whimper escaped his throat as he sat on his haunches beneath a tree. The metallic stench of his own blood clogged his nostrils, and then he noticed that there was actual blood clogging his nostrils. His tongue snaked out of his mouth and licked his muzzle. He barely restrained himself from licking his other wounds as well.

Ooh, it hurts.

He curled up in a hollow made by the roots of the twisted tree, tail tucked, beastly instincts warring with human mind. The instincts wanted him to act like nothing was wrong, to not show weakness to anything that may want to take advantage of him, while the mind refused to ignore the utter agony it knew was slowly killing the body. In his attempts to smother the werewolf within him, Merlin sided with his mind and suffered.

Turn human, he told himself. Turn human and Heal what you can. Anything shallow enough...

But would he be strong enough as a human? What if it was solely the werewolf's extraordinary strength keeping him alive? And what if Rowan or even Arthur comes by after all?

Merlin growled through his pain. He shouldn't have gone so far into the city to find the king. That must have been what prevented Gwaine from getting to them in time with the Silver Heart.

He snorted. What's done was done. He'd learned years ago that worrying over that which cannot change was about as fruitful as trying to grow a crop in the snow. He has to make do with what happened. What other choice had he?

So what do I do?

Once more, he contemplated on turning back into his normal body. The problem remained—not to mention that he didn't fancy running around in the forest like a wild man with no clothes on—that he may be too weak to survive if he did so. Well, it was a risk he would have to take.

If he could find something to wear, he would turn back human, Heal what he could, then go find Arthur. The king, after all, would stay a werewolf for only a few more hours; with his recovered, extraordinary sense of smell, Merlin would be able to track him well enough.

It's only Rowan that I have to worry about.

He shuddered in pain as he uncurled his torn body and got back to his paw-like feet. He took a step, swayed, then continued on. A branch brushed against his head and he whimpered as it caught on his ripped ear.

Don't be a wimp! he snapped at himself, and took a few more experimental steps, his paws barely making a sound on the moist vegetation carpeting the forest floor. He realized that he could walk fine without passing out from pain and moved a little quicker, using his arms to gain speed. One forearm had been slashed open by Arthur, but he did what he could to ignore it and lengthened his stride.

Soon he was running like a wolf, bounding over what he couldn't charge through, nose scoping for unfamiliar scents. The animal drive within him kept him going for over an hour, seeking shelter and safety. He knew that the chances of finding anyone in the secret Valley of the Fallen Kings were minimal, so when the boundaries passed underfoot, he began his search in earnest, ears pricked and muzzle to the ground.

What must have been at least three miles vanished before he smelled smoke. Giving a involuntary sniff and growl of anticipation, he turned towards the source. Something caught his eye as he broke through a wall of tall grasses and stopped to gather his bearings on a path, a human trail by the smell of it. It was a sign that lured his attention, nailed to a tree with large letters declaring, King's hunting grounds. Poaching prohibited.

Merlin didn't like hunting, but he didn't like petty little men insulting the king by trespassing on his land either. And the smoke was definitely coming from within the king's land.

Now only moving on his foot paws, he stalked along the path until the tangy smoke faded. Turning back, he started to make circles, going wider and further away from a central point until the location of the fire was unmistakable. He made sure that he was downwind before creeping through the foliage, closer to the camp.

He saw the flicker of a low flame just after he heard the undertone of hushed voices. He couldn't see the smoke, so the wood used must have been dry; there was nothing to alert Camelot with. With the sharp scent of clear smoke and the muskiness of animal furs, there was also unwashed bodies and at least two horses. That meant two men.

A rumble rolled in Merlin's chest. Two men were nothing. He stalked closer, silent until there was only a bush and a few trees in the way. He saw the two poachers near the fire, roasting something over the flames. A low ground tent was struck between a few trees about three metres from the fire and a pair of unsaddled horses were tethered not far from that, their comforting, musty smell thick in Merlin's nose. It was they who alerted the poachers of the danger.

Having sensed something amiss, their heads perked, ears erect and nostrils flared. One of them whickered, but the poachers paid no heed. The other one stamped, tail swishing, then neighed with unease. Only then did the men raise their heads and look over to them. Over to them, and away from where Merlin hid.

His involuntary growl gave away his position just before he struck. The poachers, expecting a bear or large wolf, immediately snatched up their bows. To their dismay, and Merlin's triumph, they had unstrung them earlier that night, not expecting to be attacked by any beast.

With a savage yowl, the warlock burst through the last bushes and charged into the camp. The men screamed almost as loudly and shrilly as the two horses as they abandoned their useless bows and drew machetes. A wolfish grin stole Merlin's features as he leered down at them both, the beast blood within him making him merciless and cruel with his teasing.

One of the poachers made to slash with his machete, but with a roar, Merlin swung an arm and knocked him flying. He soared over the fire and landed with a grunt near the tent, but the servant's attention was now locked on the second man, who immediately tried to flee for the cover of the forest. Merlin was on him in an instant. Leaping up and forward, he knew his timing was just right as his foot paws landed on the poacher's back. The man's scream was cut off as he fell flat on his face, the full weight of a werewolf knocking the air from his chest.

Growling with adrenaline, Merlin stepped off of him and grasped him by the coat with one hand. His heart pounded with the thrill of the fight, the helplessness of his prey as he squirmed within his grasp.

It would be so easy, so fun, to just ripe him into bloody, screaming p

He stopped, blinking. Was he just contemplating killing this man? Criminal that he was? That wasn't what he'd set out to do at all.

The poacher was frozen with fear, wild eyes meeting Merlin's as the warlock lifted him to inspect him. He looked pathetic, underfed and unshaven.

If I were human right now, Merlin said inwardly, hackles rising and ears falling flat, he would have killed me without a second thought. The skin around his muzzle bunched as he growled, and the poacher squeaked, tears now running freely down his filthy cheeks.

"G-good doggy," he simpered. Then he started to blubber something, and it took Merlin a moment to realize that he was praying.

If I kill him, he will never have a chance to learn from this or change his ways. If I let him go, he may even tell all his little friends to never insult the king by tramping around his private hunting grounds again.

With a final snort in the poacher's face, Merlin threw him into a tree. The man yelped, but was immediately silent as his skull contacted the trunk. He slumped to the ground and the warlock turned his attention on the other poacher. To his satisfaction, the trespasser was already fleeing, cutting loose one of the halters of a horse and vaulting onto its back. The steed wasted no time in whirling about and charging into the darkness. As for the other one, it squealed and bucked, trying to tear itself free with no success.

The poacher probably left it to hold my attention and give him more of a chance to escape, Merlin though snidely, stalking towards the poor beast. With one slash of his claws, the rope was sliced away from the tree and the horse fled, pounding hooves fading with every heartbeat. Merlin hoped that it wouldn't accidentally break a leg in a hole, and turned back to the first poacher, who was lying by the tree that had knocked him out.

Blood was oozing from a wound on his head, and Merlin had to tear his eyes away.

I will not eat this man. I will not eat this man. I will not eat this man.

He focused his attention on his own injuries, the pain he felt, the exhaustion. All at once, the urge to hunt and rip and kill melted into the dormant corners of his mind. His heart eased and his hackles fell. His rumbling breath calmed, and then jerked as he started to feel himself returning to his natural form.

He had to lie there on the ground for several minutes. He was right – it was only in the body of the wolf that he was strong enough to move, let alone stand. Wounds that seemed so trivial and were easily ignored now caused him the most agony. His ear was almost gone, hanging on by a few flaps of raw flesh. Blood was dripping into his eye by the long scratches that ran down one side of his face, mixing with the pain-wrought tears. The stub of a bolt stuck out of his upper right arm and his foot felt torn apart.

What hurt the most was the bloody mass of torn flesh on his left shoulder, the remains of Arthur's bite. It oozed pus and red fluids, and with every drop of blood that fell, a drop of energy went with it. To Merlin's horror, he found that he could no longer lift his left arm. The tendons and muscle were too badly damaged.

His right hand was trembling as he passed it over a shallow gash in his pectoral experimentally. "Resąnęsco," he whispered coarsely, and the wound stitched itself back together, the raw, angry seams melting into a pale scar. He did the same for a few more injuries, including his ear and the bolt wound, but dared not touch his shoulder just yet. The severed tendons and torn muscle could not be waved away with simple magic and still work afterwards. Something this complex required more, much more, and if he made a mistake, it would cost him the use of his arm.

In any case, he was too tired to continue. There were still gashes on his legs, arms, and face, but the energy consumed by both blood loss and use of Healing magic was taxing him dearly. He pulled himself towards the unconscious poacher and pulled off a scarf that he'd been using as a belt, tying it as best he could around his wounded forearm and staunching the blood flow. Then he noticed the saddlebags around the other side of the fire, near the ground tent, and started to crawl with one arm towards them. Every inch hurt, and he collapsed more than once. But, determined, he laboured on, struggling to not pass out.

Before he knew it, he had reached the poacher's supplies and was rooting around inside for bandages. The coarse feeling of old linen soon brushed his fingers, and he yanked them out, grimacing when a dead rabbit came with them. He knew that the chances of infection by now had increased by tenfold, but he nearly used them to cover his shoulder anyway when he saw the kettle by the fire. Poachers needed water as well.

He groaned at the thought of crawling all the way over to it when he had already passed it on his way to the saddlery, so he called upon his magic once more. The kettle floated from its spot near the fire, into his waiting hand, and with another spurt of magic, the water within it boiled.

Merlin unravelled the strips of linen and prepared to shove them into the water, but as he did so, a curved bone needle and spool of thread tumbled out.

Lucky me, he thought, not sure if it was sarcasm or not.

He finished putting some linen strips into the boiling water and then pulled himself so that he was against a tree. He gasped a few times, blinking to banish the stars that exploded across his vision as he moved his left arm. Taking the needle, he threaded it with magic – it would have been impossible to do if one hand couldn't cooperate – and dipped it into the water to sterilize it.

The task before him was a daunting one, and he wracked his mind for any magic he could think of that would numb the pain. Once he had two simple words, he hauled his exhausted right arm up and passed his hand over the ruined shoulder.

"Torpĕt döloręs," he grunted, his eyes flashing gold, and he gave a sigh of relief as the throbbing agony subsided immensely from the whole limb.

Why didn't I do that earlier?

It took a lot of courage on his part, for seeing a pointy needle pass in and out of one's flesh was never something to remain calm over. He managed to sew up the ugly gash on his forearm and then stitch close what he could on his shoulder. To his dismay, he felt he still couldn't move it properly. He was going to have to make a cast for it soon.

When he finished, he dried each long strip of sterilized linen with magic one by one, and wrapped up the stitched wounds. He winced. Every time he moved, blood seeped to stain the bandages red. There was nothing that could be done for that.

Maybe I could ask the Druids to Heal this for me, he thought, mind muggy with fatigue. He didn't fancy a lifetime with a crippled arm.

Only then did he finally root around the saddlery for clothes and food. He dressed, ate, and drank all the contents of two water skins he found before binding and gagging his prisoner. When he was sure that the man was secure, he crawled into the low tent. He didn't think the other poacher was going to return.


"Pain can be controlled - you just disconnect it." ~ Kyle Reese (The Terminator)