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Rocky's Steps
January - February
When Merlin was six, he'd hated baths.
This was because he would be made to endure one or more of the following: a dunking into the frigid waters of the stream, his mother's a-little-too-much-lye soap, or a scolding. And despite the painful outcomes of the former activities, it was always the scolding that left him smarting for days.
So, when at six years old he walked into his mother's cottage covered in dirt from hill racing with Will, he weighed the pros and cons of spending this night, and maybe even subsequent nights, in the fields. She spied him before he could decide to subsist on bugs, alas.
"Merlin," she said slowly, "come here, little one."
One tentative step forward - he always made this mistake, maybe he was too trusting? - and she snagged his earlobe between two fingers and hauled him towards his corner.
"Strip," she bade, and then shook her head mournfully at his mud-encrusted dayshirt and trousers as he changed into his evening sackcloth. He was young enough for the sack to hang over his knees, though unfortunately it wasn't long enough to hide the streaks of grime running up his shins. "We'll have to be at the river by dawn," she sighed, then lay his clothes aside.
This was when he knew to gulp, because she'd always turn to him with murder in her eyes. It was like she blamed him for six years without sleep, sometimes. Which was so unfair, because it was her own fault for wanting him squeaky clean.
"Outside."
He loped off quietly, and she grabbed their bucket of fresh well-water and a clay bowl. Tucked in her armpit was the ever-dreaded lye soap, and he tried not to look at its sickly yellow as the bucket landed near his feet.
He bent before she could order him, and she began to run the water through his hair and across the back of his neck. It would always stream down over his high cheekbones and catch in his eyelashes, which made the addition of the stinging soap even worse.
He so badly didn't want the sunburned feel in rivers along his face that he didn't realise what he was doing. But his mother, she noticed. She sucked in a breath and quickly hauled him indoors.
"Merlin," she said with concern, and then hugged him tight to her side, "do you hate being clean so much, you little piglet?"
"I just hate the soap in my eyes," he answered with a squished voice.
"Next time I'll give you a rag to hold," she said, then tugged a red dishcloth and started scrubbing at his dripping hair. "You can't do that outside, little one."
"Did I use magic?" Merlin asked faintly, "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to."
She bent down and put both hands on his shoulders, the damp cloth hanging along one side of his body and making him twitch. "You don't need to apologize for your magic, Merlin."
"I just have to keep it a secret, I know. It's a secret for you and me and home."
"Good boy," she pressed a firm kiss to his temple and then plopped them both on the table, her arms around him as he settled into her lap. Fluidly, in the way adults were so efficient with their movements, she had simultaneously scooped a fresh bowl of water and placed it before them. "Keeping dangerous secrets is never fun, little one, or easy. It was very difficult for your father too."
With his whole body he listened, because it was so rare to ever hear mention of his father.
"He had so many secrets," she said wistfully. Then she dipped her finger into the bowl and drew a letter, a bit like "F" onto the wood grain. "This is one of them. It's called a rune."
He traced it with his own little fingers. It was an easy shape to make, just three strokes and it felt perfect, in a way. Perfect like normal letters didn't.
𐌅
"Father's secret symbol?"
She nodded. "All three of us get to keep it a secret together."
He traced it again.
"Are there more?
Yes, Merlin remembered, there are many more.
He had woken from the dream wide-awake, as if he'd been conscious for hours. It took a few seconds of staring at the ceiling to realize what he was feeling was adrenaline.
Runes were no special thing, he'd seen plenty of spells written in their script, but he hadn't looked at them recently. Not since he'd known this new way to see magic. It must have been the shock of discovery that jolted him to wakefulness, and now that the strange clue was carved into his eyelids, there was little hope of another nap before morning.
The rune - the rune itself - had magic.
He swiveled, plopping his feet into his boots. Then he shuffled from the room with his blanket still wrapped around his shoulders for warmth, and it was this hunchbacked figure that Gaius woke to.
"Merlin," the physician said, "are you ill?"
Perhaps he was. Magic was burning through his thoughts. "Do you still have that book of runes? The translational one?"
"Of course," Gaius said, slowly moving to pull the tome from a shelf. While runes did have a history linked with magic, there were still many old texts and tablets written in their form, and so the letters themselves had never been deemed worthy of purging. "What is this about?"
But Merlin didn't hear him. He was instead staring at the book with intense concentration, flipping through the pages almost manically. "Before the Purge, how were runes used with magic?"
Confused, Gaius answered with the obvious choice. "Mostly written spells. You know this, my boy. The spellbook in your chambers has a few."
"Nothing else? Have you ever seen the letters used on their own, not in words?"
Gaius shook his head, "They're always used in words, Merlin." But because the younger man was so intently looking for answers, Gaius went into detail, though confusion still colored his words. "Runes are beginner's magic. Early on, when I'd take students from theory into mage magic, I'd use short runic words to guide them."
This made Merlin pause and watch him, so he gestured with his fingers. "Just a few letters to give them something recognizable to bind their magic to. The runes would glow if the student performed the spell correctly."
"Did the objects ever react differently than you expected - when the runes were written on them?"
There were so many things to factor in; that was an impossible question to answer. "Not that I recall. Merlin," he stood and peered at the book. Merlin had flipped about to the halfway mark, and it was open to the letter 𐌡 , called Ura. It was used in a handful of spells, but nothing obviously related as far as he could tell. "Are you hinting that the runes are special in some way?"
Merlin nodded eagerly. "There is inherent magic in the symbols themselves." He tapped at the ancient "U" and again Gaius watched Merlin gaze at seemingly empty space. "I don't think they're anything on their own… it's like they're unfinished."
Yes… Gaius thought, they are unfinished. They are unfinished words. Then he felt a bit guilty, because that was a tad too sarcastic. "What," he started, feeling unsettled as he watched Merlin's eyes blend into gold in the slowest of turns, "else could they be pieces of?"
"I don't know," Merlin said, attention glued again to the old book's pages, "but I'm going to find out."
𐌙
Phonetically: /z/ or /x/
Name: Elhaz or Algiz.
No word begins with this rune. It is always used terminally.
For Merlin, each stroke of the letter was a bright gold. But if he let it sit, and he waited patiently, the flat shape bent three dimensional and at the end of each fork grew a spiral.
"Your majesty!"
Arthur meant to get straight to the point, but the multitude of products sold here intrigued him. Catching his attention were jars in a thousand sizes lining the walls from floor to ceiling; it was like someone had taken a corner of Gaius' chambers and bred it with a horny rabbit.
"You are definitely the man for the job," Arthur concluded, "but what I ask of you must remain a secret. It is a matter of utmost security."
"Yes, sire," the man said, pushing aside his new bottle of something. With focused attention he cleaned the rest of his counter of any spare detritus and then lay his wizened hands atop. "How may an old apothecary help the crown?"
"Is there anything that when thrown will cause smoke? Or perhaps sound? Anything startling." He snapped his fingers. "Maybe a flash of light? A flash of light would be great if you can make it very bright."
The old man looked perplexed. "Perhaps black powder? A mix of sulfur, charcoal and saltpeter will cause explosions."
Arthur leaned forward, interested. "Can you demonstrate?"
"It's quite loud, sire," the old man showed off his gums with a wide smile, "but I have already lost much of my hearing."
He turned round and gathered a small sheet of thick paper. He spooned no more than a gram of each ingredient into its separate corners, and in a ritual that made Arthur raise a brow, the old man shuffled his feet and tapped various pieces of metal. Apparently satisfied, he shifted the powders closer together until meshed, then swiftly wrapped the paper and twisted the top to leave a long wick.
This he lit with a flame fetched from a thin piece of shaved wood, "Stand back, sire."
It turned the paper edges red then black in quickly formed ash, and then with a boom that made Arthur jump, the parcel exploded. It blew leftover powder across the counter and paper bits floated in the air before his nose. "That was surprisingly excessive."
"Perhaps aluminum dust instead," the elder man mused, half a mind cleaning his workspace while the other half thumbed through a catalogue of memories. "More of a flash powder, but depending on how much I mix in…."
"Is there anything that doesn't require a flame?" He bent over to conspire, "I need it to be subtle."
"Technically," the apothecary warned, "they only require a spark. A rapid motion, an impulsive force, either concoction would cause the explosion."
"Hmm," Arthur wavered, "and do you have a version with less residue?"
The lunch hour over, Arthur left with his prizes and very specific instructions lest he burn himself. As a result, his various pockets were filled with packages of foreign substances, and so he had no place to even partially hide his second purchase - a bolt of thick navy cloth.
This wasn't a problem until he tried to take a sneaky route to the seamstress and ran into Merlin along the way. His manservant slammed a hand down on a decorative suit of armor, it rattled warningly, and Arthur swept the cloth behind his back. "Merlin," he said sharply.
"Arthur," Merlin said almost simultaneously. Then, "back from your secret lunch so soon?"
"I gave you some time off, shouldn't you be more grateful?"
"Very grateful to be here, taking my break." Merlin looked around. "This is a nice hallway isn't it?" He gestured at the ceiling. "Good archwork."
"Very nice," Arthur echoed. "I can see why you enjoy it." He began to inch away. "Well, I hate to keep you from… this."
Arthur walked backwards for a few more paces, and Merlin lounged against the armor to explain away his palm pressed to the metal. He whistled tunelessly, aiming his eyes at the ceiling, and tried to look very impressed. I can't tell if I'm getting luckier or lazier.
When the well-adorned hallway emptied of royal admirers, Merlin peeled back his hand to see that the rune's magic had changed slightly, as it usually did. The 𐌔 had gouged an invisible crack in the steel, and from that crack shot a single line of magic. It looked delicate and alone and strange when attached to nothing else.
Disappointing, because even with all the places he'd tried, the rune still failed to react differently. Or… he paused, looked closer… maybe he had spoken too soon. Was he crazy, or was the magical strand moving on its own, twirling in invisible wind?
Yes, it was definitely doing… something. Dancing... twisting... searching?
Had the steel caused it, or had he added something subconsciously while talking with Arthur?
His palm had been right up against it. Curious now, he extended his hand forward, and the magic tilted towards him like a young shoot searching for the sun. When close enough to touch, it curled around his finger.
His eyes widened in shock. This meant… !
Or it could mean… !
...Blast. He had no earthly idea.
Which, as usual, meant it was time to cheat.
Luckily, though, this wasn't a deadly situation where the fate of Camelot hung in the balance and he risked trial-by-pyre to grab hold of one cryptic answer. He got to take his time, complete his most important chores, make sure he had a good night's sleep under his belt and then wait for the one night when the winds had died down. He didn't even have to sneak suspiciously out of the front gates; he just made the extra effort to transform into Dragoon, then teleported to the infamous clearing.
Kilgharrah, on the winds of a dragonlord's call, arrived not long later.
At this time of year, snow covered the forest ground with a hard-packed layer of ice and dirt. It had lain long enough to kill any hope for green, and that cold welcome bled right into KIlgharrah's narrowed eyes. "Merlin," the great dragon said stiffly, not having forgotten their latest argument, "why have you summoned me?"
Merlin filtered back into his usual youthful face. "I'm curious about runes. They're magical, but I don't know precisely how to use them."
Kilgharrah's golden scales rippled as his eyebrow arched.
"Here," Merlin cut in, "I'll need to show you to explain."
𐌣
He drew the lines straight in the snow, and he watched the symbol's natural magic create a fan of chaotic brambles at the rear, with a glowing sphere of conjoined magic at the point. Knowing Kilgharrah innately understood the shape of magic, he gestured at this structure. "What kind of spell is this? What does it do?"
"It is a manmade symbol, young warlock," Kilgharrah rasped, "and, like man, it is limited but capable of a great many things."
"Like what?"
An irritated growl, "Order from disorder. Merlin," he wiped the symbol away with a sweep of his tail. "Runes are only imitations of man's desires. They are manifestations of man's ego projected into the magical world around him. You are capable of much greater magic."
"But understanding them could come in useful. I'd rather have the knowledge to interpret them, rather than ignorance, if something dangerous turned up on my doorstep."
"Knowledge, young warlock, is very different from wisdom."
Inwardly, Merlin groaned. It appeared Kilgharrah was having one of his enigmatic days. That, or the great lizard was feeling particularly stubborn. Perhaps he should grease the wheels? "You're looking thinner. Has the winter been harsh?"
"I am not afraid of snow," Kilgharrah quipped. "But I fear for Aithusa. She is young, and you've set her wandering through a magic-fearing countryside."
He winced. Yes, it was wrong of him to rely on Aithusa to lead the displaced Druids to Iseldir's camp, but she was more capable than Kilgharrah gave her credit for. In a safer world she could have had a more wholesome youth learning at the great dragon's side, but this was not that world. "The Druids tell me she's healing well."
"I wouldn't know," Kilgharrah bit, "I hardly see her. She comes occasionally because of your command, but not often enough." Merlin opened his mouth to promise an amendment, but Kilgharrah cut him off. "I'm getting old, Merlin."
"Old?" Merlin echoed as he fumbled through the idea that Kilgharrah was not as strong as he had always seemed. "What do you mean? Maybe I can help."
"Reversing the flow of time is one thing you cannot do," the dragon sighed. "And the dragon's history and wisdom dies with me unless I have more time with Aithusa. My dragonlord, I would have been honoured to fly by your side the rest of your years, but I do not have that strength. We must prioritize."
Merlin mournfully pressed a hand against Kilgharrah's hide. "How much longer?"
The dragon snorted. "That depends on how much stress you pile upon me, young warlock." He bent to press his snout against Merlin's temple, then seemed to turn away in embarrassment at the show of affection. "The destiny of a great kingdom nears its reckoning. Soon, you must leave behind the shadows and step into the light."
"I know," Merlin said, and Kilgharrah stretched his wings to fly.
"And as for your runes," a bit of old derision crept back into his voice, "what makes you think innate spellwork is unique to them alone?"
𐌏
Phonetically: œ
Name: Odal
Debated, but possible etymological connection to an ablaut version of the Old English 'Adel', for nobility.
In all cases, it grew a rigid lattice dome.
Kilgharrah had told him to open his eyes, and after his initial confusion and wariness, he skipped right into the shaky withdrawals of an alehouse addict, ever eager for a new discovery.
With his boot he toed a rough circle into the dirt of Middle Camelot, half because its shape was easily looked over as the bored doodling of a vapid manservant, and half because he was clammy with the need to watch its magic spiderweb into being. He wasn't hidden enough to lose himself exploring the landscape through the tear in his veil, but, spirits, was he itching to.
The longer Arthur kept him waiting in Dragonsbane Square, and the lower the sun set, the closer he came to lacing his magic into those pennants spanning between buildings. Or if he were to buoy the natural magic swirling in the water of the well, would its deepness devise a crystalline pattern different from the shallow buckets he'd conjured in his room?
Sard it, he thought. What's life without risk?
Gold seeped into his vision but a very bright, and very familiar, pattern of magic diverted his recreation. It lurked in the shadows of a nearby alley, and with a hunter's stalk it approached. As Merlin's sight returned to normal, it became a pale hand draped in dark fabric, then a heavy cowl hiding a shadowed face full of wicked intent.
"What do I have here?" The figure cackled.
Merlin cocked his head, "I was wondering the same."
The dark-cloaked figure crouched into a fighting curl, then in a burst of motion sprung forward, hand outstretched, a garbled magic word on his lips and a bright flash of light crackling near his feet. "That should answer your questions."
Merlin blinked. "Did you just call me a frog in Old English?"
"Idiot, who's the expert here, you or me?"
Indeed, Merlin thought. He propped his hands on his hips, utterly unafraid. "And what are your plans here, oh evil sorcerer? Come to capture me as bait against the king? He's a bit of a ass, you know. In fact, I asseverate that he wouldn't even notice me missing."
"I'm sure the noble king of Camelot has important things to do," the other man said with a flourish of his cloak. "No, I'm here for something much more sinister."
"Well, usually the evil folk wax on about their plans, so…" Merlin rolled his hand in the universal gesture for go on. As he did so he ducked his head, magic enhancing his vision just enough to see the palming of another small packet of fake sorcery. He hid a grin.
"Why would I tell a random servant my plans?" A snort ruffled the heavy fabric. "In fact, you seem better fit for Court Fool. I'd like to see you dance."
And as his arm wound back to throw, Merlin chose to be contrary. He shut his eyes and enhanced the natural magic within the little packet, and when he knew his secret was safe, opened them again to see a riotous amalgamate of Leoht and Forbaerne arcing towards him.
He shuffled back, and, Leave it to Arthur to always hit the bullseye, watched the packet sail perfectly into the runic circle he'd drawn before. There, what he had initially planned to be a flashbang loud enough to surprise, instead instantaneously multiplied in a network of golden mesh that then exploded outward in a flash of light and heat so bright that it sent both men tumbling away.
From flat on his back, the 'evil' sorcerer said, "Merlin, are you hurt?"
Merlin squeezed the spots from his eyes. "No, I've just been blinded."
He listened to the scrape of Arthur's boots and hands on stone until the man was assuredly sitting up and staring at him. The pause must mean Arthur was checking him for injuries. "Well, let that be a lesson to you. If I had been a real sorcerer, you would be dead."
Not caring for how suspicious this sounded, "If you had been a real sorcerer, I would have killed you." Arthur blinked, Merlin blinked, and Er, yeah, that may have been too bold. He sat up. "I also would have laughed at you. But since you're the king, I decided to be polite."
"You're many things," Arthur started as he hauled Merlin to his feet, "but polite is not one of them."
Merlin, of course, insulted his bearing as a Prince and King of Camelot, and Arthur threatened him with all manner of corporal punishment which Merlin had no idea how close he was to actually earning. Together they disposed of the remaining flash-powder contraptions, and Arthur very generously donated the evil cloak to the Starving Servants fund.
At the time, Arthur had only been thinking that his strength was truly praise-worthy; if a firm throw had turned the powder from a party trick into a staggering blast, then it was a good thing he wasn't a sorcerer. He'd likely send Morgana running for the hills!
Even more embarrassingly, he'd woken up later that night to the echo of a similar loud pop coming from the Physician's Chambers, and he never put two and two together.
In the months to come, this was just another of those memories that made Arthur want to beat his head against a wall.
𐌏
Phonetically: œ
Name: Odal
The dome is a magnifier. An incubator.
Take any spell and let it nestle into the rune, and organically it links and grows to fill the sphere. It becomes the brightest lights, or the densest stones. For broken bones it becomes a splint, if mixed with a dollop of healing and hidden underneath the wind of bandages.
It is an additive. It is a human trait layered upon an existing spell, and, in all cases it lends one of our more popular wishes - Strength.
Kilgharrah was right to call it an abstraction of magic, but he was wrong to imply it would never be useful to him. If the other twenty-three runic shapes were as beneficial as the circle had been, then he had an arsenal of spells that could draw from ambient magic without any effort on the caster's part.
That value, and his escalating need to speak with Aithusa, sent him to Iseldir's camp an hour before he was set to deliver Arthur's breakfast. The camp had grown since he'd last had the chance to see it - the long community tents were fortified with low walls of wood, a stone well had been dug appropriately close to the central firepit, and a wooden bulletin board stood hopeful on the camp's edge. It was tacked with roughly drawn faces and character descriptions from Druids looking for news of missing family members.
He scanned for those he might recognize from the battle in Essetir, but Aithusa's unique chirping as she stretched and woke put him back on his original mission. She plodded up to him and wrapped her tail around the board's pole, cocking her head at him in question.
"How are your injuries?" He asked in dragontongue.
She grinned and flipped round to show him the full length of her two rear legs. She was nearly whole and healthy; only an odd tilt in one of her knees belied any previous damage. Perhaps only a month more, and there would be no mark from her time in the Sarrum's pit.
"Kilgharrah wishes to speak with you more. He has knowledge no one else alive can give you."
She snorted, but bobbed her head in agreement. Then she tugged at his pant leg and, when he got the point to follow after her, she bolted away. With a little sigh, Merlin tracked after her white tail swaying playfully in the air. She was snuffling around the tents and smaller campfires, and Merlin started looking for the dawning sun. He probably didn't have much time left.
Finally her entire body went rigid, her eyes boring forwards with singular focus. A thin rat had earned that attention, and obliviously it nibbled on a leftover crumb while Aithusa coiled. When she sprung, the movement was barely comprehensible. He saw the flash of her teeth and the blur of her limbs, and then suddenly she was beaming at him with a wriggling rat in her mouth.
Ew. She shoved her head forward, as if it were a gift, and he squirmed when he felt the critter's long tail whip in panic against his hip. "Very nice, Aithusa."
Pleased, she released a puff of fire and fed herself a breakfast of roasted rat.
More to himself, he muttered, "I'm glad you're happy here, at least."
Aithusa's head swiveled, and she half leapt, half flew towards a small cat which proceeded to let out an unholy screech and jump nearly ten feet into the air. As Aithusa settled back onto the ground, chirping curiously, Iseldir spoke directly into his mind. "Emrys?"
The cat hissed and dug its claws into the tree branch it had locked itself onto, and Merlin looked round. He saw Iseldir emerging from the community tents with his eyebrows nearly in the stratosphere.
"Sorry to wake you."
"You're always welcome here, Emrys." Iseldir tilted his head towards the center of camp. "Can I steal you away?"
"Thanks, but I can't stay long. Actually," he watched Aithusa flap into the air, one of her paws reaching to bat at her new plaything. "I should thank you again for taking such good care of her. She's further along than I expected."
"She's a constant surprise that way," Iseldir agreed.
That didn't make a lot of sense. "What do you mean? You said your healers had helped her."
"They have," Iseldir shook his head, "but magic is strange with her. Sometimes our healing spell will have the strength of three men."
Merlin perked. This sounded almost exactly like the strength rune he'd just discovered! Perhaps the Druids had stumbled upon it themselves too. "Does anyone have a circle drawn on them? Something like this?"
𐌏
He traced the now familiar shape into the snow, and Iseldir frowned. "No," he replied. "Why?"
"Nevermind," Merlin sighed. "It sounded like runic magic."
Iseldir echoed the words, and his confusion clearly told Merlin he would not be finding further answers here. "Emrys," Iseldir said ruefully, "you too are a constant surprise."
The Druid Elder's focus flicked down to the circle drawn in the snow, and his eyes narrowed as he struggled to recall a memory. "Bleise mentioned a small scar at the base of the dragon's tail. He had worried it was a branding."
Iseldir drew the incomplete triangle, "But if we think of it as a rune instead, perhaps it is Ura?"
𐌡
Merlin's eyes flared gold, and he inspected the tiny sphere of golden magic hovering near Aithusa. It was definitely nothing alike the magic he associated with Ura. But maybe... He placed a dot in the center of Iseldir's shape.
𐌞
The natural magic of Ura warped into a small funnel, above which swirled a spot of magic so infinitesimal he'd previously thought it trivial. Perhaps given enough time, the speck became a glowing globe.
"So she definitely didn't gain the mark from any Druid?"
"Certainly not," Iseldir assured. "It wasn't you, then?"
"No," Merlin said. "It wasn't me."
And truly, there was no other who would have done it, but Morgana.
Weeks from their last encounter had produced a change in his greatest enemy. No longer was she pitiful; now she had built her own evening fire ringed with heavy stones, and she was sitting hunched over it with no semblance of frailty. The warm glow gave a sheen of health that bled away into her mess of wild curls and the torn lace of her dress, but a lack of purpose still drew her entire body downward, dulling her motions until she were almost as still as the dormant trees that imprisoned her.
He left large footprints in virgin snow, and he ignored her suspicious stare all the slow trek into the circle of firelight. Then Merlin, as the Dolma, took a seat opposite her.
"You again," she bit without heat.
"Surprise."
"And here I thought you were only an apparition bookending a terrible nightmare."
Merlin shrugged, a gesture hardly noticeable under the Dolma's transfigured black dress and new navy cloak. The barb didn't bother him.
"What do you want this time?"
"I came to talk," Merlin said. "It gets boring being the witch of a lake no one cares to visit."
"I'm not much of a conversationalist."
"I'm not here to discuss the cuteness of daisies." Merlin looked round. "Do you have any cups?"
"I'm not a heathen either," she growled. "Of course I've made cups."
He rolled his eyes. "As if cups are what tips the scale."
She glowered, the flickering fire catching in her irises. The glow cut her silhouette against a backdrop of black, and she was all he could see as her eyes burned gold and she crooked a finger.
Two clay mugs hurtled to Merlin's feet, and she raised a brow mockingly as he bent to pick them up. "Now our tea is going to taste like dirt; I hope you're happy."
Merlin whispered brimstréam and had the conjured spout fill both cups before setting them to boil near the fire. Morgana couldn't help but comment. "Unless you've perfected a spell for flavoured water, that concoction in my mugs is not tea."
"It's got half the ingredients of tea."
"It's got half the ingredients of soup. Are you going to make me a soup course subsequently? Or shall I just pretend I've got both with the taste of none?" She leaned forward. "If you knew me, you'd know I'm never happy with halves."
"Well, I presumed you were bitter enough to spice our tea all on your own."
A beat, and Morgana's cheeks tightened with a well-suppressed smile. Almost in concession, she walked round the fire and fetched the two mugs herself, offering one to the Dolma and sipping daintily at her own. "If only I were." Wistfully she added, "If I could do it on my own, then we wouldn't be drinking sludge, but dining in the great halls of Camelot. No one with magic would sleep with one eye open, or have one pre-packed bag. No more half-lives." She stood proudly, the hollow woman from before held at bay. "Do you know what freedom feels like, Dolma?"
Merlin blinked. He wanted to say yes, but… "No."
"I do." She sipped her tea. "I had a taste of it. It was fleeting, and it was ambrosia." She drained the rest of the mug and tossed it back into the snow. "But here you sit, happy with this to wet your palette."
Morgana may not have any plans to escape this clearing, may not have any means to control a kingdom, but it feels good to remind someone else what every magic-user should be fighting for.
Freedom.
She has mistakenly sought it through power and a throne and a crown, but now she knows how simple her desires are.
Her words have made the Dolma pensive, and so while Morgana strides back to her former perch, she makes herself a promise. If she ever escapes from here, she will not lose her way with specific material pursuits - she will search only for that elusive ambrosia.
The Dolma speaks. "You mentioned I think in halves, but perhaps I think in compromises. Working together with the Round Table and the King's Council would allow for a more peaceful embrace of magic."
Hah! Morgana scoffs, "The Council would deliberate until you were dead. Trust me, at the very least they require some coercion."
The Dolma's head tilts to the side, and she drawls slowly. "I expected you to suggest killing them."
There may have been a pyre or two to prove a point, but letting the Council run the smaller affairs was a necessary evil. Besides, the people love the familiarity of old government. "Lord Savile, in particular, has a niece that he dotes on."
"Convince their social circle," the Dolma mulls over the thought, "let the people they care about plant the seeds." Her hand goes to her throat, as if to fiddle with something that is no longer there, and then she murmurs, "That could work."
Well, her ideas had been more along the line of blackmail, but those were semantics. More importantly, how did the Dolma know these people? "Are you a seer?"
The Dolma stiffens, "No."
"Some extrapolation would be nice. If you've only come to take my thoughts and provide nothing but lukewarm water, you can leave." Her eyes brighten. "Or we can play a game. It's one of my favorites. You close your eyes, I poison one of the cups, and then you decide whether to switch them or not."
The Dolma's face is perfectly blank, and Morgana explains, "Life is clearer when we're closer to death."
"You're mad." The Dolma's eyes are hooded, and Morgana finds that very strange. Is that… guilt?
"Surprised?"
As she mocks the elder witch, the Dolma clears a flat patch of dirt and sets her mug down. "Disappointed, more like." She draws a circle around the cup, "Now watch. This is the contribution to this conversation you wanted."
Magic flares, and as the clay cup morphs into ceramic before her eyes, Morgana can't hide the jolt that goes through her. How simple, how obvious. She'd wondered what the others could do.
She'd stumbled onto one rune's power completely on accident. Her hand, splayed across her sister's face and coated in her sister's blood, forming the unplanned V on her cheekbone. Morgause's eyelids fluttering.
Help me Morgana.
I can't. She'd teleported to safety. I've already used all my strength. She had nothing left.
Please, sister.
How unfair, to lose her to a stone when they'd faced tyrants. I can't.
Then, magic somehow at her fingertips where there had been none before. Not her own magic, something foreign, and cold, but with it Morgause had lived.
Morgana looks up, eyes dragging from the rune to the Dolma, who isn't even bothering to pretend she hasn't been watching her this whole time.
Morgana swallows, "Do you know the others?"
He'd watched fascination and old pain take turns along her delicate features. She had definitely placed the mark on Aithusa. "Do you?"
She shook her head, and he figured she wasn't going to offer any more than that. He'd have to trade some other bit of knowledge before she'd show him the trick behind 𐌞. Ugh. He'd dealt with her enough for tonight - Morgana was a constant mind game.
He stood, the Dolma's knees and ankles popping loudly. He couldn't wait to release this ageing spell. Maybe he'd undo it in the forest, and take the risk of being seen when returning to— "You're leaving?"
His mouth drops open, and hers presses into a thin line. She's upset, he is astonished to perceive. In quick motions she turns her face to the flames and scowls, and something cold settles in Merlin's heart. He knows exactly what she's doing, because he's done it himself.
She's berating herself for hoping.
Strangely enough, there's a rune for that.
It's 𐌔, pronounced /s/, named Sowilo. He'd gotten close with it before - seen it's single strand curling about his finger.
He doesn't realize it stands for Hope until Morgana explains exactly why she hates to rely on it. She's in the middle of recounting a story of how close she'd been to hearing the identity of Emrys, when he sees the strands burst from her skin and wind, braid-like, with the 𐌔 they'd traced in the ground.
Though all that comes later. In the present, she says:
"I've mastered whole realms of magic. I've taken thrones, and I've raised armies. I made myself the greatest dark witch in Albion." Her honesty reverberates between them, and its a bridge he'd thought he'd razed, but now he feels it trembling through his feet as if they'd placed a treacherous new cornerstone together. "I needed nothing and no one. And when I was at my most broken, I had nothing and no one, but my greatest enemy."
Weakness, 𐌈, is another that falls into place. It helps that he can recognize the emotion in himself every time he says he will be tougher on Morgana, only to latch onto whatever slivers of humanity she shows. He'd like to say he's being vigilant, but in the seclusion of the forest and the lateness of the hour he is always something much more dangerous. So is she.
She is bitter and sincere and a hundred other subtle things he'd forgotten how to read on her face. "I can't do this alone anymore. Neither can you."
The lines blur, and these shades of her are too achingly familiar.
"Magic's beauty should be shared, shouldn't it?"
From Eden sung by Hozier
Footnotes:
(1) Bloodjen requested Merlin and kittens. That of course inspired Aithusa being a doll, and of course I decided to throw an actual cat in for good measure. Apparently, the Romans may have brought the first felines to England in the first or second centuries, so it's quite possible for Albion to have cats.
(2) The runes are based on Elder Futhark runes, but I have taken a lot of liberties with the translation, transliteration, and interpretation. Largely this was because of available fonts in FF and my own crack-like addiction to making up magic.
(3) Recall that Iseldir's camp is growing and is sanctioned by Arthur (Part 1, P2: Alpha Bitch).
(4) Merlin references the 'battle in Essetir', referring to P2: The Audacity of Hope.
(5) Traditional soap could be made from lye, done by boiling ashes and mixing with fat. Here I pretend that Hunith doesn't add enough fat to her soap, so it's a bit harsh for little Merlin.
(6) I throw in a few probably-not-already-invented chemical combinations for gunpowder/fireworks. Though the powers of aluminum powder seems reasonable to have figured out, especially if there were blacksmiths.
Author's Note:
Asseverate: to affirm or declare positively or earnestly. I.e. "he always asseverated that he did not know." Thanks to dmarie1184 for that head-scratcher. I'd never heard of that word before this.
Dmarie1184 and Jewelsmg convinced me of a scene on young!Merlin with Hunith, and I adored that idea. Loved that scene. Linorien got me on the idea of runes, and I was completely invested in coming up with their magic - so fun. Most didn't even make it in the story. Thanks to all three of these ladies for being such awesome people to talk to, and being such a help. PMs inbound for all you other absolutely wonderful reviewers, oh, and also thanks to Fireflyforever for requesting more Merlin and Morgana dialogue... a little bit here, and more next time! Those two get arguing and it's hard to stop them. I had to do some heavy reigning.
Merlin though... he's walking a tightrope. Then again, however, when isn't he?
Next time: Save My Soul. As the Purge Trial approaches, a wicked tyrant comes to Camelot bearing a gift for the elusive Emrys.