I just quickly want to say that I've done some revising over the past couple weeks. I've sort of tied some things closer together, made them more relevant and meaningful. The biggest change was adding a character named Argus Vane, cult master of the Blackhands (yeah, cult, not order anymore). Claudius is still in this but he's just a soothsayer. I'll be updating the chapters soon.

I wanted to mention this before the final update. I hope no one is half-way through when I change things...


~37~ The Forest of Agmar

Merlin's breath rattled worryingly in his chest as he staggered through the ancient forest, half-blinded by pain, half-blinded by the hindering foliage sprouting between the gnarled trunks. Hidden, twisted roots threatened to clasp onto his ankles and cripple him. Sagging beards of moss fell across his head and shoulders like a cloak, scratching any exposed skin with rough, green tendrils.

A surge of pain reddened his vision, and he gasped as cruel claws squeezed his heart. He staggered and fell to his knees, a hand to his chest, struggling to take in enough air. When the fit subsided, Merlin lurched back to his feet and soldiered on. The Wild couldn't be far now.

For almost three days, he'd been trekking the cynical forest, with its deep, hidden gorges, moss-covered foot traps, and a steep disregard of any useful trails. Three days since he'd left Arthur in the care of the Druids, cauterized his own wounds, and departed to find the one place his instincts were pushing him for. He had already driven himself past weariness and into complete exhaustion in his attempts to reach his supposed salvation—revealed to him in his dreams—before the silver in his veins stopped his heart. And he felt that time was running short.

His foot slid neatly beneath a raised root, and in his fatigue, he was unable to prevent himself from falling face-first to the uneven ground, flopping like a limp fish. He cried out as he tried to stop himself with his left arm, a shattering pain sending sparks across his vision. The metal shard that yet remained in his flesh continuously leaked poisonous silver in his blood, which was somehow preventing him from being able to Heal any wounds properly. It was why, now, Merlin was on a long and arduous journey to find a place he had not thought about for years until a couple weeks ago, when he dreamed of a familiar forest, and one glade in particular. Even in the dream, he had felt more alive and invigorated than he had ever been in his life. He also turned into a wolf, but he hoped that that wouldn't be part of reality when it came down to it.

Right now, though, the warlock remained on the ground, blinking away stars and tears and frantically trying to retain consciousness. He wasn't sure how he got impaled with the silver blade, but suspected it to be the work of a Blackhand.

And that Blackhand is probably dead now, he thought nauseously. Throat ripped out or chest slashed open or guts spilled all over the ground...

He tried not to remember anything that had happened that fateful night. Mercifully, he could recall nothing about the killings. Unmercifully, he had nightmares.

They all started the same, with him running freely through the trees, the wind in his hair and the earth soft underfoot. But then he would scent fresh blood, and the temptation would be too great to resist, no matter how fast or how far he fled. He would turn, and then he would find a group of people – sometimes armed, sometimes not – and slaughter them all. Usually, they were Blackhands. Other times, they were knights of Camelot or innocent villagers. Always, there was Arthur.

The king always looked the same in the dream, the same as when Merlin had regained control a few days prior, just before he murdered him. He recalled Arthur's face vividly, a courageously defiant display leering at the prospect of doom, yet with an undercoat of pure terror that Merlin could not forget.

Either way, Merlin had been robbed of sleep for the past few days, by both dreams of horror and dreams of the Wild, and he felt that if he didn't get proper rest soon, he would simply go mad.

Proper rest...proper food...proper drink... The cycle ran over and over in his head, a continuous circle of need that tore at his mind as viciously as the werewolf in his body. Having finished the water skin hanging at his side, he felt that continuing on was nigh on impossible. Even the beast was culled, the specks of silver smothering its efforts to break free again. He was weak, discouraged, and alone.

The one thing he did have, however, was an unconscious instinct. He knew exactly where the Wild was.

Merlin glanced up at the stone statue in his path – a tall, hooded figure with its hands clasped before it, the ends of its long monk robes piling on the ground. Its hands, oddly, were black, as though made of a different rock. There was a stone owl perched on its shoulder, regarding the forest around it with cool disinterest. The statue was gradually becoming consumed by lichen and ivy, but it was still unnerving to look at. It was also the very same one he'd seen in his dream.

Shuddering, Merlin bowed over and staggered on. His head swam with vertigo, but he managed to not fall over. He felt that he wouldn't have the strength to stand up again if he collapsed.

A steep-sided, rocky gorge opened up before him, slicing into the earth like a laceration. Merlin eyed it warily, trying to ignore the fog demons that swirled in the mists. A crow cawed somewhere above him, and he flinched.

Don't be a wimp! he snapped at himself, taking the first stride into the ravine. His dream had instructed him to, after all.

More than once, his foot ended up in a puddle of icy water, or his shirt snagged on a root, desperately twisting its way out of the walls of the gorge. He was fortunate if he ever saw more than ten feet in front of him. Mostly, he went blind.

He judged a half mile was consumed beneath his staggering feet before he threw up. The worms burrowing into his stomach had proved too much, but he felt no better after a repulsive gush of black bile burst from between his lips and spattered over the mossy stones, mixing with the thin trickle of water running at the bottom of the gorge.

Merlin gagged, then fell on his hands and knees and vomited again, eyes streaming, nose running sickly. He coughed, wincing as every jerk ripped pain throughout his whole body.

Is that blood? he wondered, staring at the putrid black substance oozing over the mossy gorge floor.

He was shaking with fever, he realized, not just fatigue. His face dripped sweat and his heart raced like a jackrabbit's. The silver was taking its toll.

But the Wild...it must do something...

The ravine finally climbed to reach the surface world once more. Panting heavily, he fell to one knee, propping himself up with one arm.

No...must...keep going...

But he could not get up.

Ͻ Ϫ Ͻ

"You know, I think I've had my fair share of thick, relentless forests," Gwaine grumbled, cutting away low branches to clear the way. "Had I known that being a knight included this sort of thing, I would have left Camelot in the hands of Morgana."

"You sound like you single-handedly reclaimed the city yourself," said Elyan, hiding a grin. Gwaine looked to him, exasperated.

"Uh, yeah, because I did."

"Quiet, you two," Arthur hissed, eyes never ceasing to roam the surrounding trees. "I don't care much for attracting attention, especially unwanted attention."

Gwaine snorted. "With all due respect, sire, your face is scarier than anything we'd find in this forest—"

Percival's horse squealed as a fox burst from the foliage before it and darted across its path. He tried to calm the steed, but it tossed its head, nostrils flared and hooves stamping the soft earth incessantly. Its unease spread to the other horses, which whickered and shifted in anxious malaise.

"Druid magic or not, these horses aren't going any further," Leon declared, dismounting. "They can't make it through that." He nodded at the ever thickening forestland ahead. He didn't mention that the spell, cast by the Druids to keep them calm around Arthur, was wearing thin.

"If we let them go, will they find their own way home?" Gwen wondered aloud, also climbing down.

"I should think so," said Sophia, the Silverblood. "And if they remain together, they'll be able to fend off any predator."

With slight reluctance, the company released the horses, turning them and patting them on the rear to get them going. Once the beasts vanished into the darkness of evening, they continued their own journey, relying on the map Gabriela had given them.

"There should be a statue nearby," Arthur muttered, studying the yellow parchment of the map, "a hooded man, called..." He squinted at the thin, spidery script. "Nocturn..."

"It's here, sire!" Leon called over his shoulder, having scouted ahead. The others hastened to catch up, and lo and behold, there stood the statue, swathed in moss and ivy.

"Arthur, look here," said Elyan excitedly, pointing at the earth. "Tracks."

The king knelt, looking at the footprints in the mud and moss. Someone had passed there, and recently; water had barely begun to fill the indentations.

Gwaine cupped a hand to his mouth. "Merlin!"

"Shhh!" Arthur spat, waving a hand to silence the knight. "What the blazes do you think you're doing?"

"We can't be far behind him," said Percival.

The companions had a renewed vigour in their step, and their enthusiasm expanded by tenfold when they came to the entrance of a gorge, just like the map said they should. Something else dampened their spirits, however.

"Arthur, Merlin is struggling," Leon reported, once more checking the servant's tracks. "He keeps staggering and falling. He is weak."

The king said nothing, remaining impassive as he led the way into the ravine. The thick mists engulfed him, and he felt a foreboding sense of claustrophobia put weight on his chest like a cloak of chains. How did he ever stand hunting in these woods?

"Stay close," he said, one hand out before him so he wouldn't walk into the sides. Gwen clasped his other hand, squeezing it for reassurance.

It must have been near a mile long, the gorge was, barely twisting or turning. When they felt the earth rise, they hastened on, heaving a collective sigh of relief as the ravine opened up to the woods again. The trees remained as redoubtable as ever, but at least it wasn't so narrow.

"Sire," said Leon, beckoning the king over. Arthur approached to where the knight had crouched, struggling to see through the foliage.

"What is it?"

Leon pointed. "Merlin fell here. And he didn't get up."

Arthur's face darkened, following the drag marks in the mud with his eyes. He crept forward, moving faster and faster when he realized, indeed, that Merlin didn't get back up. Eventually, he was moving so quickly that he nearly bypassed the servant altogether.

"Merlin? Merlin!"

The youth was at the base of a thick, mossy tree, curled in a shuddering ball. He was coated in foul mud and decaying leaves, but his pasty, sweaty skin was still visible, enunciating the illness that coursed through his veins.

Arthur reached him first and turned him over, immediately checking for a pulse. His neck was cool beneath his fingertips.

"Is he alive?" asked Gwaine, equally alarmed by the sight of Merlin's face. It was deathly pallid, almost grey, but poisonous black veins spider-webbed from his mouth and under his eyes.

Arthur shook his head. "He is...But his pulse is racing. His skin is cold and his breathing doesn't sound good."

"Good" didn't even come close. Merlin's short, desperate intakes of air were rattling and coarse, as though someone was crushing his throat just so.

"Merlin, can you hear me?"

The servant shuddered, curling into a smaller ball yet favouring his left arm. Arthur wasn't sure if he had actually reacted to his voice or reacted to the poison. All he knew was that Merlin was at least semi-conscious.

"Why is he like this?" asked Percival, crouching down beside him.

"The silver," Arthur replied absentmindedly, staring at his friend's ashen, pain-twisted face. He felt a twinge of revulsion at the sight of dried vomit around Merlin's mouth. It was black.

"But you were wounded by a silver arrow, and you aren't like this."

"The silver head went through him," said Sophia, standing just off to the side. "There must still be a spearhead shard in Merlin's shoulder."

"Give me the Heart," Arthur blurted, turning his head to look at Gwen. "The silver is only killing him because of the beast. If we get rid of it, then—"

"Arthur, look." Leon was pulling the collar of Merlin's shirt down, revealing the edges of a cauterized wound.

It was difficult to remove the garment with the servant in his current position, but they managed, and all paled at the sight of the horrific injuries Merlin had sustained. Scratches, bruises, lacerations and abrasions. Gouges on his side and arms. The unmistakable purple blotches signifying broken ribs. The worst, however, was the ruddy mess that was his shoulder.

Punctures that could only be from teeth, massive, gnashing teeth, ruined the muscle beyond proper healing. The size of the wound pointed towards a bear, but Arthur knew what it really was.

"That's where I bit him," he said softly, impassive. His attention moved to the gruesome, festering hole just above Merlin's heart. "And that's where I impaled him with the spear."

Several of the wounds had been pressed on by a burning iron, or perhaps a burning blade, cauterizing and sealing the skin shut. It staunched the bleeding and often prevented infection, but the handiwork was nothing compared to what Arthur and his companions received.

"He must have had the Druids cauterize the wounds before leaving Mistwood." He shook his head. He realized that the wounds on his back were not as well done, and paled. "Or he did it himself."

The knights glanced at each other, horrified malaise as clear as the fear they all felt. Arthur looked to Gwen.

"Give him the Silver Heart," he said. "The silver is what's killing him. We get rid of the werewolf, then maybe he'll be able to retain enough strength..." Even as he spoke, however, his doubt clung to his words like ivy on a tree. Gwaine caught on quickly.

"Arthur," he said, calm, "the werewolf is keeping him alive as much as it is killing him. These wounds..." He shook his head. "You had similar ones, and you barely survived. You would have died without the beast blood."

"In any case, a risk will have to be taken," said Elyan.

Arthur shook his head again.

I'm sorry, Merlin, he thought morosely. This is my fault. I did this to you.

It was then, as though in response to Arthur's thoughts, that Merlin opened his eyes. There was a sharp intake of breath from all who saw the dark, empty gaze that had replaced the bright azure rings. It wasn't Merlin who was staring at them. It was the beast.

"He's going to turn! Ready the Silver Heart," Sophia barked, but it was unnecessary.

Merlin blinked, once, twice, and the darkness receded. The sapphire irises replaced the empty brown, though the pupils remained dilated, his body reacting to the fear of his mind.

Arthur relaxed, having tensed like a bowstring at the shock. "Merlin, can you hear me now?"

Those eyes turned on him, but they just stared, nothing more. He didn't speak or show any signs of recognition. But it didn't matter. With a ragged sigh, his eyes rolled up and the lids fell closed, returning to the state the knights had found him in.

"We need to move," said Sophia. "I don't like the feeling of this place..."

Percival elected to carry Merlin, being the strongest of them all, and he held him with one arm behind the servant's back and the other below his knees.

"He needs to eat more," said the knight loftily. "Weighs near to nothing!"

"Let us find a place to strike camp," said Arthur. "Night is soon upon us."


Merlin woke again little under ten minutes later. He shifted slightly Percival's arms, and the knight immediately set him down.

"Arthur."

The king turned, managing to smother his concern as he knelt beside his companions.

"Merlin?" Arthur shook his uninjured shoulder lightly, and the servant's eyes cracked open. They flickered up to meet his, and the king saw how dull they were, how lifeless. He was fading.

"What 're...you doin' here?" Merlin murmured, so soft that Arthur had to lean in closer to hear.

"Goon hunting," he replied flatly. His friend dismissed the sarcasm.

"Should be...Druids...safe..."

"We need get him back to the Druids," said Leon. "As quickly as—"

"And what would they do?" the king asked impatiently, turning his head to look up at the knight. "All they did was cauterize his wounds. What difference would it make if we took him back now?"

Leon said nothing, lowering his gaze.

"Let's keep moving," Arthur ordered, standing.

"Leave me...please..." Merlin croaked, but he was ignored as Percival took him back into his arms. He was too weak to keep his own head up.


They struck camp in a small section that somehow managed to not be drowning in moss and bushes. The damp wood made lighting a fire difficult, but they eventually succeeded before night consumed them entirely.

They heated water and made a rabbit stew with a brace of conies they had caught...Well, they tried to make rabbit stew. It mostly ended up a bubbling mass of slightly-burnt goop, which they somehow managed to make smell like cabbage.

"This is definitely Merlin's area of expertise," said Leon with a wince, staring suspiciously at the small morsel on his spoon.

"I said I'm perfectly capable of making stew," said Gwen reproachfully, patting Merlin's brow with a damp cloth. "Out here, it doesn't matter who I am."

"But, my lady!" Gwaine protested playfully. "'Tis the opportunity to prove that we are more than mere bodyguards to her excellency! To prove that we are more than just clumsy brutes who swing about swords and drink and fart and brag about epic battles to anyone who would listen—"

It was then that Merlin, who was drifting in and out of unconsciousness, stirred feebly in the cocoon of blankets the queen had wrapped him in.

"...Ar...thur..."

The king glanced at him, trying to figure out whether he was speaking in his sleep or not.

"Ar-thur..."

He got up, forcing himself to appear reluctant as he made his way over to the servant. He knelt by his side and felt his forehead.

"He's burning up, worse than before," Arthur announced, withdrawing his hand. As though in defiance of the king's diagnosis, Merlin shivered, teeth chattering.

"When he wakes up, we'll give him some food," said Gwen, standing.

"Give him any of this and he'll wish the silver had already killed him," said Leon, tossing a spoonful of stew over his shoulder and grimacing.

"I told you throwing in random leaves wouldn't taste good," Elyan told Gwaine flatly, having already given up eating the inedible, cabbage-smelling mush.

Gwaine shrugged helplessly. "I see Merlin throwing in green things all the time! I didn't know that there was more to it than that!"

"Men," Sophia muttered from the shadows, rolling her eyes.

"Well, I didn't see you helping," Gwaine growled at her. She looked affronted.

"I'm an assassin, not a cook!"

"You two, please, you're disturbing Merlin," Gwen scolded, glaring. On cue, Merlin shifted, eyes opening a slit.

"Ar...thur...Find..." He said a word then, a word that was so muddled by a tongue thickened with sleep that Arthur just frowned.

"What did he say?" asked Gwen, also puzzled.

"Sounded like... 'Find aurora,'" said Percival. Gwaine shook his head.

"More like, 'Find a flora.'"

"That doesn't make any sense," said Elyan, brow creased, and the other knight lifted his hands in protest.

"What were we just discussing?" he demanded. "Plants. Flora. He wants us to find some kind of plant for the stew—"

"Do you think of anything other than your stomach, Gwaine?" said Leon.

Tired of the bantering, Arthur declared, "He said, 'Find Anhora.'"

The others looked confused.

"What, or who, is Anhora?" asked Percival.

Arthur took a deep breath, staring at the earth between his crouched knees. "Once, many years ago, I killed a unicorn in these woods."

"A unicorn," said Gwaine, incredulous. "I didn't know those actually existed."

"I remember that," Gwen mumbled as Leon nodded in recollection. "And for the next month, there was that terrible plague..."

"So what does this Anhora have to do with anything?" asked Elyan.

"Anhora is the Keeper of the Unicorns. I haven't seen him since..." Arthur trailed off, still refusing to look at anyone. "Why would Merlin want us to find him?"

"Unicorns," Sophia muttered, finger tapping her lips thoughtfully. She jerked. "Wait, what did you say that statue was called on our way here? The hooded man with the black hands and the owl on his shoulder?"

Arthur blinked, then got up and sought the map in a knapsack. Unfolding it, he brought it closer to the fire to read.

"It was called...Nocturn," he said, finding the image on the parchment, granted to him by the Druids.

"So what?" asked Leon, glancing between the king and the Silverblood.

"It is believed that Nocturn created the unicorns," said Sophia, seeming to be only half-listening to what was coming out of her mouth, her eyes focused on another plane. "Nocturn was Larentia's brother, and fellow Archon."

"'I have old friends in old places,'" Gwen blurted. "Gabriela said that that's what the priestess of the Ancient Kingdom had told Merlin after he was cured."

"So...Anhora is that old friend?" said Percival. "How do we find him, then?"

"Kill a unicorn," announced Gwaine with a grin, but he wilted under Arthur's gaze. "It was just a joke."

The king shook his head at the now unconscious servant and sighed. "What do you mean, Merlin?"


Damn I'm so f*cking stressed right now aslfjaslkdjflskdfjlaskf rant rant alskdfjlkasjdlfkjasdlfk TAKE OUT ALL MY FRUSTRATIONS ON THE F*CKING KEYBOARD AKLSDJFKLASJDFLKASJDFKLASKJ DX

...Sorry.

"Your time will come. You will face the same evil, and you will defeat it." ~ Arwen (The Lord of the Rings)