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Wishing on Trick Candles
The Ides of November

With the sun not yet risen and the fire burning low, the bitter cold of winter turned the Physician's Chambers into an icebox.

It was early for this kind of weather, but not uncommon. Gaius curled his fingers into his sleeves and pulled the fabric as far over his knuckles as it could go. The cold had woken him, and he had shifted on creaking bones to the stool near the fire, watching the snow fall through the far window. He had never been the type to fall back to sleep after waking, but these days he had even more to overwhelm his thoughts.

In the many weeks since Merlin had learned to teleport, Gaius had been left largely in the dark as to Merlin's actions and thoughts. This was such a far cry from when Merlin had first arrived in Camelot - a time when secret keeping made more than enough sense - that Gaius could only wonder at what held Merlin back from confiding in him. With each whistle of wind, his mind would flash between the stretch of horror across Merlin's face when he'd raised a hand and blasted him from the stairs, the bitterness in his voice when Merlin had condemned his treatment of magic users, and the disregard for his opinion when Merlin confessed his magic to Gwaine.

The thoughts burrowed into the furrows of his brow and wore weary new wrinkles. What did I do wrong?

The snow had a way of deadening sound, and that made the rustling as Merlin began to move around upstairs all the more obvious. He thought about getting up to make a quick bowl of warm oats, to give Merlin a bit of a hot meal before he ran after Arthur, but he had a hard time convincing himself that bland food would be enough to keep Merlin around.

Merlin opened the door to his room quietly, likely thinking Gaius was still asleep, and his shadowed silhouette appeared on the landing. He paused, saw Gaius huddled near the fire, and then with a flicker of gold he fueled the flames higher with a whirl of magic. The room immediately brightened, and Gaius felt the warmth on his toes.

"You're up early," he said to Merlin, watching the young man bundle himself tightly in his brown jacket. Gaius could see the form-fitting blue shirt from Caerleon peaking out underneath the red sleeves of Merlin's older tunic, and Gaius wondered if they could afford a new cloak. If winter began like this, Merlin would be blue by the end of the season.

"I'm going to put coals in Arthur's bed," Merlin explained. "And warm his dayclothes. If I don't, he'll be especially cranky by the time he goes for his meeting with the artisan's guild."

He was almost to the door when Gaius interrupted, "All that, in the dark? Wait for the sun to rise at least." Merlin wavered; he did not look eager to stay, but he was less eager to hurt his guardian. "Can we talk?"

The tone of the question was telling enough, and a flicker of guilt crossed Merlin's face. "We should, shouldn't we?" Quickly he added, "Can I get you anything? Your robe?" Nervous energy took him to the side of Gaius' cot, which he began to tidy up with servant-like efficiency once he realized Gaius was already wearing it.

"Merlin," he began, thinking he should probably start with an apology. "I was wrong to tell you to keep things from Gwaine."

Merlin sagged. "You watched a lot of people die during the Purge," he mollified. "I understand why you tried to stop me."

Gaius had not necessarily been thinking along those lines when he'd made his argument, but he couldn't refute that some of his wariness would always stem from memories of the oily smell of an early morning pyre. "Is that why you haven't told me about your choice in Essetir?"

"My choice?" Merlin prickled. "It wasn't much of a choice. I couldn't watch them die. They were counting on me."

What was odd in the words was the lack of idealism and certainty. There was no doubt Merlin believed what he said, but his charge's voice had colored with a spite Gaius had rarely heard directed at him before. Again, he wondered, "What did I do?"

Merlin put his face in his hands and sat on the cot, wrinkling the freshly made sheets. When he did finally speak he didn't answer the question, instead bringing up something that had happened years ago. "Do you remember when we argued about how to help Morgana with her magic?" He nodded, and Merlin plowed on. "I took her to the Druids. Uther arrested and killed Camelot's citizens, and Arthur and his squad slaughtered almost everyone in the camp." Merlin took a deep breath. "You never condemned me for it."

Gaius was confused. "It wasn't your fault."

"It was entirely my fault," Merlin swiftly replied. "Whether it was through bad decisions or inaction, I propelled nearly every step of that tragedy. I've realized that now. I also think you've been making excuses for your own actions for so long, that you can't realize that anymore."

Gaius drew himself up, trying to deflect the hurt that came with the nearly rude attack on his character. "We may not agree on everything, but that does not give you a reason to speak to me that way."

"I know you killed Wendol."

Shock and confusion filled him. No one knew that, though many remembered Wendol - the greatest Druid leader of his time, and the last hope against Uther and his Purge. Someone Gaius had held in his arms as he died, a friend whose eyes had been wide and scared and betrayed.

Merlin did not keep the truth in much longer after that revelation. It spilled from his lips in a torrent. It began with losing Gilli in Amata, and it continued into the horror of the Eancanah and watching Gaius plunge a knife into his throat, the horror of waking to find him standing in his doorway. He explained the parallels in Essetir and knowing he could not have stood by and watched a second massacre.

"Merlin," Gaius breathed, only to be ignored as the young man culminated with, "Magic deserves a champion, and if that's what I'm supposed to be, then it's only right that... at the trial that... I should be there as Emrys and I should stop hiding on the sidelines…."

Merlin stuttered off, finally exhausted, but Gaius didn't know where to start. He wanted to explain his actions during the Purge, to apologize, it had been such a trying time and so many people had been dying, and he had lost so many of those he loved dearly... but instead he answered with what Merlin really needed to hear. Acceptance, and support, that the decisions Merlin had made, and would continue to make, were good ones.

Eventually he had admitted to the guilt that had never left him, so many past events now stains on his soul, and Merlin had responded not with acceptance or forgiveness, but an understanding so wise that Gaius was forced to look at him with new eyes.

They had lived so many years together, and he had seen the boy grow into a young man, in that time learning all the different ways he could care for his charge. And while he would always care, it became more apparent every day that Merlin was becoming less of a charge. He was becoming something else.

By the time the sun had risen, Merlin had graced him with a genuine, brilliant smile and warmed the room again with a surge of magic. As he left to tend to Arthur, his gait had been unhurried - the walk of someone who did not fear new threats. Gaius remained by the fire much longer than he had ever intended, letting the revelation wash over him.

Merlin, the boy who had so foolishly saved an old man from a tall ladder, and the young man who had volunteered to struggle nearly every day since, was becoming a figure one marveled at.

Before Gaius' eyes, Merlin had become a legend.

Though in Gwaine's eyes, the legend bit was a tad more disconcerting.

The rogue stood before one of the many bloodstained and ransacked homes that had remained empty despite the reclamation of the city, but now the worst of the holes had been covered by thick pelts, and a puff of smoke drifted from the flute while trying to push away the cold. Forridel had relocated here when the winter had worsened, and Gwaine had relocated to her doorstep when his curiosity had become unbearable.

The rogue rubbed at his nose and shifted in the snow. He was more unsure of how to phrase his questions than intimidated by the woman who made even the Captain of the Guard quail at times. At least, that's what he told himself.

He gathered the pluck to knock, but was distracted by a familiar voice calling, "You are so predictable."

Gwaine turned and saw Merlin huddled into his jacket as snow fell heavily on his shoulders. "Between the two of us, someone has to be."

Merlin grinned sheepishly. "I had a long talk with Gaius this morning, and I realized that I owe you a thorough explanation too. Want to ditch your duties for the afternoon?"

Gwaine beamed, "It's one of my favorite things to do." He fell into step beside his friend and noticed they were walking for the exit to the city. "We picking herbs?"

"And you said I wasn't predictable," Merlin said drily. They nodded to the guards at the front gate and then veered quickly for the forest path that led eastward. When they were certainly out of earshot, Merlin continued, "What were you going to ask Forridel?"

Gwaine shrugged, "I wanted to hear her version of this Emrys story. Gaius' comments gave me an out of body experience."

Merlin chuckled. "There isn't much to it. It's probably exaggerated," he said humbly. "Mordred," he faltered, "that's a different story, but he was a young Druid, and the first person to ever call me Emrys. At the time I didn't know what he meant. But the title and Kilgharrah's prophecies, when squished together, must be what the Druids are expecting."

"The prophecy - where you make magic legal again?"

"That, a Golden Age, and peace in Albion; altogether, nothing much," Merlin said flippantly, then winked.

Gwaine rolled his eyes. "Right, not daunting at all for 'the most powerful warlock to ever exist.'" His arms dropped after physically quoting the phrase, and his eyes shifted sidelong.

"Are you the best swordsman in Albion?"

"Yes," Gwaine replied immediately, then laughed when Merlin called him insufferable. But Gwaine got the gist of what he meant by the question. Merlin hadn't met his match yet - but that didn't mean he wouldn't someday. Gwaine didn't put much stock in fortunetelling, so he was happier with this interpretation of facts.

They arrived in the infamous clearing, and Merlin roared at the sky without warning. Gwaine flinched and covered his ears, "Warn a guy next time!" Then, with more trepidation, "Are you sure the dragon wants me here? He wasn't so happy last time."

"He'll get over it," Merlin said placidly. He pressed his palms together, and when he pulled them apart a ball of flame rolled in the space between. He jerked his head to bring Gwaine closer, and together they warmed their hands until the dragons arrived.

For that long while, the only noticeable movement in the field was the flicker of light from Merlin's magic. It was like a small sun held suspended in the palms of his hands, and Gwaine found himself lost watching it. He wondered if this sort of easy control came from the simplicity of the spell, or something innately Merlin.

He was inclined to believe the latter, though not for the same reasons as the Druids. Those privy to that particular Merlin Mystery may believe his friend was some Prophetic Incarnation only fully realized underneath the glow of lightning and the invisible hand of the Triple Goddess, but Gwaine knew different. Merlin had worked hard for everything he'd publically gained, and surely that was no different when it came to his more hidden talents. It seemed, to Gwaine at least, that Merlin hadn't stumbled upon the title of Emrys - that he had earned it, painstakingly.

The instant disappearance of the fire shook Gwaine back to reality, and he looked up to follow Merlin's line of sight. The sky was a blinding white, and the golden dragon diving towards them out of those thickened clouds was a different sort of magical sun.

Aithusa was nearly invisible, and Merlin didn't quite catch hold of her until the dragons had neared the treetops. When the baby dragon landed in a flurry of snowflakes, her snout immediately burrowed into his pockets. Merlin grinned, pleased he'd picked a treat she'd enjoy - a meat pie pilfered from the lunch tray provided for Arthur's meeting. As he tossed the pie into the air, a jet of white hot flame boiled forward, roasting the morsel before Aithusa's jaws snapped closed around it.

Kilgharrah, with snide disdain: "You never brought me food."

"I couldn't fit a deer in my pocket," Merlin countered.

The Great Dragon flicked his tail in growing irritation, not for lack of snack, but for a missing meekness in his dragonlord. He was owed explanation and apology, and Merlin was not forthcoming.

Kilgharrah had not swayed from his duty. Aithusa's spine had been straightened, and one of her crippled limbs neared normality. He was old, growing exhausted from difficult magic combined with a rebellious youngling needing necessary lectures and flight lessons. Merlin, however, had failed him - ignored well-outlined advice in favor of following a heart that, in Kilgharrah's opinion, had often lain wrong.

"Kill the witch, defend the king! It is not so hard, Merlin!" The dragon spat the words, nostrils flaring. This was far from non-sequitur, because Merlin had provided plenty of days for him to see the effects of the battle in Essetir, and certainly there was no other reason to have been called here. "You have erred in both tasks, again!"

After this outburst the clearing went eerily silent. All in the party were peripherally conscious to Aithusa's completion of sniffing through Merlin's pockets, and then careful plodding over to Gwaine's. Her one unmoving leg made strange tracks in the snow, and Merlin, very deliberately, squared his shoulders.

In response, Kilgharrah snarled. "The Druids are scattered to the seven winds, and sentiment moves against them. You have endangered your destiny. No leader of Albion will sacrifice their status quo knowing a new deadly threat hides in the shadows."

"I'm not hiding," Merlin refuted, slowly crossing his arms. "I'm waiting. The trial is in March, and Emrys will be there."

Kilgharrah's pupils shrunk into reptilian slits, and he bore down on his dragonlord in a way he had not done since his days in prison. "I am unfortunately unsurprised that you have left your fate to the whim of a noble court."

Though, these many years later, Merlin did not quail. He met Kilgharrah's imposition with equal challenge. "What do you propose I had done then?"

The great dragon's tail slammed without impunity into the ground, turning a layer of snow into a low-lying fog. Long before it had time to settle his words were snapping forward, biting, harsh, and full of aggravation, an aggravation borne perhaps from a sense of impotence. "Kill the witch when she was yet weak - not defend a people destined to one day ride with Mordred against you!"

"Defending the Druids does not turn me from Arthur," Merlin adamantly refuted, but for the second time that day left the question of Morgana ignored. "The Druids are mostly innocent. It would be wrong to condemn them for something they have not done, and might not do."

"Something they will do."

"That is your opinion, drakon," Merlin snapped quietly, and Kilgharrah's ire built into a rage.

"What do you know of destiny compared to me?"

Kilgharrah had slipped into dragon tongue, and the words made Aithusa look up from Gwaine's pockets and snort. Then her face scrunched up and she sneezed, melting all the snow near the knight's feet in a blast of heat that made him leap nearly a yard in the air.

It may not have been enough to calm the great dragon, but it did worm a fond smile onto Merlin's face. "Destiny," he intoned almost wistfully, and it was a subject that had not been far from his mind for many weeks now, "she's an elusive woman I've never been able to quite satisfy. What if she has no idea what she wants either?" Starkly he added, voice quiet alongside the fresh fall of snow. "What if she doesn't even exist?"

Kilgharrah seemed too livid to speak, and as they stood on this new impasse the snow became a storm that spilled flakes so thick that they blinded. As the white clung to his lashes Merlin revisited the thoughts that had brought him to the dragons in the first place, notions that had already tentatively linked to these once well-buried questions on the trueness of 'fate'.

At the behest of destiny Merlin had made enemies of Morgana and Mordred, but now he supposed it had not been fate that forced his hand, but naivety.

More quietly now, he accepted something that he'd begun to realize in the face of Lot's guards. It was time for him to do what Albion needed now, rather than buoying ideas long in need of sinking. Kilgharrah, though, was far from agreeing with his methods, and this left Merlin struggling to decide how he was going to do this without his old friend's help.

A chirp at his feet and the warmth of Aithusa's small body leaning against his legs pulled a risky thought to the forefront, and he bent carefully to press a hand to her cheek. In the dragon tongue he murmured to her, "You were brave to save someone so dangerous, Light of the Sun."

Her mind lilted over an old image of Morgana bleeding out in the forest, and then the storm he'd called onto Essetir from her perspective in Kilgharrah's cave.

He softly stroked her face, already regretting the peril he would put her in for asking this. "There are many Druids fleeing from the East, and they have no one to help them." Her head tilted, blue eyes wide, trusting, and quizzical. "Promise me that if you do this, you will still return to Kilgharrah as often as you can. Only he can heal you completely." She nudged him, pushing him to continue despite the warning, and he sighed.

Then, as Kilgharrah glowered at him from several feet away, and Gwaine shifted closer with his red cloak wrapped tight around his shoulders, Merlin wove for the little dragon the image of the magic held within the hall he'd built beneath Iseldir's camp.

There was a safe place in Camelot for all those displaced people - a home for them that, this time, he would protect.

Merlin could not have realized how this nearly rebellious, perhaps revolutionary, but certainly life-changing decision would affect Morgana's sense of self-righteousness.

She's heard the news by now, of course, from Ruadan. (She mostly ignores the words from the oblivious child; stupidity does not make a trustworthy source.) Emrys - the heathen - bringing lightning down against Lot's men confuses her until she also hears about Arthur's presence in the camp. The traitor Emrys always did dog brother-dearest's shadow.

She remains wary, however. The thought of lightning being brought against her is a worrisome one. She is not sure she has the power to defend against it. The echo of the Cailleach's words begin to ring in her ears again, and her left hand clamps around her bare right wrist.

This is not an altogether strange motion, but it is one Morgana does not realize she does. It is a habit she picked up two years ago while alone in Camelot once more, then with only her sister's bracelet to remind her of the truth: Uther was an evil tyrant, magic deserved to be free, she was the rightful heir - and she was not alone in the battle to bring these truths to light.

She and Morgause had fought the hard war, the unpaved path for those who alone know the truth. In the beginning, when some actions had felt so very wrong, the bracelet reminded her just how right she was. Then Morgause had died, Emrys became her Doom, and she had fled into a hut. But still, she had known the real truth: Arthur was a copycat king, magic deserved to be free, and she was the rightful heir - though she was alone. Nonetheless that only meant the responsibility to set things right had been solely on her shoulders.

But Emrys defending the Druids instead of sneaking off with his boy-king does not fit into this theory, and she flounders while cinching her fingers more tightly against her wrist.

The fool - of course - misunderstands. She purses her stupid lips in Morgana's personal space and asks, "Are you cold? Come nearer the fire."

The girl has a way of instantly riling her emotions. Morgana sneers, "If I were cold, then I would not need you to tell me what to do." She feels like she can get away with this level of heat because Ruadan is out hunting. Morgana is hoping for hare.

"You're very pale, and your lips are tinged with blue, my lady." Sefa holds out a bundle of green cloth. "At least wear your gift."

When Sefa is close enough to touch her with it, Morgana reaches an arm back and slaps it out of her hands. It lands in the snow and begins to soak up the wet again, after all of druid-slave's hard work to dry it out. "Keep that thing away from me," she bites.

"I don't think the faerie was trying to hurt you," she foolishly says, trying to convince. "Everyone deserves something nice for their birthday, and you're no exception. Actually—" And while the girl is reaching around to pull something from her pocket, Morgana goes blind with rage. Her mind froths through half-formed thoughts full of hatred. Look at the idiot turning her back to me, I could kill her so easily —

— my lips are blue? Like hers are so much better! Thin, wan slips of skin that they are —

— and just what does she have to be so happy about in her ignorant uselessness of a life —

— the naive, innocent fool, so grossly old for blind faith. Every benefactor has an ulterior motive; nothing is given freely —

This last thought hurts her conscious in a deep way, but she has learned to ignore the reasons for it. The diatribe ends with a wicked, "What a child you are," just as the girl extends a handful of trash into the space between them.

Dumb forest-girl is immediately embarrassed, and Morgana revels in the accidental insult. Weakly, the girl holds it half out again and says, "Lightning-struck wood is a known protection from harm."

Lightning! Morgana's mind shrieks while her mouth stretches wide in what must be a smile. That combined with her thought makes her think that this must be funny. "Give it here." She snatches it as she says the words, because her patience is non-existent.

It is less than what the simpleton claims - a burnt sliver of wood wrapped in drying thistle, braided into what would eventually be a cheap bracelet - borne on the whim of Emrys and meant to protect. Her hand trembles, and that must mean this is hysterical.

In that one wondrous year with her loving sister, Morgause had taught her how to See. Morgause taught her how to remove the healing bracelet and look to the struggles of the future and the horrors of the past. She led Morgana's magic to the battles and massacres, walked her physically through the empty camps, pushed her to the feet of scarred refugees and then slipped the bracelet onto her wrist again so she could sleep briefly without nightmares. She always was so sorrowful, Morgause was, to teach her the Truth. Always apologizing, her dear sister, with kind smiles and sweet hugs and a secret ambitious pleasure at every step Morgana was able to take forward, on the barren path of the righteous.

Morgana is not bitter, because she loves Morgause so much. She knows she was used, but she knows Morgause loved her too.

Strangely enough, this is the thought that finally makes her laugh.

Footnotes:

(1) The Ides of November is approximately mid-month.
(2) Merlin references The Nightmare Begins S2.3. Besides the more obvious errors, Arthur and his men found the camp because they followed Merlin's tracks.
(3) Show quote: "What happened to the young boy who came into my chambers just a few years ago?" "He grew up." Inadvertently, I reused this scene. I noticed the quote while digging around looking for where the fire is relative to the window. Thanks for that Linorien!
(4) Lightning-struck wood is a symbol for the protection from harm in some realms of spirituality. Same with thistle.
(5) Morgana's healing bracelet is gone after the opening episodes of Series 4. She trades it to Alator, and though he gives it back, she never wears it again.

Author's Note:

Gaius stood by during the Purge, but he did help a choice few to escape. He largely fueled Merlin's wariness to share even non-illegal truths, but he cares for him very much. I'm not here to force anyone to believe Gaius is a good person, or a bad one. I am here to try and understand him as his own person who makes mistakes and hates and forgives and loves and loses. His actions, past and present, and his beliefs are just as important to a realized Golden Age as Arthur's or Merlin's.

I'm sure you see how these thoughts parallel with a much more controversial character.

Sometimes I sit back and think about what my life would be like without this story and your reviews in it. I know that I worry about getting chapters out on a weekly basis, and if I didn't have such consistent, wonderful, supportive reviewers that weekly-ish (cough) deadline would probably have waxed long ago. I found my first grey hair last week. I laughed, and then I realized that this story, despite the late night writing hours I have to squeeze in to normal life, is a source of non-stress for me. It brightens my week, every week, to hear from everyone. Extra thanks this week, to all of you, for reducing my grey hair count ;)

Linorien beta'd this chapter immediately after I sent it over - thank you for helping me be less late - and I am in love with your belief that Aithusa would help some of the displaced Druids find Iseldir's camp. It's interesting, and I'm sure she's much happier doing that rather than sitting cooped up with Kilgharrah and going through, likely painful, healing processes. Dmarie1184 bought a book on plants and completely inspired the evil eye pendant - I love seeing more of Sefa's version of Druid culture.

Lastly, and mostly, Jewels ... thank you for picking me up from a ground where I had fallen and would not have stood from for a very long time.

All, I'm going to take a break from all the serious conversations next chapter. Time for a return to the classic Merlin formula - let's fight a magical creature, make fun of Arthur and just have some fun! I think all in Camelot are quite ready for a change in pace.

Next time: Mouthful of Soap. Merlin and Gwaine wash out some curses.