Chapter 4

The Soul from the Lamp

"Uhhhh…"

Arthur moaned and coughed pitifully. Dust settled heavily in the back of his throat, making him gag horribly. He managed to control his empty stomach after a moment, then focused on his screaming extremities. He felt as though he'd been trampled by a runaway horse; all covered in bruised flesh like an apple that had been dropped and no one wanted; like a lump of dough a strong-armed cook had pounded into submission; like the many more analogies of which he could think in order to delay the act of mutilating his nerve endings. He could still move, at any rate, so he supposed nothing was broken.

As he shifted, rubble rolled off of him and clattered against the surface of whatever lumpy, pointed layer he was lying on in the pitch black. For a split second he feared he had been blinded, but then he remembered the fall. Looking in what direction he presumed to be up, he could see no light, but then it had been night when everything had gone to hell.

At least the dragon didn't seem to be coming after them. Perhaps it couldn't, or had lost interest in them.

A sound at his left startled him, and Arthur clutched around for a weapon. His hand met something sleek and warm, and he nearly withdrew before realizing that it must be the lamp. So the dragon had not taken it, was probably shuffling around in search of the treasured object. Arthur grasped it and pulled it close, holding his breath and hoping whatever it was did not notice him. Could dragons smell fear? But no, it couldn't be the dragon. It had to be…

"Gwaine?" he whispered. His hushed voice sounded odd—tremulous and raspy.

"Mmmmm…Not yet, not yet…Ooh! Hehehe, aye, tha's the spot…"

"Gwaine!" Arthur could have leapt for joy, never mind the lewd dream his brother in crime was having. "Wake up, Gwaine!" Though his throat was quite dry, his voice came out stronger after taking a moment to clear his throat.

"Hm? Arthur? Mate, I was dreaming of an apple that tasted of a cheese…Or was it a cheese that tasted of an apple…?" His voice sounded thick and groggy, and Arthur wondered how long they had been out. And he knew damn well what Gwaine had been dreaming of.

"Gwaine."

Arthur reached out, scrambling blindly for his friend until his hand made contact with something warm and woolen. He shook what felt to be Gwaine's leg.

"Light a candle, would ya?" Gwaine said, sounding irritable, as he usually did when he woke with a headache, which more often than not was caused by a night of drinking and fighting. Arthur suddenly worried that his friend's head had been injured in the fall.

"I can't, Gwaine. There's no wicks or torches, but—hold on, where's Leon? Leon!"

Gwaine took hold of Arthur's wrist and used it to pull himself into a sitting position, nearly planting Arthur's face into the loose bed of rock under them. He seemed to at last be fully awake and aware.

"Leon, mate? If ye can hear me, say some—er, well, clap."

There was, for what felt to be an hour, silence. But then, a soft clap met their ears. It came from the left.

"Keep clapping 'til we find ye!"

The clapping continued, soft, intermittent pats in the darkness. The thieves, linking elbows so as not to lose one another, clambered carefully toward it. Hisses and winces punctured the stillness as sharp rocks dug into sore spots, or soft grunts of surprise as the earth suddenly shifted beneath them, sounding like an avalanche to their oversensitive hearing. Arthur had a harder time of it, having limited use of his hands, for his other still carried the lamp. It was a wonder it hadn't been lost.

It was a wonder they weren't all dead.

"Aha!" Gwaine said triumphantly. "All right, now, if ye be unhurt, clap twice, mate."

Clap. Clap.

"Excellent!" the thief said. "Arthur?"

"I'm all right. Gwaine?"

"Jus' a bump on the noggin, feels like. I'll be right well once we find our way out o' here an' t' th' nearest tavern."

"What about the witch?" Arthur reminded him. "We can't be sure she's gone."

"Aye, tha's true…"

They lapsed into a terse silence, trying to think of another way out of their predicament.

Gwaine suddenly gasped and let out a cry of despair.

"What?" Arthur asked, throat closing up with anxiety. Had Gwaine been hurt and just realized an injury? Had Leon gotten his attention about something? Had he seen something just then that Arthur had missed? Had he felt something?

"The gold," Gwaine moaned, tightening his grip on Arthur's arm, and presumably his hold on Leon as well. "The gold!"

"Ah," Arthur said. It had not occurred to him that the treasure might have been lost. But that was hardly the matter at hand, and he told him so in a stern voice that he thought his father used, when he was still around.

"Hardly the matter!" Gwaine repeated. "Princess, that gold was our fortune! We would live as kings! Aye, we might've bought our own land! The jobs we could've given! The women who would flock t' us! A tavern in me own hall!"

"There's no point in having the gold if we're trapped in here!" Arthur insisted, kicking out with his foot. A stone clattered noisily in the darkness, the sound made all the more acute by their blindness. Arthur's frustration ebbed, leaving him to feel the residual aches of a hard landing.

"You're right," Gwaine conceded. "How do we get out o' here, then?"

"I…I don't know," Arthur admitted, anger tamping down. He sighed heavily. "If only we had some light."

"Aye. We could've used that lamp right 'bout now!"

"I've got it."

"Really?" There was a rustling noise as Gwaine moved about. "I've still got flint! If tha' lamp has any oil left in it, we'll be set for a good while."

"What? No!" Arthur said, appalled.

"Eh?" The movement slowed, but did not stop altogether.

"There's the soul of a man inside this lamp," Arthur explained, as though to a child. "We have no idea what lighting the lamp would do to him!"

"I'm sure the bloke won't feel a thing."

"God forbid, no!"

"Well, then what do ye want to do, Princess? We can't bloody well starve down here! Our choices are fairly limited."

"I know that."

"Why don't we let Leon decide? Leon, if ye'd rather live, clap twice."

Arthur let out a frustrated huff. "Don't you think we should at least try to—I don't know, let the soul out?"

"How, Princess?"

The blond chewed at his lower lip thoughtfully. "Well, I s'pose we could…Hold on." He let go of Gwaine and held the warm lamp in both hands. His fingertips found the stopper at the top, and after a moment of hesitation, he pulled it free.

Nothing happened.

"Hold on," he said again, pushing the stopper back inside. It squeaked unnaturally loud.

He held the lamp out at a length by the curved handle, then tipped it forward. He heard the light splash of oil against rock, but again nothing happened.

"Hmm."

"Lemme try," Gwaine said.

They fumbled for a moment in the darkness until they managed to successfully pass it between them. Arthur almost regretted it, suddenly realizing that Gwaine might take the opportunity to light the lamp with his flint. Metallic tapping echoed.

"What are you doing, Gwaine?"

"Knocking."

"Knocking."

"Aye, Princess, knocking! What, have ye a better idea? Shut up, then."

The tapping continued for longer than was strictly necessary, considering the soul within did not respond. Arthur held back the sarcastic suggestion to ask whether anyone was home.

"Perhaps the crone lied about there being a person inside it," Arthur said reluctantly. "But I can't imagine why."

"If there is one, lighting it might release 'im."

Arthur took the lamp back, closing his eyes glumly. There was little choice in the matter, if they were going to find their way out of the dark hole. Feeling sorry for the man, if he were indeed entrapped, Arthur rubbed his palm along the length of the sleek gold by way of apology. He felt a slight shiver as he did so, though it was not cold, and was struck by the sudden urge to do it again, and then once more.

He cried out and dropped it as the thing suddenly grew molten hot, heat scorching his callused hands.

"Bloody hell!" Gwaine exclaimed.

The lamp, which had landed right-side up, began to glow brighter and brighter, like a lump of iron in the forge, rattling of its own accord. They were forced to shield their eyes when the light's intensity grew akin to the direct midday sun.

A jovial laugh rent the air.

Arthur lowered his arm, eyes blinking rapidly in an attempt to adjust to the light, which had dimmed considerably. He gaped at the tall, lanky figure that stood over him, grinning widely. He stood akimbo with the lamp, which was still emanating light, at his feet. He was dressed as a peasant in a blue shirt that was slightly too large for his skinny frame and a red neckerchief, and had short dark hair that was unkempt and stuck out the most around his large ears. His bright blue eyes held no malice, but Arthur was not sure he could judge on appearance alone. After all, he would not have suspected the old crone of evil.

"Which of you rubbed my lamp?" the strange man asked.

Arthur meekly signaled, swallowing thickly, as Gwaine and Leon gestured at him.

The man from the lamp let out an ecstatic whoop, swiftly pulling Arthur to his feet with a solidity and strength that the thief would not have thought possible, and throwing his long arms around him in an embrace. Arthur could not find the appropriate reaction, and so did nothing but stare even as the man—the very real, flesh and blood man—released him and bounced around, chattering excitedly all the while.

"I'm free! I'm free! Finally free from the lamp! Oh, it's so good to see people, real people. And I can touch you." As though to punctuate the statement, he grasped Arthur by the shoulders and shook him. "I could kiss you!"

Arthur, shocked out of his shock, so to say, at last had the presence of mind to open his mouth, making him appear as the slack-jawed Gwaine and Leon standing nearby, but the man spoke before he had the chance to refuse any sort of favor such as kissing.

"What year is it? Who are you? You don't look like Druids, but what do I know? I don't even know how long it's been! Fashion is so fickle, isn't it? Is Kilgharrah around, still? I recognize this place—it's his cave. O Kilgharrah!" The name sounded harsh compared to the rest of his speech—he spoke it gutturally, as though he were growling it. It would have come off as threatening had it not been for the joyous smile that seemed as though it would break his face in two. He cocked his head back and forth, then upwards, as though waiting for an answer.

"You…" Arthur cleared his parched throat. "You are the soul from the lamp."

"Hmm," the man hummed, running a hand over the stone wall. "And what gave that away?" He turned to the blond, still grinning, but this time with a more mischievous tone. "I almost didn't recognize you in the dark, Constantine. But I know your voice. Are these new knights of yours?"

"C—Constantine?" Arthur wrinkled his nose at the unbefitting name. He pointed to himself. "I am Arthur."

The other paused in his exploration of the pocket-like sinkhole. His smile gave way to confusion. "Oh," he uttered. "Then you do not know Constantine? Have not heard of him?"

"I know there was a king named Constantine," Arthur said, "but he was long before my time, and I bear no relation to him."

"Hmm. The resemblance is striking." Merlin approached him again, passing the still-gaping Gwaine and Leon. They could not, as much as Arthur, appear to comprehend that the man from the lamp seemed to be quite real, and—perhaps more importantly—actually there. "Do you know of Constantine II's children? What are their names? Let me think…Constans, the eldest son." He counted on his fingers, brow puckered in concentration. "Er, Ambrosius, and Ector—he adopted, or fostered, I think—and how can I forget sweet little Caelia? Oh, and I am forgetting Uther. But he was not a very remarkable child, considering he was the youngest and still in skirts. Never much liked the little prat."

Arthur stared, mind reeling. "Uther…was the name of my father."

The stranger had the decency to adopt an embarrassed look. "Ah, did I say he was a prat? Well, he was as a child. Perhaps he's changed. What do I know? I've been in there." He gestured to the glowing lamp. "But your father! Arthur son of Uther son of King Constantine II."

The thief frantically shook his head. "You're confused! There must have been another man named Uther, and he was my father, not some prince. I am not royal."

The raven-haired man snorted, eyeing Arthur's clothes. "Obviously. A shame, though. Constantine was a good king, but I suppose he was conquered or usurped—or Constans was." He seemed relatively unbothered by the entire situation, and didn't seem to realize that they were trapped, or that Gwaine and Leon still were shell-shocked. "Where is Kilgharrah?" he murmured as he resumed exploring.

As the impossible man moved away, Arthur shuffled toward his friends.

"Mate," Gwaine whispered as he neared, reaching out and grasping his elbow. "What th' bloody hell is this? What did ye do?"

"I…I rubbed the lamp," Arthur hissed back, just as confused. "I suppose that's what summoned him?"

"Ye'd think a magic lamp would need some magic words, not a belly rub."

"Yes."

The trio watched him move about, unsure of how to proceed. They had known about magic, had seen it in practice, though they had never seen such a powerful manifestation of it as this man. And as far as they could see from the lamplight, there was no escape but up one sheer wall. It couldn't be done. They were trapped with the stranger.

"Say," the man turned to them. "How exactly did you end up down here? There are no doors, and my magic is being suppressed—by wards, I expect."

Arthur felt weak. "You have magic?"

"Well, I wasn't sealed away for being a defenseless manservant," he chuckled.

Great, Arthur thought. Not only is he magic, but he can wield it as well. What if he's as evil as that old crone? They were lovers, after all…

"Then, um," Gwaine said nervously, finally finding his voice, "why were you sealed away, exactly?"

"It's a bit of a long story, actually," he said brightly. "Why don't we all introduce ourselves first, and then we'll share the tales of what led us here?"

"All right…I'm Arthur."

"Gwaine. And this is Leon. He's cursed."

Leon inclined his head in a respectful greeting.

"I see," the man from the lamp said. "I go by many names. I am Emrys, the most powerful sorcerer to walk the earth. But my friends call me Merlin." He grinned brightly. "In fact, only the Druids call me Emrys. It can be a bit off-putting sometimes, I tell you. I suppose, following that logic, that you all are not Druids. You'd have known me if you were, and we'd have been able to mindspeak."

Arthur didn't follow half of what the man had just said, but he nodded anyway.

Merlin continued, "Right, you want to know why I've been hidden away in a lamp. Let me start from the beginning:

"I was born with magic. A warlock, you see. Many people accused my mother of consorting with a demon and spawned me, but really my father was a Dragonlord—but that's another story. When I came of age, I went to Camelot to study under a master sorcerer. I excelled and surpassed him quickly. I was appointed Court Sorcerer by King Constantine II, but many were resentful of my new status, especially given how young I am—was. But I took on a student of my own, and taught her what I knew.

"Little did I know how dark her heart had become…There is nothing that so hardens a woman's heart as the deaths of her children. Her firstborn, Morgause, to illness, and then her son, Mordred, to that evil Agravaine…"

He trailed off, lost in an apparently disturbing memory.

Then Merlin cleared his throat, coming back to the present. "Um, to make a long story short, she managed to find a binding spell, hoping that through me she could achieve great power. But her plan was thwarted by a good friend of mine, who separated my soul from my body and hid away both halves to be protected by magic as old as time—that is, Kilgharrah here, and the lady of the lake of Avalon. Only once the sorceress was defeated would I be merged again."

His bright grin came back in full force. He did not notice the surprised looks shared by the trio. "I s'pose now she's dead! After all, why else would I be freed? Thank you, Arthur. And you, Gwaine, Leon. I suppose Kilgharrah's off hunting. I'll have to call him here."

"How could you call someone here?"

Without responding to the question, Merlin tipped his head back and roared—quite literally roared: "O drakon, e male so ftengometta tesd'hup'anankes!"

Gwaine and Arthur had stepped away not only due to the force of the call, but because Merlin's eyes had turned gold. A moment later, though, they had changed back to blue as though nothing had happened. The transformation had made the goofy angles of the young man look fierce and otherworldly, almost fae, and Arthur decided then that he never wanted to find himself on the warlock's bad side.

As the last echoes of his roar faded, a vague puzzlement overcame Merlin's features.

"Where is that blasted dragon?"

Another unnoticed glance passed amongst the mortals.

"Er, was 'e a great, er, golden one?" Gwaine asked tentatively.

"That'd be him!"

"I believe he's, er…well, Kilgurren is…Arthur, what's happened with Kullchurrah again?"

Expectant eyes turned on Arthur, who froze. If only he could delegate the task of telling the powerful sorcerer that his precious dragon was dead to Leon; he most certainly would have, if the cursed man were able to speak. "Um, see, uh…" Usually he was much more eloquent, but the presence of a magic-wielder was putting him all out of sorts.

"He's dead, isn't he," Merlin supplied. When no one denied it, shuffling awkwardly, it was confirmation enough, and he sighed deeply. "I might have known it. He would have come when I called…How did this happen?"

"Er, well, we're not quite sure," Arthur said. "The witch said that a warrior had vanquished it—him, I mean."

"Aye," Gwaine jumped in. "She also said tha' ye and she were lovers, once."

Merlin's eyes widened slightly, then he wrinkled his nose in disgust. "Lovers? No, it couldn't be. I had one love all my life, and she's no longer of this earth. Of that I am most certain."

They lapsed then into an awkward silence. No one was quite sure what to say, or even if there was anything to say. Arthur pitied Merlin. To be gone so long—half a century, at least—only to come back and find himself trapped, powerless, and to hear that his dragon is dead, and that the witch who should have been defeated or else passed away might still draw breath.

"Perhaps…" Merlin trailed off, running his hand thoughtfully along the gritty wall. "Perhaps…I can overcome the wards."

He closed his eyes then without waiting for a response, his brow furrowed in concentration. The trio watched him as he seemed to enter into a sort of trance, whispering words of power. Only his lips moved; the rest of him remained still, as though frozen in time. Arthur felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise as he saw flashes of gold beneath his thick, dark, fluttering lashes. He didn't think he could ever get used to it.

They waited with bated breath, anticipating his moment of triumph. The seconds dragged by, then the minutes crawled past, and then time seemed to slow to a standstill, like a pond frozen in winter. All but Merlin grew restless. Gwaine patted his stomach comfortingly when it grumbled impatiently. No one dared speak for fear of distracting the warlock.

After what seemed like forever, Merlin slowly opened his bright blue eyes, falling silent.

"Well?" Arthur asked tentatively.

A soft smile touched the brunet's mouth. "I cannot do it."

"Ehhh," Gwaine drew the sound out almost playfully, and Arthur recognized the tone as the one he adopted before he started a brawl. He tensed, prepared to intervene should Gwaine try it. "I thought ye were th' most powerful sorcerer to walk th' earth?"

"So I've been assured," Merlin replied rather pleasantly. "I've never known the Druids to be wrong. If I cannot master these wards, then no one can—perhaps not even the caster. We shall have to improvise."

"Improvise?" the thieves repeated in unison.

Grinning as he had when he was first freed from the lamp, Merlin pointed at Leon, who seemed ready to leap out of the way of a lightning bolt. "Tell us a story, good sir knight!"

"Knight?" the thieves uttered with disbelief.

Leon tried to convey that he could not speak by putting one hand over his throat and shaking his head, his curls bouncing desperately.

Merlin cocked his head. "Yes, I know you are cursed. I felt it the moment I appeared. And I do know what curse it is. Yes, I can break it, but not now, for I am rather powerless. Anyway, speak! It's up to you to get us out of here. Speak, Sir Leon, speak!"

Despite the urge to heroism, Leon merely floundered, and Arthur and Gwaine stared on. Merlin's shoulders rose and fell as he heaved a put-upon sigh.

"In case you hadn't noticed, when you speak gold and jewels fall from your lips. If you were to speak long enough, you'd fill up this cavern with them, and we shall be able to climb to freedom." Merlin pointed upwards, where the men could see the gray, peeking light of dawn. "It's like the fable of the donkey in the dry well. The farmer cannot fetch him out, so he decides that he will bury the poor sod to put it out of its misery. He shovels a pile of dirt in. The donkey shakes it off and steps up. The farmer shovels in more dirt. The donkey shakes it off and steps up. And so on, until the donkey has shaken off and stepped up so many times that he can walk out of the well."

"That's the stupidest story I've ever heard," Arthur grimaced, forgetting momentarily that the sorcerer could smite him at a moment's notice.

Merlin shot him a look. "Listen, clotpole, it's a fable. It means never give up!"

"But it's entirely unrealistic," Arthur protested. "Donkeys do not possess the intelligence to do such a thing. And besides, we might well starve to death before Leon can talk out enough to shake off and step up! And also, clotpole isn't a word."

Merlin shrugged. "Of course it is, you prat. Anyway, if you die, you die. But if we get out of here thanks to my idea, I'll change you to an ass and we'll test your theory."

"No need," Gwaine said, looping an arm around Arthur's shoulders. He seemed to have forgotten his own irritability in favor of preventing Arthur from saying something which he might regret. Or perhaps he felt comradery with someone so easily able to insult his friend. "He's already an ass."

Arthur, red-faced, shoved his friend off when he tugged at one of his ears. Gwaine stumbled and fell, laughing.

Merlin grinned at the pair, then returned his attention to Leon. "It matters not what story you tell. You could insult us continuously, for we cannot hear your voice nor read your lips. Go on, then. You're our only hope."

"No pressure," Gwaine said from his lounging position.

Leon frowned for a moment, apparently thinking of something to say. Then he started. Droplets of gold and jewels poured forth, tinkling like rain against the stones. While in the treasure room it had seemed a fortune from his tongue, now it was quite a meager phenomenon. They were the sands in an hourglass compared to the sands of a beach.

Merlin sat cross-legged on the floor, leaning back against the sheer wall of the chamber. "This will take a while. Anyone know any good songs?"

Gwaine grinned swiftly at the invitation. "My friend, yer lookin' at a master o' th' arts."

"Oh, God," Arthur muttered under his breath.

Unheeding of his friend's despair, Gwaine belted out a bawdy tune that would have made a troll blush:

I was up to me arse in the muck, Sir,

With a peat contract down in the bog

When me shovel it struck something hard, Sir,

That I thought was a rock or a log

T'was a box of the finest old oak, Sir,

T'was a foot long, and four inches wide

And not giving a damn for the Fairies

I just took a quick look inside

Now I opened the lid of this box, Sir,

And I swear that my story is true

T'was an ancient and old Irish condom

A relic of Brian Boru

T'was an ancient and old Irish condom

T'was a foot long, and made of elk hide,

With a little gold tag on its end, Sir,

With his name, rank, and stud fee inscribed

Now, I cast me mind back through the ages

To the days of that horny old Celt

With his wife lyin' by on the bed, Sir,

As he stood by the fire in his pelt

And I thought that I heard Brian whisper

As he stood in the fire's rosy light

"Well, ye've had yer own way long enough, dear...

'Tis the hairy side outside, tonight."

Arthur groaned loudly, quite disgusted and embarrassed. Leon buried his face in one hand, shaking his head. He had not stopped speaking, though, moneys still falling from his lips. It had provided lighthearted music throughout the rendition.

Merlin merely laughed alongside Gwaine, clutching his belly. "You've got to teach me that one!" he giggled. "By the gods!"

"There's plenty more where tha' came from," the Irishman beamed proudly. He didn't usually get such encouraging reactions from his drunk audience, let alone one as sober as Merlin.

"I've got one, I've got one," Merlin gasped out, desperately composing himself enough to sing:

My man John had a thing that was long.

My maid Mary had a thing that was hairy.

My man John put his thing that was long,

into my maid Mary's thing that was hairy.

My maid Mary then stirred it about,

till with stirring and stirring at length it came out,

but then my man John thrust it in once again,

and knocked it most stoutly to make it remain;

but John with much knocking so widened the hole,

that his long thing slipped out still in spite of his soul,

'till wearied and vexed and with knocking grown sore,

cried, "A pox take the hole for I'll knock it no more!"

Gwaine positively shrieked with laughter, mixing with Merlin's chortling that echoed and gave Arthur a devilish headache. "Can't we sing something nice?" he asked plaintively. Leon nodded fervently, causing the treasures falling from his still moving lips to spray in different directions.

"Oh, all right," Gwaine said, sharing a look with Merlin that clearly denoted Arthur's party-ruining status. "Ye go on, then. Sing summat."

Arthur let out a put-upon sigh. "I don't know many songs," he protested.

"Ye mean ye don't know any nice ones," Gwaine said sagely. Merlin nodded in agreement, laughing still.

Arthur scowled. "Fine, I remember one my father used to sing."

"Let's hear it, then!" Gwaine said.

"Fine!" Arthur cleared his throat, knowing that later his voice would protest such harsh treatment when there was nothing to drink. He began, softly and self-consciously:

When the nightingale sings,

The trees grow green,

Leaf and grass and blossom springs,

In April, I suppose;

And love has to my heart gone

With a spear so keen,

Night and day my blood it drains

My heart to death it aches.

I have loved all this past year

So that I may love no more;

I have sighed many a sigh,

Beloved, for thy pity,

My love is never thee nearer,

And that me grieveth sore;

Sweet loved-one, think on me,

I have loved thee long.

Sweet loved-one, I pray thee,

For one loving speech;

While I live in this wide world

None other will I seek.

With thy love, my sweet beloved,

My bliss though mightest increase;

A sweet kiss of thy mouth

Might be my cure.

He found that he could not remember the rest, if there was more. As the ringing echoes of his voice faded, Arthur first was aware of Leon's applause. He nodded courteously to him, blushing.

"Very nice, Princess," Gwaine said. "We ought t' have been locked in a tower rather than stuck down 'ere. Then a knight might've come rescue us."

He and Merlin laughed. Arthur sighed as Gwaine thought up another bawdy ballad. It was going to be a long night.