—

Eve
Of the Ides of March

On his first day as manservant, Merlin had swaggered confidently through his chores. He'd been eager to prove he could do this job despite how ill-prepared he was for it, and then, after a good scrubbing, he'd held up Arthur's tunic and seen daylight through a fresh pair of holes. What a punch in the gut that had been.

He felt similar now. He'd woven the threads of his life with increasing rapidity and expected perfection, blinded by pride until he stood staring through a set of holes.

It felt a bit like tunnel-vision. All he could see was Gwen's hunched figure in the low evening light, though intellectually he knew she sat on the sickbed near the window, and that the Physician's chambers stretched around her to end on he and Arthur.

Merlin moved to put his hand on the cleft between her shuddering shoulder blades, but Arthur got in his way. She'd screwed her mouth up tight and turned her face away from the vomit, but she gagged again with a deep, groaning sound almost like a sob.

Arthur gripped her upper arm loosely, and he said "Get her some water."

Merlin backed away from them both and turned unseeing to the room. Rationally he knew there was a clay pot half filled, and cups on the table. He had a bin of dirty rags and a bucket. He had motions to go through but they felt echoed by a pervading This isn't fixable, there's nothing I can do. Like staring through those dual holes, he had nothing left but to wait for Arthur's judgement.

So in that hyphen of time, he cleaned. Repetitiously his rag made circles on the stone floor, and he sat quiet and subdued, listening to Gwen's ragged breaths. From the ground he could see her slippered feet hanging from the cot, and the wrinkled robin's egg blue of her pleated skirt. She was curled slightly, absently holding the cup of water, and leaning her head against Arthur's arm. Arthur stood a little behind, where Merlin couldn't see, but he could feel his eyes.

He dropped the rag into the bucket and stood with his head lowered. The floor was clean now, and drying quickly. He pushed the makeshift mop bucket into a corner, and risked a glance over his shoulder.

Arthur caught him, and his mouth pinched with something sour as he stared from beneath his brow, the blue piercing like shards of ice. "What did you mean you won't be there tomorrow?" He asked quietly. "Can't bear to see me arguing with your old friend Emrys?"

Merlin flinched, but he accepted the hit. Arthur was not striking out blindly, but showing a measure of how deeply he'd been hurt.

"I thought you were the bravest man I knew, but today I find that you're a coward. A coward who's lied to me, and… how long have you been lying to me?" Arthur rasped, almost pleading, but with no denial forthcoming his anger grew. "Years? Almost all the years I've known you. My closest friend. What a fool you've made of me!"

His tugged at his hair, raking at the blonde. "How could you work against me like this? I would never ever betray you!"

He put a shaking arm around Gwen, panting, reigning in his emotions until his voice was tight and controlled. "I would stand next to you against any accusation… and I trusted you to do the same. But Emrys - the Purge - the Druids! What are they to you? I don't understand. Just… please, help me understand."

For all the times Merlin had lain awake at night wondering what stories he'd tell, and where he'd start, he had nothing to say. How did he put to words what freedom meant to him? "They are…" This was hard. He couldn't defend magic unconditionally tomorrow if he admitted the truth now. He wasn't supposed to have to choose like this. "They are… me. Who I'm supposed to be."

"What does that mean?" Arthur railed. "Are you a Druid? Why won't you just explain yourself!"

"Arthur," he choked, but Gwen's hand on Arthur's arm did more than he could have. Her brown fingers squeezed gently until he turned to look at her, and she shook her head slowly.

"Leave it for tonight," she said hoarsely. "He said he'd explain tomorrow."

"I will," Merlin reiterated, trying to push the sincerity from his heart into his words. He wasn't sure it did any good. Arthur had turned away, body rigid, eyes closed, nostrils flaring.

"Fine," he muttered. They brushed past him on their way out, and it tingled down his arm and throbbed like a bruise. Their steps rang slow and measured as if synchronizing with a death knell, and then - a scraping sound. Merlin turned towards it. It was Arthur's hand on the knob, dragging the door after him, but he'd paused halfway.

His head tilted so he spoke over his shoulder, and Merlin wondered if this was worth it. Maybe he'd made the wrong choice. He could say something now, and bring them back.

But Arthur's final words proved he was already far too late.

"I can't stand to look at you, so I'm glad you won't be there."

The door shut firmly behind them, and a wave of disorientation washed over Merlin. Was it possible to have your destiny physically severed? Because the more melodramatic parts of him certainly felt adrift.

What to even do now? His chores? They seemed so pointless and small.

But they were something compared to nothing, so he moved up the stairs and pushed open the door to his room. A puddle of water had collected on the other side, and as the door moved through it, ripples splashed against his boots. The bucket of soapy water had spilled, and it, the washboard, and Arthur's clothes for tomorrow were strewn all over the floor. Each item gave off a faint glow of gold, remnants of the simple laundry spell he'd cast while dipping away to visit Gilli. It had instantly shattered when he'd heard Arthur's voice calling.

He bent, pinched the tunic between his fingers and raised the dripping mass from the ground. It was heavy with water, and thick enough that he had little hope of it drying fully by morning. He'd have to sleep in shifts so that he could rotate all the clothes near the fire.

He curled his long fingers into the shirt and squeezed, the water dripping over his knuckles as he stood, and he took a step towards the bucket. By the second step he'd picked up speed, and by the third, he'd kicked it solidly across the room.

Because Fie on this. He had all this power and he wasn't allowed to use it? Why? Because of Uther and his childish inability to accept blame? Because it made other people more comfortable? This was stupid and unfair and he was sick of it.

He swung a hand and the water from the floor rose in a wave and collided with the bucket that he sent flipping to catch it. Then he simply pushed, let his magic out in a torrent and let his want drive it. The clothes rung themselves out, the trousers resuming their scrubbing against the washing board, and soap beginning to froth, bubble over, and float. It was a half-controlled chaos, but it was still too tame.

So, he threw open the curtains in the main room and tossed the contents of the mop bucket onto the courtyard below. He spun water from magic to refill it and flapped Arthur's red cloak through the air so quickly it rained droplets across the entire chamber. It was his whims now driving the tornado, and magic ripped the sickbed sheets into ghostly billows to join the fray. He crooked a finger and the fire roared higher, incinerating the wooden logs and charcoal ash instantly, but twisting with its own strength.

Then the door clicked, and Gaius stood framed in the entryway. He was flushed from his jog up the stair and he leaned heavily on the doorknob, but those frailties did not prevent his roar of indignation. "Merlin!"

Standing darkly at the top of the landing, Merlin lingered while the chaos continued unhindered. Gaius cursed, and shut the door tightly behind himself, barring it.

"What are you thinking!?" He yelled. "Stop this! You're risking everything we've worked for."

Merlin lowered his arm. It only slowed the movements, but did not stop them. "Arthur thinks I'm allied with Emrys against him and Camelot. And maybe I am. That's the sort of line being magic draws in the sand, doesn't it?"

Gaius was furious. "The fight got close to your heart, so you're throwing a tantrum?"

Merlin twitched and Arthur's tunic and cloak flung themselves at the fireplace, slamming into the darkened wood above and held in place by zinging iron nails that bent nearly in two from the hammering force. "Can you send those to his room in the morning?" He practically spat, "He doesn't want to see me."

"Send someone yourself, Merlin."

"He doesn't want anything to do with me!"

Gaius shook his head. "You're underestimating him. It's a pity I have to tell you that."

"I'll tell you what's a pity: I've worked for years for a fraction of what the prophecies have promised. Every time I've gotten my hopes up, they've been struck down lower than before. The Purge never ended," he grimaced. "Instead, it became a way of life. I was naive to think I could upend it. I've known them longer than anyone and they were sickened by me. And they don't even know a grain of the truth!"

"Then be patient. They'll—"

"No!" Merlin cried, voice cracking. "I'm tired of hiding."

Gaius shoved off the beam he'd placed on the door, and it fell with a heavy clatter despite the racket around them. "Leave then. Go show everyone who you are." He glared, daring him. "I've hid longer than you've been alive. I lost my fiance, my dearest friends, and my disciples. I've lost my credibility with the magical community. You go out there now, and you make all of that worth nothing." His voice was deadly quiet now. "But it's your decision."

Merlin grimaced. "And how should I start listing my own losses? Alphabetically?"

Gaius raged, "You are being a thick-headed fool! I can't even speak to you!"

He snorted, tromping down the stairs. "Go join the club."

He waved, and the rest of the laundry flew to tack itself near the fireplace. It made a steady thump, thump, thump underneath the whistling of dissipating water, and both men stared each other down; a battle of obstinance which Gaius lost. He could not bear to see Merlin throw everything away.

"Everyone is counting on you to present the atrocities of the Purge," he begged. "Once they're in the light, Arthur won't be eager to return to them."

"Arthur knows the Purge was a terrible time. It hasn't changed his mind beyond provisional amnesty."

"The Druids—"

"Can tell their own tales," Merlin swiftly cut off.

Gaius sagged as Merlin reached him. "So this is where you stop then? Here is where you abandon us all?"

"How could you believe I'd do that?"

Gaius flushed. "You aren't acting like yourself!"

"This anger is just as much a part of me as any other idiot smile." He shook Gaius slightly. "Why aren't you angry? Don't you understand that every argument we planned will be wasted tomorrow? He hates me for knowing Emrys; Emrys could recite every bloody battle from the Purge and maybe Arthur would pay some respects to the Druids in retribution. Our freedom doesn't have a chance. Magic—"

He paused, and his expression opened.

"The Purge has already ruined magic." His words sped up in a strange excitement, "Albion is unbalanced. Magic has been destroyed and the proof is right in front of us!"

"Merl—"

His hands tightened as if to shake him again, but then he backed away. "I know what I need to do."

Then Gaius blinked, and Merlin had gone.

The instant his boots touch the forest's floor his skin sags ashen and old, his hair lengthens to wispy, and he readies himself for the argument sure to come. His nipples droop and his hips widen, and about him his tunic becomes the black of the Dolma's tattered robe.

His feet know the path, and magic is still spinning around him as he approaches Morgana's clearing. She's there, of course, and he sees her silhouette in the light of the fire. Her thick hair is swung over her shoulder in a wave of wet curls, her hand holds a roughly carved wooden comb, and she's methodically working her way up from the ends.

She's surprised to see the Dolma, but a tangled knot divides her attention until the old witch is almost in front of her.

The Dolma leaves no space for pleasantries. "I need some information out of you."

This isn't the first time the Dolma has blown in all worked up about one of her many mysteries, and Morgana is more amused than annoyed. She's always enjoyed poking at sleeping dragons.

"So finally you'll allow me to teach you dark magic?" She grins, and as the Dolma prepares to squawk 'no', she squeezes her hand into a fist and the fire blips out.

After a beat her raspy voice comes from the darkness. "How witty of you."

"I thought so too," she releases her hold and the flames leap. "Are you going to sit down, or are you going to stand and glare?"

"Are you going to make jokes, or are you going to listen to me?" The Dolma says, but joins her on the log.

Morgana tilts so their knees brush and smiles coyly. "I thought you were here to listen to me?"

The Dolma makes a face. "You're in a strangely good mood."

"And you're in a boring one."

"Do you have any idea what's going on in Camelot tomorrow?"

"Enlighten me," she rolls her eyes.

The Dolma kneads at her forehead then drops the shocker, "Arthur is putting the Purge on trial."

Her heart skips a beat and lands in her throat, then comes right out of her lips. "He's thinking about lifting the ban!"

"Unlikely," the Dolma reminds bitterly. "But I will be speaking. I have a theory that more than just the Druids were permanently ruined by the Purge, but I don't have time to gather all the facts."

What a strange thing to say. How is she supposed to help with that? There's only one person she could interview from here, and she isn't even sure he'd answer.

"I've seen history through magic," the Dolma further explains, "I lived the Battle of Arderydd and witnessed Uther and the Sarrum rip magic out of reality. I need to know what other ways they upset the balance. Then I can find a way to prove it." She quirks a brow. "You're smiling."

Why, yes, she is. "You're refreshing. I spent years thinking only the impotent magic-users were left."

"So you'll help me?"

She shrugs and starts to braid her drying hair. "I don't see how I could possibly."

"Show me what happened during the Purge, from the very beginning."

She snorts. "Impossible."

But the corners of her mouth dip down, and the Dolma catches that hesitance. She has a steady look that screams, Is it? And her old hand snaps forward and catches Morgana's wrist. "I have another theory, but this one is about you."

She snatches her arm back, "I don't want to hear your fantasies about me."

"I think that Morgause helped trigger your Sight. I think you must have seen the past along with the future." Her voice is a quiet ferocity. "I think the Purge destroyed you just like it destroys everything else."

"I…" Morgana chokes, "I chose this path."

A dry chuckle escapes her. "I used to think magic chose us. But you're right," she says. "We've chosen magic."

An uncanny familiarity buzzes through her, the ache of it so powerful she second-guesses the burning heat of the fire, the velvety darkness of the clearing, the push and pull of the Dolma's gaze. It's a dream half-remembered and… "Have we had this conversation before?"

"Maybe we're doomed to repeat it," the witch laughs wryly. Then she holds her palm out between them. "Maybe we'll move in circles until we finally change something."

Almost any change at this point would benefit her. That thought makes her reach forward, but the witch's subtle taunting stays her hand. "The Sight is a gift, and the goddess sends me visions when I need them."

"Oh, I didn't catch that the first time," the Dolma mocks. "When you said there were only impotent magic-users left, you included yourself."

"Annoying crone," she mutters, "one day I'll teach you to respect the title of High Priestess." But she slides her hand through the Dolma's, and lets the frail fingers grip hers with a surge of magic that shocks and blinds her. The Dolma's presence slides incredibly close, Morgana's vision goes bright white, and when she opens her eyes, golden vines are extending from her body and whipping in the air.

Their magic pushes them out and out, miles into the sky, around trees and deep into the ground, and then she feels the first yank. It snaps her head back and her stomach lurches. Her visions are usually chaotic, moments of facts strewn throughout jagged frames of possibility, but this time she's further sickened by a sensation of rapid flipping, like she's caught in the pages of a book.

She's on a beach, a turret, a graveyard, the sun whirls from morning to midnight, and she can sense the Dolma's mind turning the pages as she's pulled along in her draft. It's a struggle to stand, and an even greater one to not lose herself in the Dolma's singular focus, or the chaotic images around her. She's worried that if she focuses on one detail too long, the Dolma may move on without her and she'd never find her way back to the present.

So through squinted eyes she glimpses a royal chamber, a thin queen, and a beautiful witch with her eyes pointed at the heavens. Above them, in a storm that is both beautiful and impossible, is a tornado of gold.

History stutters, but it moves straighter. It feels wider. The Dolma is reeling them on, and Morgana presses her shoulder against the witch. The more supported she is, the stabler she feels.

Later they're standing in sticky blood that congeals on the base of her boots. The sun is rising over a red hill, and mercenaries are looting corpses. The Sarrum is cutting the head off someone that must have been important. Uther is searching the dead for one face in particular. By then, the Dolma is leaning on her. Perhaps they're leaning on each other.

Nimueh's lipstick spreads across the back of her hand, a gummy reminder of her terror.

It curls in her empty stomach and makes her feel jittery and sick. The rickety sway of the wagon doesn't help, but she prefers this over teleporting with the child in tow. It's five days now since their loss in Arderydd, and her magic still recovers painfully slow. She feels weak and vulnerable, but when she reaches for Albion's magic she senses its new chaos, and it terrifies her all over again.

She's scared of what would happen if Camelot's guards find the noblemen bodies behind her, or of how many she'd have to fight if they catch up to her stolen wagon. She's especially worried of how they could torture her if one magic-devouring Eancanah slipped past her defenses.

The road is beginning to narrow, anyway. She slips off the bench and leads the horse and cargo as far into the treeline as she can. It's not very hidden at all, but she can hope for bandits.

The girl is blinking blearily by now, and from her huddle of blankets her cherub face rises, framed by flaxen hair and hung with a troubled smile. "What's happening?"

"We're close," Nimueh gestures the young girl onto the horse, which she then unhitches and leads further into the forest. "Can you smell it?"

"Smell what?"

"You'll see."

It's a tough half-hour to the coast of the lake, but when she sees the blue through the trees she almost weeps. They'll be safe there, at least. Uther and his goons wouldn't dare lay siege to the Isle of the Blessed.

They wait impatiently as a Blood Guard rows a thin boat towards them in the growing eve, and with no way to use the horse now, she takes it behind some trees and with a spell breaks its neck.

They're halfway across the lake when the child's face lights up. "It smells like my mother's perfume!"

Nimueh laughs. "Vivienne always smelt of magic."

At this distance it's obvious the castle is untouched by the war, and she lets the shadow of the flying turrets wash away her worry. The whole island pulses with possibility and life, and as they land within the stone walls, it rejuvenates her. But it does more for the girl. For the first time since Nimueh has met Morgause, the child is alight. She gushes about the towering arches - higher than any palace's, bows to every guard and priestess they pass, and her excitement catches. Nimueh is grinning near ear-to-ear when they finally arrive at the Rowan Tree.

The ancient plant is bulbous and twisted, weighed down by plump red berries, and its branches stretch wide across the central courtyard. At its base is the Crone, a hunched old woman nearly as brown as the tree itself and with eyes as white as the moon.

She's cross-legged with the Rowan Staff in her lap, and in her left and right hands, the Horn of Cathbhadh and the Cup of Life. She's rasping words in the Old Religion, praying to the Triple Goddess, tears running down her face.

Morgause falters for the first time and hides behind Nimueh's legs. The Crone turns her sightless eyes towards them and begs them closer.

When they're in range, the Crone whispers. "He'll find you even here, Nimueh. He would chase you to the ends of the sea."

Her heart plummets. "Then I'll fight."

The Crone shakes her head, and pushes the Cup of Life into her arms. "Protect it." The golden metal is warm against Nimueh's skin, but it makes her shiver. She's never before had the right to even touch it.

"If Uther comes, he'll bring Eancanah. They tore through our ranks in minutes."

"Deathless creatures," the Crone croaks. "They'll come like a dark wave to our shores, and they'll be upon us before we know to look." She smiles and reaches out to pet Morgause's hair. "You've brought me a Maiden."

Frustration is making her eyes blurry. "Vivienne's daughter." She blinks tears away. "Let me warn the Blood Guard, and you must tell the Priestesses. If we are prepared, we can defend ourselves."

The Crone ignores her, instead pushing the Rowan Staff into Morgause's small hands. The sculpted wood dwarfs her. "Keep it safe, my child."

Then she raises the Horn to her lips and blows. Simultaneously a shriek echoes over the stones and curdles the blood in Nimueh's veins. Oh goddess, she thinks, so soon?

The Crone's focus moves to the side, and she forces a welcoming smile on her withered face. Nimueh can't make anything out of the emptiness, but the Crone softly speaks to it anyway. "You are the last of our kind. It is up to you to right the wrongs done to us by Uther Pendragon."

Then a black blur drops from the tree. It's on the Crone's face, but by the time Nimueh thinks a spell and little Morgause swings the staff, the Crone's pupils are an average brown and her soul is dead.

There's a peaceful smile on the old woman's face. The shock had killed her, and little red droplets of blood bead up along her forehead and cheeks, where the slug's teeth had suckered into her.

Morgause starts to cry.

Tears have already burned their way out of Nimueh, and she wipes them away with the back of her hand. She doesn't realize that she's smearing old lipstick across her cheeks.

She hears her sisters shouting, and the distant clank of metal as her last allies run for the shoreline.

The Crone's voice whispers in her ear.

"Run Nimueh," she says. "Run."

Morgana shuddered. "I don't want to watch this anymore."

She squeezed her eyes shut and curled away from the Rowan Tree, hiding her face in his throat. Against his skin he feels her hyperventilate, but in his mind feels her panic. "I can't watch these women die; losing Morgause was hard enough."

Sharing a vision with another had strange consequences. Neither had full control of where they stood, or what they felt. Morgana's implacable desire to skip this scene tore away their stability, and turned the courtyard into a blurring smear of color.

Through clenched teeth he bites her name, but is ignored. Before his eyes the Rowan Tree shrivels. The berries dessicate and drop about them, and yellow dust takes their place. It fills the clearing and their lungs until his throat stings with the grit of it.

"He'll kill them, he'll destroy this place," she keened.

Cold needles pick at the strands of his thoughts, and her madness burrows deeper. Reality slips further away, and as he stumbles he latches onto Morgana's elbows. "It's already happened," he gasps.

"It's ruined," she cried. "They're all dead. I've failed."

"Not yet," he shakes her. "You can still fix this."

"I've tried," she wailed. "I've lost everything. Aithusa's gone. Emrys trapped me. Camelot stands, Uther's legacy remains. His flags still fly!"

"Camelot isn't the enemy, Morgana." He tightens his hold and wills her to look up. "I will defend magic. Arthur can change."

Behind her, wyverns are hatching and growing, flying and dying. Bodies are picked clean by new generations, and the courtyard becomes a sty of refuse. The stench seeps into his nostrils, but the moon deaccelerates its ascent, finally hanging frozen on them both. Morgana's eyelashes are clumped by water, and they fan out from her lids in thick v's.

She stares straight at him, and out of her sorrow and despair comes shock, blinding and pure.

Her vision goes white and she's flying forwards. Wind roars in her ears and ice slices into her face, and as her senses are consumed the second mind trickles away. The shared magic dissipates, and without it her vines snap back and disappear. By the time she realizes she's on the log near the fire in the clearing, she's numb with loss.

Her body comes to her second. Her face brushes the rough fabric of the Dolma's dress, her neck is sore, and her knuckles ache from gripping the witch's hand. She pulls her slouched body to straight, and her gaze connects with the Dolma's.

Comprehension comes to her third, and the feeling of loss hits her afresh.

The Dolma only reaches up to remove her cowl. Hand shaking, Morgana sweeps the witch's hair to the side, revealing an alabaster neck, though with one very particular scar. She very vividly remembers the mark of her Fomorroh, and now she has her final proof underneath the pads of her fingers.

The thought comes out of her, broken and unbidden. "Why did you lie to me?"

"I don't trust you."

Ha. Hah!

"At least I never lied to you," she says fiercely.

She can almost see his face, hidden though it is behind the mask of her false friend.

"There are many things I wish I could change," he sighs and pushes her away. "But I don't regret what I've done."

He's walking away, and she yells at him. "You should!"

The black fabric ripples over his shoulders as he shrugs. He's giving up the disguise as he moves, and when he speaks his voice dips tenor. "Depending on how my defense goes, perhaps I will." He stops and smirks. "And if things go very badly, perhaps I'll see you tomorrow on a more permanent basis."

"Don't you dare come back here," she hisses. "I hate you. I don't want your friendship. I don't need your help."

"Yes you do," he says plainly. "Just like I need yours."

She stands and at him blasts a wall of magic, but he's already gone. There's a swirl of wind where he once stood, and though it does no good, she fires again.

The fire pulses larger with each of her pants, breathing with her. It spills onto the grass near her feet, but she hardly notices. She isn't so good at noticing things, is she? Even when the clues are right in front of her nose, she's hopeless.

It had always been him, hadn't it? Always, always, always, from the beginning.

Oh, Merlin, you bastard.

The Fighter sung by In This Moment

Footnotes:

(1) I used Merlin Wiki for the history of the Isle of the Blessed. Canonically, the Rowan Tree is at its center, the Blood Guard were the protectors of the Priests and Priestesses, and many magical artifacts were smuggled out of it.
(2) The Cup of Life (S1E13) used by Nimueh in the abandoned Isle of the Blessed, the Rowan Staff (S3E1&2) given to Morgana by Morgause to raise an army of the dead, and the Horn of Cathbhadh (S5E3 & P2: Hell Hath Plenty of Fury) were all canonically once on the Isle, protected by the Priestesses.
(3) The triple goddess is a symbol of the maiden, the mother, and the crone.
(4) A quote from Morgause: "When I was first brought here these hallways were more beautiful than any palace, and they were teaming with women. Women just like you and I, High Priestesses of the Old Religion. And the air was perfumed with magic. You could smell it as you approached across the lake. The whole island was pulsing with possibility and life. And it can be like that again. As the last of our kind, it is up to you to right the wrongs done to us by Uther Pendragon."
(5) The Battle of Arderydd (P1: Magic Incarnate). Uther and his goons wreck the Druid's last major stand, largely because of the Sarrum's army of magic-eating black slugs, called Eancanah.
(6) Lipstick. Not really a thing. More correctly I could have said lip dye. Some research did reveal beeswax + red plant dye could have been used. Thanks to Jewelsmg and Linorien for instigating my research.
(7) Morgana put a Fomorroh in Merlin's neck to control him (S4E6)

Author's Note:
Extremely appreciate all the well wishes for my hike - it was a doozy! Base Camp isn't the white wonderland with the towering mountain that I expected. It's instead this grey boulder and glacier landscape. On the last day, I was walking on this thin dirt hill as our group split into three, the faster group ahead, the slower group behind, and me in the middle. We were so high up that it didn't get foggy, but cloudy, and as I stood on this hill I watched these clouds spill slow-motion into the valley and then envelop us. Everything was white. But when I looked up I could see the grey-circle of the sun, and just barely beside it in a floating silhouette, Everest.

I can see why people train for years in order to summit.

Huge thanks to the reviewers out there who reviewed anyway despite me not ever answering your PMs. Will absolutely be responding this time. And of course not enough thanks goes to Linorien, Jewelsmg, and dmarie1184 for inspiring me, boosting my dopamine levels, and loving writing and creating just as much as me.

On a note more in keeping with what we're all doing here... Merlin and Arthur finally having it out is something we've all imagined in one way or another. The series five finale gave us some of that in montage. They're just hitting the edge of that now. I feel a bit bad for Arthur. He thinks this is as bad as the lies go.

Next Time: The Purge Trial. No more sneaky chapters, I promise. Everything is coming together next time.