Episode 3.12 "The Quest for the Cup"
Arthur rode out of the citadel at first light, wrapped in a heavy cloak against recognition and the chill in the mid-autumn air – and turned his gelding's head in the direction opposite to his orders.
It wasn't yet dawn when he reached the ruins, and he wondered if he'd give his friends a scare, walking in on them asleep. The amusement he felt at the thought was distant, and interrupted by a man's voice, echoing-urgent, as his boot scuffed the threshold of the ruin's main entrance.
"Someone's coming."
A hissed warning, and Arthur didn't recognize the voice for Gwaine's til he heard Merlin more clearly a moment later. "It's Arthur."
He pushed open the crooked door that still protected the most-fully-intact chamber they'd chosen for residence. Gwaine stepped out from behind it as he did so - from a position of ambush should Arthur have proved to be a stranger – tucking his knife back into his belt.
Arthur regained breath he'd spent on hurrying as Merlin – also standing, though clad in trousers and unbelted shirt only, as if he'd just stood from his bedroll – moved closer. "I need you."
Merlin turned to wave a hand, and items from around the room began to fly together, packing themselves. Gwaine said, not really a question, "Both of us, and horses?"
Arthur nodded, and Gwaine slipped past him to ready their mounts.
A handful of minutes, and they both were ready – booted, belted, cloaked and mounted – and Arthur felt warmer and more confident than he had since yesterday, that he had two such men to depend on, to call on, ready and willing at a moment's notice without a word of explanation.
"Another quest," Gwaine guessed, as Arthur led them out at a fast clip – but not too fast for conversation, and one they could sustain for a while, as they had a long journey ahead. "Where are we going?"
"Cenred's kingdom," Arthur said, and felt the surprise of both, though for different reasons.
"It's not Odin this time?" Gwaine said.
"No," Arthur tossed back, "but he could easily take advantage of the situation, if it isn't swiftly resolved – and no, Merlin, it's nothing to do with Ealdor. We're going to the Forrest of Essetir." Still half a day's ride from Merlin's home village; they wouldn't have time for a visit, this trip.
"What happened, Arthur?" Merlin asked. "Why us, and not any of the knights?"
So Arthur told them. About the four-man patrol that had gone missing, and how Cenred had sent a messenger declaring them dead, claiming they were on his side of the border – essentially contesting it. Very nearly, a declaration of war, depending on Camelot's response.
"Think he's deliberately provoking you?" Gwaine offered.
Possibly. Probably. What concerned Arthur more for the moment was Sir Leon – one of the four and presumed dead with his fellows – until, Arthur reassured the grim expressions of his companions, he'd returned with the story of a miraculous healing accomplished by a group of druids with a magic cup.
"The Cup of Life?" Merlin said, and Arthur twisted in the saddle at his tone – caught Gwaine doing the same out of the corner of his eye.
"You know it?" Arthur said. Not because he was surprised, really, but wondering if Merlin might have additional information.
"I've seen it," Merlin allowed. "I just – I thought it had been destroyed."
Gwaine snorted. "We're up to twenty-five now, mate."
Arthur quirked an eyebrow, and Merlin explained, "He's keeping track of stories I owe him. But, Arthur, if the druids have the Cup, it's safe. They'll keep it secret, you can trust them."
"You know my father," Arthur said, facing forward again. "He wants it in the vaults."
"So ride around for a few days, and then tell him that the druids moved on, or hid it or destroyed it, or something," Gwaine said. "Why the quest?"
"Because Cenred's messenger did not leave Camelot until after Sir Leon returned," Arthur told them. "We're afraid he's carrying word to his king about the Cup as well – Gaius told me some lovely horror stories about what might happen if Morgause gets her hands on it."
"It's only for healing, I thought." Arthur didn't look, but he thought Merlin sounded pale.
"That's if you drink out of it," Arthur said. "Evidently with the right incantation and a little blood put into the thing… an immortal army could be made."
"So the three of us are going to take on Cenred's army," Gwaine said drily. "Immortal or not, I'm flattered at your opinion of our skills."
"The druids won't let Cenred or Morgause have it," Merlin said.
"Those two might not even know where the druids are," Arthur added. "I need Merlin to help me find them, to persuade them to trust me with their Cup."
"And I'm just along for fun?" Gwaine said.
Arthur turned to grin at him. "You can take on Cenred's army."
"Or join it," Gwaine grumbled, pretending offense.
But Merlin didn't even smile.
…..*….. …..*….. …..*…..
Hello? Merlin tried.
The emotion in the valley was so thick he found it hard to breathe, hard to concentrate, and try to reach through the fog. Loss and fear, mostly, a bone-deep dread that what had already gone wrong was only the beginning of absolute disaster.
He swallowed and tried again. Hello?
And jumped when a hand descended on his shoulder. His eyes flew open and it took him a moment to recognize his prince – the mocking humor that covered the tension Arthur carried fading. "Are you all right? What is it?"
"Aren't they here anymore?" Gwaine called, from further down the valley.
"They're here." That emotion that bled into the air around like a soul's death-wound was hard to shake. Merlin swallowed again and was glad Arthur's hand was still on his shoulder. "Something happened."
He shifted his gaze, past the prince, up the side of the narrow valley where several of the caves – mirrored on the other side of the valley – were visible. Arthur let his hand drop, as Merlin abandoned the reins of his mount to climb toward the opening that fairly wept invisible fear and psychic pain.
His breathing harsh in his ears, the dry rattle of dust and pebble disturbed under his boots – and occasionally his hands when he stumbled – made it impossible to hear either companions following him or strangers awaiting him, but when he reached the chill shade of the cave, it seemed deserted.
It felt crowded.
Everywhere was dry – floor walls ceiling skin eyes mouth – but the air seemed moist with silent frightened panting.
Merlin jumped as Arthur brushed past him – turned to see Gwaine lingering at the mouth to watch the valley at their backs – turned back as Arthur began toeing through scattered abandoned belongings and ruined furniture of the sort that was easy to pack and light to carry. Merlin moved past him, heading deeper into the cave system. Slowly, not intrusively; he felt there were people hiding – physically or magically.
"Arthur," Gwaine called softly, and Merlin turned to see the outlaw signal to the prince. Arthur stepped to the side of the cave, by the wall, dislodging an earth-covered blanket with his boot.
He glanced at Gwaine, then bent and yanked the material away from a small boy – lank hair hanging in frightened eyes, thin hands raised in feeble defense. Arthur took the boy firmly by the upper arms, lifted him to his feet.
"Where are your parents?" Arthur asked, steadying him and bending slightly to look him in the face. "Is there anyone else here?"
"Let the boy go," a voice said from behind Merlin, and Arthur reacted immediately, spinning the child to shield him, his hand flying to the hilt of his sword.
"No, wait!" Merlin said to him – then turned slowly, his hands held empty to his sides.
Three figures stood before him in the dim light of the rough cave – men if he had to guess, all three cloaked and the two on the sides hidden in their hoods. The one in the middle was calm, face lined but serene, fair hair that curled around his neck and ears.
"We meant no harm," Merlin addressed him. "You took us by surprise – he only thought to protect the boy."
"Let him go, Arthur," Gwaine said quietly, still further behind. "He'll be fine."
A shuffle of movement, and the little boy scrambled past Merlin toward his elders. For a moment he looked up at Merlin – who couldn't help a smile and ruffle of his hair.
Emrys, one of them said.
And Merlin responded before he realized the voice had come to his mind, not his ears. "Yes?"
Arthur stepped up next to him, looking from one figure to the next. "I am Arthur Pendragon of Camelot," he said. "I have come to request that you allow your healing cup to pass into our safekeeping. We fear that –"
"Your safekeeping?" the central druid said, with gentle irony, and the word sounded plural to Merlin's ears. "Prince Arthur Pendragon, do you know the man you stand beside?"
Arthur gave Merlin a mildly sardonic up-and-down glance. "As well as anyone ever will, I expect," he said.
And Emrys, you stand openly with your prince?
"I stand with Arthur," Merlin said aloud.
"Forgive me." The man came closer, with jerky, awkward gait over the uneven floor. "We've waited so long, it seems that… Son of Uther, you know his magic? You accept and understand and value?"
The whole cave seemed to hold its breath. Merlin suspected his face flamed embarrassed self-conscious red, and was glad for the dim light.
"Entirely," Arthur answered. "Not much, and … probably not enough, honestly."
"Ah," the druid said, a melancholy sigh straight from his heart. "Almost this gain soothes our loss."
"Your loss?" Arthur said.
"It's gone, isn't it?" Merlin said, at nearly the same time.
Others began to emerge, shapes in the shadows, the feeling of spiritual violation, something irredeemable and precious beyond measure gone… eased.
"She came," the druid leader said. "This morning at dawn. The men with her were merciless, her magic dark and stifling and we could not stand against her. Our people are not fighters, we would have been destroyed to the smallest child, the Cup still stolen for its corrupted purpose, and none left to aid you in your quest to recover it."
"She," Arthur said. "Morgause."
"What can we do?" Gwaine asked, joining them. "Can we get it back?"
"Come," the leader said. "We shall see."
He led them further into the cave, torches springing to light as they passed, with a flick of his fingers. And while Arthur and Gwaine were both tense – as warriors on a quest in enemy territory probably should be – neither of them flinched at the open display of a stranger's magic. Merlin smiled proudly at their backs, lingering long enough to see the others of the druid community begin to resume ordinary activities.
"My name is Iseldir," the leader mentioned over his shoulder as they followed him down the rough path to an inner chamber. Tiny, deserted, little more than a passageway – Merlin could not see the end of it.
In the center was a thick rough column, a natural formation of the cave sheared off, perhaps centuries ago, the top of it hollowed into a basin the depth and diameter of Gaius' round physician's case. It was filled with water that dripped from the ceiling, overflowing in glimmering trickles to a narrow stream that drained further into the cave.
In passing it, Iseldir trailed his open palm over the elevated puddle, and it went completely still, like the surface of a mirror. Arthur and Gwaine involuntarily looked down into it, and Iseldir flipped his fingers to beckon to Merlin to join them. "Emrys."
His two friends shuffled a bit, and there was enough room for him to squeeze sideways between them, without pressing Arthur into the cave wall, or knocking Gwaine into the little stream.
Iseldir spoke a spell Merlin recognized, for scrying. "Diegol cnytte, gewitte me yst."
Images gathered, formed.
The first clear one was the Cup Merlin remembered. Not on the altar at the Isle of the Blessed, but on a high small table in a courtyard. Behind it – a smear of yellow and black coalesced into Morgause, wearing an intent but satisfied smirk as she tipped a short-bladed dagger downwards – crimson drops ran the edge, dripped down –
The image tilted. The cup was three-quarters full of black-red blood.
Someone moaned, a sound of hopelessness that echoed from irregular stone walls. Gwaine cursed foully and added, "We're too late?"
No one answered him.
Drip. Drip, drip, dripdripdrip –
Merlin tore his eyes away and covered them with his hand, feeling the skin of his face inexplicably wet.
"I don't see Cenred," Arthur said, in the stony-resolute tone he used when duty was clear, and impossible.
"There," Iseldir said.
Merlin dropped his hand to see the ruthless monarch, an expression of wary consternation on his wolfish face, unsheathe the twin swords that crossed over his back. He engaged two of his own men – turbaned and veiled – at once, while behind them Morgause smiled with an evil glee. Once – twice – three times the king landed a blow that should have killed his attackers. Absolutely ineffective. And then they cut him down, leaving him bleeding and motionless on a cowhide rug to take mindlessly subservient positions before the witch.
"Good riddance," Gwaine murmured.
The scene shifted to a wide view, the ranks and rows of Cenred's army – now presumably under the command and control of Morgause. Illuminated by torchlight occasional in the column – Merlin could almost hear both his companions counting, estimating.
"The immortals, they'll still need to eat and sleep, and so on?" Gwaine asked.
Iseldir shrugged within his cloak. He passed his hand over the surface of the natural basin, obliterating the image without touching it. The water trembled, quivered, rippled as another drop splashed. "Perhaps," he said. "Perhaps not."
"I was told," Arthur said, "this was done before. An army made immortal by the power of the cup." Iseldir nodded. "How were they defeated, then?"
"The Cup of Life had to be emptied of the blood it contained. Once that had happened, the enchantment no longer held."
"That sounds almost too easy," Gwaine remarked.
Arthur made an impatient sound. "She won't leave the Cup behind when she marches on Camelot. She won't leave it unguarded, ever. And if those guards know that their lives depend literally on protecting it…"
Merlin understood the despair that clung to the valley like an invisible miasma. It whispered subtly to his soul, also, clammy tendrils inching around his heart.
"Thank you for your help," Arthur said. "And for the life of the knight you saved." He pushed Merlin, who didn't move, then shouldered past him to head out toward the valley again. Merlin stumbled along behind him.
"Where will you go?" Iseldir asked, following Gwaine.
Arthur answered him. "Back to Camelot, of course."
Of course. Merlin shuddered and almost tripped into the prince's back.
"We might make it before she does," Arthur added. "Immortal or not, the citadel has never fallen to a siege, and I'm not going to abandon my father or my people."
"Where will you go?" Iseldir asked again. "Emrys."
His tone caught Arthur in his tracks as well as Merlin, and his prince turned to meet his eyes.
Drip. Drip. A world of choices – stay with the druids, Ealdor wasn't far, any direction but Camelot – but only one, after all.
Though his voice sounded only a hoarse whisper, Merlin repeated, "I stand with Arthur."
…..*….. …..*….. …..*…..
Gwaine sat on his haunches at the mouth of the cave, chewing on a strip of dried seasoned meat, watching his two companions.
He hadn't been exaggerating when he'd told Gilli that he would die for either – though he hadn't expected it to happen so soon – and would prefer it not to be in vain. He wasn't a pessimist by nature. But even he didn't see how anyone could get to a cup guarded by an entire army. And citadel or not, no city besieged could hold out forever. And those fellows had forever, it sounded like.
It was funny, he mused, the two were so alike. Never really any question of whether Arthur would return to fight for his people, even against overwhelming odds. Never really any question whether Merlin would return to fight for his prince. Both of them grim and intent, now, taking the druid-offered sustenance and refreshment – but not the opportunity to relax. Not really.
Arthur was pacing in the mouth of the cave. A bit like a caged wolf Gwaine had once seen – back and forth, instinctively searching for an impossible escape – his head up as if he could see the progress of Cenred's army across the leagues. Chafing at the inactivity, like he'd prefer to draw sword and take them all at once, trusting to the strength of his feelings – love for his kingdom, righteous indignation that it should be so threatened – and sheer bloody stubbornness that victory must be his at last.
And that was where they were different, too.
Merlin sat hugging his knees, motionlessly gazing at the same pebble on the floor of the cave he'd contemplated the last quarter-hour. Completely lost in his thoughts, which were miserable and hopeless, to judge by his expression. Gwaine had seen glimpses of this side of Merlin in the first couple of weeks after the escaped execution, and knew it meant Merlin felt useless. Having a task to complete and a purpose to fulfill, without the means to do it.
And here he was, in the middle. So Gwaine did what he did best.
He chucked a pebble at Merlin's ear. "So, Emrys. Is that a surname or a nickname or what?"
Arthur glanced down at them silently as he strode past; Gwaine considered tripping him up, just to break up the exhaustingly repetitive rhythm.
Merlin stirred. "It's just something the druids call me sometimes."
"The Fisher King said it too, mate," Gwaine reminded him. "You're going to tell me he was a druid?"
Merlin snorted but didn't answer. Arthur's steps slowed abruptly to half-pace – then stopped altogether. They both looked up at him – squinted now into the brighter light of the mouth of the cave.
"The Fisher King," Arthur said, slow but significant. "What was it he said? Albion's time of need is near – when all seems lost, this will show you the way. Just as he was giving you that trinket."
Merlin scrambled to his feet; Gwaine remained in his crouch. "You think that might help?"
"It could provide answers, anyway," Merlin said, reaching Arthur's side in three leggy steps. "I think the threat of a second immortal army qualifies as a dark hour."
"Where is it?" Arthur asked, even as Merlin stretched out his hand.
Gwaine caught a stray flash of the gold of Merlin's magic reflected in his eyes – they waited a moment of breathless anticipation – and a tiny object rose glittering from the valley where they'd left their mounts. Maneuvering delicately, then flinging itself forward through the air. Arthur flinched, but the tiny vial protected by its wooden frame stopped, hovering, a food from Merlin's outstretched fingers, and he merely plucked it from the air.
"Impatient," Gwaine muttered, clambering to his feet to join his friends, aware that the druid inhabitants of the cave were giving them frequent curious glances.
"You carry this around with you?" It was a question with an obvious answer. Arthur reached for it, and Merlin allowed him to lift the trinket from his hand. "So, um… How does it – ah, how does it work?"
"I've no idea," Merlin admitted, peering into the water. "If it's described or explained in a book, Gaius and I have not managed to find it."
For a moment they stood there. Merlin spoke a few lines of a spell and Gwaine tensed – but nothing happened. Merlin made a thoughtful noise; Arthur shifted and gave him a sidelong glance. Merlin took the vial back from the prince, holding it by its base in his long fingers between the three of them, and spoke again. Again, nothing happened. He rotated it slightly, frowned at it, and commanded, in the language of magic.
Nothing.
"Maybe you could ask Iseldir," Gwaine suggested. "He might have an idea how it could –"
Merlin spun on his heel before Gwaine had finished speaking, clearly intending to head quickly for the interior of the cave – but his eyes were on the water of Avalon… not his footing. He tripped headlong – Gwaine and Arthur both reached, but not fast enough. Merlin fell full-length on the uneven, rocky ground – without using his hands to catch himself – and nearly saved the vial.
At the last moment, when his breath left his lungs in a grunted puff, the trinket tipped from his hands.
And smashed.
For a moment, the silence of disbelief reigned through the entire cavern, as if the whole tribe held their breath at the sudden and horrible sacrilege.
Then Arthur swore explosively. "For the love of – Camelot, Merlin! Your damn-fool clumsiness –"
Merlin paid him no attention, scrambling up as if he could gather the precious spilled water into his hands; he choked out, "Oh no oh no –"
"Wait, look!" Gwaine said.
The trickles of water released from the broken glass had taken on a silvery mirror-sheen, leaving no residue of moisture behind to seek their level – a hollow on the floor of the cave, gathering to form a shallow pool.
Gwaine stepped closer. He could see neither golden-tan dirt underneath, nor dark shadowy cave-ceiling reflected from overhead.
He saw a girl.
Merlin breathed, "Freya?"
..…*….. …..*….. …..*…..
Arthur bit his tongue, wishing he could retract his curse and his insult.
The situation was his fault, not Merlin's. He'd arrived in the cave too late to prevent the witch stealing the cup. And now, it seemed Merlin's mishap was actually the key to the help the Fisher King's gift supplied. For a single ironic moment, he wondered if that ancient king had known, somehow, that Emrys would be an impetuous, uncoordinated young man – if he'd seen or even intended this.
Once again, though, Merlin's luck was his to benefit from also.
He watched his former servant kneel on the dusty cave floor, oblivious to his friends and the druid strangers alike, engrossed in the shallow puddle reflecting the pale face and floating shadowy hair of a girl every inch of Merlin's body yearned toward.
I've missed you, the girl said, with a sweet but melancholy smile. Then interrupted his stuttering attempt to begin a sentence, Merlin, we don't have long.
"Is it really you?"
Arthur's heart twisted in his chest to hear that tone in his young friend's voice. It was a moment terribly, painfully, embarrassingly private; he found himself stepping back, as Gwaine moved up – they bumped into each other, and stopped.
"Avalon water, right?" Gwaine murmured in Arthur's ear. "I wonder if this Freya was his girl. Except that he said she's…"
"Who?" Arthur said.
"Druid girl he was in love with once," Gwaine answered. "Died of a curse. He brought her to the lake for burial, so how in all hells –"
"Not hell," Arthur corrected. "Avalon."
"Magic," Gwaine concluded succinctly.
"I think I know her," Arthur said.
You must come to the lake, they heard her say, in the quiet pause of Gwaine's curiosity.
"And you will give me the sword?" Merlin asked. The hope in his voice was almost as painful as the initial incredulity. Arthur didn't understand the specifics of it, but as long as Merlin did, he could catch up the details later.
He was aware that the druids were retreating, disappearing into the shadows, down passages to other caves, unobtrusively giving them privacy. But one of the last ones, a child, dropped a little clay jar and it smashed with a sound both sudden and sharp.
Merlin was startled into raising his head – just for a moment, but when he looked back down again, the gifted water was simply a puddle, drying into the dust of the floor.
"Freya?" Merlin called softly. Silence. He put out his hand – Arthur always seemed to notice when it was the left one – stretched his fingers over the puddle, allowed his skin to contact the surface in a shimmer of ripples. Then his whole body deflated with a sigh, and he sat back on his heels, still facing away from them.
"That was your girl, mate?" Gwaine said quietly and with sympathy. "Gorgeous, she was."
Merlin hummed agreement, and passed his knuckles swiftly over his cheekbones, clearly wiping a tear or two that had escaped.
"Did I know her?" Arthur asked. Always a dangerous question when it came to druids, he realized, but this, he had to know. "She looked familiar."
Merlin rocked back on his heels and rose to his feet. "I think you met her once," he said, his voice still husky with emotion, and he didn't meet Arthur's eyes. "In passing."
Many people came and went in the streets of the lower town; he wasn't surprised to hear that a druid or two might have mingled with the crowd while he'd been walking or riding through. He felt a pang of wishing things could have been different – Merlin hadn't been able to say one word to him of this girl, or of finding his sorcerer-in-hiding father, either – those few days of anticipation, happiness, worry, grief.
Arthur grasped Merlin's sleeve as he made to pass them in leaving the cave, and caught the younger man's attention and gaze. "I am sorry," he said. "You had to hide so much more than just the magic, and I – I never knew, I probably said something terrible to you, or –"
"Arthur, don't," Merlin said earnestly. "It was my choice not to tell you. It would have been complicated, and there was never a good time to say anything, and…"
And still his friend could support and encourage Arthur in his relationships, without jealousy or resentment.
"I know," Merlin finished, squeezing his wrist briefly, before turning to lead them into the light.
"So we're going for a sword, then?" Gwaine said, sliding down from the cave to the valley behind them.
"Evidently those whose blood enters the cup become like living dead men," Merlin said. "There is a sword that can kill what is already dead at the bottom of the lake."
"That's –" Arthur thought for a moment, his eyes on his footing. "Twenty leagues away, and we're in hostile territory. If we go there first, there's no way we can get to Camelot before Morgause's army."
"Won't do any good to get there first and try to fight empty-handed," Gwaine returned. "So to speak."
Arthur drew a deep breath and let it out, thinking of the death that would stalk his kingdom. Commoners unlucky to be in the wrong place at the wrong time, knights and soldiers who hurried to an honorable defense, not knowing their attackers were unnaturally sustained by dark magic. So many would die, and there was nothing he could do.
"Even with the sword, you couldn't take on an army," Merlin said, half-turning to connect his gaze to Arthur's.
He nodded, knowing his friend was right. "We'll have to infiltrate the citadel, find the cup." And to do that, they would need the sword for defense.
"All three of us." Gwaine let out a melodramatic sigh as the horses came into view.
Arthur startled, fingers finding the hilt of his sword, before recognizing the druid that stood at the heads of their three mounts. Telling himself he wasn't surprised that Iseldir had come from the cave to have the last word.
"Your mounts are refreshed and strengthened, Prince Arthur," the druid said. "You will find new provisions packed as well."
"Thank you," Arthur said. Trying not to be surprised at that, either. Because of course the blonde witch with a thousand immortal warriors was probably a far worse enemy for the druids and the whole land, than Uther Pendragon.
"If there is anything else I can do for you…" Iseldir added, relinquishing reins as both Arthur and Gwaine swung up to their saddles.
Merlin stepped closer to the druid to say to him in a low voice, "How soon could you get a message to Haldor?"
…..*….. …..*….. …..*…..
The lake was the same. Serenity ruffled by lazy wind-whispered ripples. The sounds of the forest, casual and unworried, around and behind them, the lapping of waves teasing the edge of the pebbled verge gritting under their boots.
This time, however, Gwaine had no desire to joke. Not to provoke a shy story or curious admission from Merlin, not to annoy Arthur's tension into breaking.
"What now?" Arthur said, studying the surface of the lake. Hands on his hips and an inscrutable look on his face.
"There's a boat." Merlin pointed.
And there was proof of something Gwaine had suspected for some time - that the friendship worked both ways. Arthur had changed and learned from Merlin; so had Merlin, from Arthur. The only emotion the younger man betrayed was calm patience. Resignation, almost.
"That boat will tip with more than one of us," Gwaine observed. The weight of a man and his pack might scuttle the tiny thing. "Who's going?" A pace behind them, further from the shore, he watched Arthur and Merlin look at each other.
"It's your sword," Merlin said, after a moment.
"It's your girl," Arthur responded.
Merlin sighed and gazed over the water again. "She was once," he said. "For a few days. She might have been, if not for…"
Gwaine's mind supplied, Curse, death, magic.
"Now, it's… something else. A friendship, that's special and unique."
Gwaine bit his tongue to keep it from an irreverent and inappropriate quip – magical – at the further unspoken assumption, but that's all.
"You know," Arthur remarked, making no move for the tiny craft bobbing on its anchoring line at the water's edge. "When I saw my mother –" Merlin nodded in shared recollection.
Twenty-six, Merlin…
"Afterwards, I found that I was glad to have had the opportunity. To see her once, to make that connection, to have the memory. Even though I knew I couldn't keep her – spirit or vision or whatever that was – it did help me to miss her a little less. Not more."
Gwaine could see the corner of Merlin's smile, and it somehow made him feel better, too. "Yeah, I know what you mean," the sorcerer said.
Arthur gave a nod and stepped down to the little boat, his weight causing the bottom to grind down on the edge of the lake-bed. He gave it a little shove-and-kick, far enough out to float without getting his boots wet, and as he lowered himself to kneeling, he called over his shoulder, "No paddle."
"No need," Merlin called back.
Gwaine glanced at him as the little craft skimmed placidly toward the middle of the lake, but saw no telltale golden gleam of magic performed. He did see Merlin's eyes widen on the sorcerer's gasp of amazement – and spun to see the lake-surface cleaved by a shining silver blade, emerging point-first from the depths.
Glistening wet, droplets pattering all around, the hilt appeared, clasped by a pale hand – pale arm – but that was all. Nothing further of the supernatural bearer of the blade could be seen.
Gwaine noted Arthur's jerk of surprise, but he believed, watching from behind, that the prince's attention was focused on the sword, not on peering into the water to discover more of its secrets.
Beside him, Merlin sighed – but it was not in disappointment, and there was a smile on his face. "And isn't that ironic," he murmured.
"What is?" Gwaine said.
"That she gives a sword to him. Sometimes destiny has a rather twisted sense of humor."
Gwaine gave up trying to understand his young friend.
…..*….. …..*….. …..*…
"So about this sword," Arthur said.
Merlin hid a smile, in case his prince glanced over as they rode. Probably they wouldn't arrive at the ruins by nightfall, but that refuge was out of their way if they were trying to reach Camelot as soon as possible anyway. One long, grueling day it had taken to reach the lake of Avalon, and this the second one was quickly drawing to a close. At least their detour had taken them further away from the path of Morgause's army. Even with the sword, there was no reason to tempt danger.
It amused him, though, that Arthur could not seem to help his fascination with the sword. Whether that was due to his knowledge of the inexplicable magic that had kept and returned the blade, or to some intrinsic quality of the magic that had forged it, Merlin couldn't tell. But the prince rode with his hand on or near the hilt, often glanced down at it, and had already denied Gwaine the favor of handling it. Unprompted by Merlin – who'd been gifted the possession of Arthur's former sword - and it was more serious and mature than a simple, No it's mine.
"How did the sword get into the lake to begin with?" Arthur said.
Merlin set his jaw self-consciously and fixed his gaze on the coarse brown hair of his mount's mane as he followed the prince. How much had they heard of his conversation with Freya? It had been good to see her, as Arthur had recalled about his own opportunity with his mother – though he did rather envy Arthur his chance to embrace his lost loved one…
"I put it there," he admitted.
Gwaine made noises of incredulity, like he was laughing or coughing – Merlin twisted in the saddle to see that he'd caught his friend mid-swig at his waterskin. "What? That's twenty-seven, that is."
Merlin faced forward – and met Arthur's keen glance back. "I think I have to agree with Gwaine on this one, Merlin," the prince said mildly. "The whole story, if you please?"
"It was… over three years ago," Merlin said. "Maybe six months after I came to Camelot. You remember – the night your father recognized you officially his heir. The stranger in black rode his horse right through the window to throw a gauntlet in challenge."
Gwaine swore. "I didn't know a horse would do that."
"I remember," Arthur said, sounding grim. "That knight killed Pellinor and Owain before I issued my own challenge. And no one believed I could win."
Merlin let a moment and the echo of old disappointment pass by. "That knight was a wraith, Arthur," he said quietly. "A corpse raised with dark magic to do exactly what it did – kill and demoralize until the Pendragons were defeated and Camelot brought to its knees."
"That black knight," Arthur said slowly, "was already dead? Did Gaius – yes, of course he knew… did he tell my father?"
"Probably," Merlin said, glancing over as his mount drew even with Arthur's. "I expect that was why he had Gaius slip you a sleeping draught so he could take your place in the match."
Arthur rolled his eyes before closing them briefly and releasing a sigh Merlin saw rather than heard. And he was glad Gwaine was holding his tongue, just now.
"I didn't know he was going to do that," Merlin told him quietly. "I heard a story – a legend – about a blade burnished in a dragon's breath, able to destroy something already dead."
Arthur's mouth quirked as if he were trying to keep from smiling. "And you knew where you could find a dragon."
Merlin cringed slightly, glancing back to see Gwaine's wry grin and shake of his head as he mouthed, Dragon.
"So you stole a sword from the armory –" Arthur said, checking the hilt as if he might recognize one that had gone missing three years ago.
"I didn't!" Merlin said indignantly. "I asked Gwen, and she gave me the best one her father ever made!" His outburst was followed by silence, except for the sounds of their horses' hooves, and the forest around.
"Is it." Arthur's eyes and free hand were occupied with his new weapon again. "Is it really."
"How did it end up in the lake, then?" Gwaine said.
"Um." Merlin shrugged. "I was waiting to give it to Arthur before his duel, and Uther came instead."
That caught Arthur's attention. "This sword is the only reason he won?"
Behind them, Gwaine snickered. "Your father used an enchanted sword and he didn't even know it."
"And Kil- um, the dragon was really angry when he found out." Merlin caught Arthur's half-hearted glare at his almost-slip into using the dragon's name. He guessed that Arthur accepted his association with the ancient creature without approving of it. Merlin wasn't really looking forward to the day when they'd need Kilgarrah again, and he'd have to confess to even more. "No one is supposed to use it but Arthur. So I put it where no one could find it."
"In the lake," Gwaine finished.
Arthur held up one gloved hand, reining in his mount. They followed his lead, though Merlin didn't immediately see a reason for it. But the prince gave no further signal, simply dismounted and dropped rein to prowl forward. Merlin and Gwaine exchanged a glance, then did the same.
He didn't see the bodies until he was almost even with Arthur, standing with his arms crossed. Half a dozen, in Camelot red. A patrol. Absolutely slaughtered – and there were no enemy bodies, either.
Gwaine spat a curse Merlin had never heard before – but he agreed with.
A moment later, Arthur dropped his arms, alerting to some other noise, or movement that escaped Merlin; once again, he and Gwaine followed, circling the little clearing where the bodies lay. Merlin itched to check them, but they were too still to be breathing, anymore.
His back to an enormous oak, Arthur drew his sword, carefully quiet – Merlin heard the crunching footfalls then, and readied his magic, leaving Arthur's now-spare blade in his belt. Gwaine's fingers curled around the hilt of his weapon, and all three took a breath.
Arthur spun around the tree already dropping the first strike; Merlin side-stepped quickly, empty hands raised to center and direct magic – immortal soldiers could not be defeated but they could be escaped – these were not Cenred's men.
The dragon-breathed sword struck and rung against the other; both men halted in their tracks in the shock of recognition. Merlin felt his own grin stretch his face.
"Lancelot!" Arthur exclaimed, at once happy and incredulous. He eased back, dropping and then sheathing his weapon; Lancelot did the same.
"My lord." Lancelot gave a small bow. "I know I'm violating the terms of my banishment, but –"
"Me, too, mate," Gwaine offered, at the same time as Arthur spoke, wryly humorous.
"What am I going to do, arrest you? I'm glad to see you, Lancelot, however you came to be here."
"Merlin sent a message," Lancelot explained, shaking the hand Arthur offered.
"Through the druids?" the prince questioned in the same dry tone; Merlin shrugged and Arthur faced Lancelot's companion – a big man with a square jaw, a serious expression, and a bristle of light-brown hair shorn closer than Gwaine's beard – as Lancelot turned to Merlin.
Merlin heard the stranger introduce himself as Percival, and Arthur correct him with an invitation to drop the use of titles, as Lancelot bypassed Merlin's offered hand for a closer and more personal greeting.
"I thought you were dead," his old friend said in a low voice. "There were rumors – the prince of Camelot's manservant, executed for magic."
"I'm sorry," Merlin told him, as Lancelot released him from the embrace. "It's kind of a long story –" behind him, Gwaine snorted as he waited his turn for introductions – "there aren't that many people who know the truth, either."
"But Arthur is one of them, now?" Lancelot said, meaning more than just the truth of the escaped execution. And Merlin couldn't help another grin.
…..*….. …..*….. …..*…..
A/N: The reason this is late, is because "The Coming of Arthur" demanded a full chapter for each part – though it's done, so the next update will be quicker. "The Darkest Hour" will be its own chapter, and the last one, as "The Wicked Day" was used for the epilogue (already posted). And the story is over! Hopefully the chronology was not too confusing…
Also I should say, some dialogue from the ep. Scrying spell from ep.1.3 "The Mark of Nimueh". And, if anyone catches the one tiny Monty Python line – virtual treat of their choice!
Wolfdragon: Glad you liked this story and this arc where everyone knows! I did wonder whether interest would taper off once the opening action of Merlin's arrest-trial-execution was over, but I guess I managed to keep it from becoming boring! As far as Leon goes, he's kind of a background character mostly, but I'm planning to work in a bit with him in this episode…
Kirsten: Thanks for reviewing again! I'm assuming your comment on the Arthur/Merlin relationship refers to Arthur's perception of Merlin – sometimes that he's a complete stranger, and sometimes that Arthur remembers he knows him so well. With this story, I wanted to show that even though Arthur didn't know the magic, he did know everything else about his friend, and never really doubted that. So it would be the magic that Arthur has to get used to – and in this situation where they're not together daily to chat about it, Arthur would still feel a bit lost in knowing what to expect from Merlin's magic. But then, they can get right back into the question at the moment and still work together pretty well. And, I do feel proud when I can get the gist of a comparison in quite a short sentence: that Orryn was an attendant, but Merlin a companion.
Mab: Thanks so much for the review, the compliments, and the encouragement! Same to you!