Warning: Torture (not super explicit)
Chapter Nine: Helpless
Gwen knew she was in danger—they all were, weren't they? She had watched, horror in her heart, stomach in her throat, as Wymond had declared his own treachery before the entire court under the guise of protecting it. It was all wrong: Arthur obeying the Commander as though he weren't the king, Merlin kneeling and listless, Elyan held at swordpoint by his brothers-in-arms. That image, that moment, had scared her more than anything. The others Wymond wouldn't kill, not without fanfare. But Elyan, the peasant knight…
She hadn't been able to breathe, watching him, the only blood she had left, her big brother whom she'd missed so much. And there had been so much regret swirling inside her, paralyzed as she was, aching to get past her lips; why had she been so angry with him? Why hadn't she spoken with him, let him make it right? It had been an epiphany, a horrible realization, to know that it might be too late, that he might be killed without knowing how much she loved him. That she might be killed.
"You must leave the citadel," Abigail said, hushed. She and Garrick had ushered Gwen from the throne room as soon as they had been able to, the other servants racing away to attend to their duties. Most knew better than to rebel during a coup: such things only led to deaths. They simply had to trust that their luck would turn, that they wouldn't be under the new tyrant for long. It was almost routine, now, and that thought was sad but at least they were prepared. "They'll be looking for you—you know they will. You can't stay here."
They huddled alone in the servants' quarters, whispering to each other. Garrick stood at the door, watching, and Gwen knew the maid was right. Though Gwen thought of herself as inconspicuous, she knew that if Maverick or Wymond saw her, they wouldn't hesitate to kill or imprison her. Rumors of her affair with Arthur, her connection to Elyan, her closeness with Gaius and Merlin…
"I can't leave, either," she said. "There's no one else." The knights would be in the dungeons (or dead, but she couldn't think like that. Elyan was alive, he had to be. She had to set things right between them, say what she had been too afraid to say). Merlin—something had been so wrong with him. Poison, perhaps, or an illness. Gwen wasn't sure; she hadn't been able to catch a good look, but whatever it was, it had stopped him from using his magic, from speaking out to defend himself and Arthur.
And Arthur had been locked up in his own chambers, made to follow orders as though he wasn't the king.
"What do you mean, there's no one else?" Abigail asked. "You're not a knight, Gwen, or a noblewoman. You have no duty to this place. And I know…" She took a deep breath. "I know your friends are here, your brother, but you shouldn't risk your life for them. It will work out, anyway. Camelot has survived worse."
But even as she said her, she winced, her mouth twitching downward. Gwen knew as well as Abigail that many of their victories over the years had been because of Merlin, who was currently indisposed. Arthur and the knights had played no small part, either, and they weren't going to be any better help.
But what could Gwen even do?
"There's no one else," Gwen repeated, almost sobbing. Abigail frowned but grabbed her hands, gripping them tight with fingers strong from work. The touch was grounding, and Gwen barely stopped herself from dissolving into tears.
"Breathe, Gwen," Abigail said. "Don't cry now; you're not alone. You have us, after all."
"What are three servants going to do?" Gwen asked. It was hopeless. She wasn't a sorceress, wasn't a noble, wasn't anything. What power did she have here? Maybe it would be better to run, run far away from Camelot. But as soon as she thought it, she grew angry with herself: was she a coward, to flee when it looked hopeless?
"I don't know," Garrick said, turning away from the hall, "but we don't have time to figure it out now. If you won't leave, we must find a place to shelter you. You can't stay in the open."
Gwen thought for a moment: where would they never look? And where would no one find her? Even though she wanted to trust the staff, Wymond wouldn't hesitate to threaten them if he thought they were in league with Merlin; not even Arthur had been spared. That ruled out almost every part of the castle—servants worked in all the nooks and crannies of the place.
But there was one…
"The dragon's cave," she whispered. "That's where I'll be." Even though Wymond had the diary, he wouldn't think to look there. And if he did, the place was large enough to house a dragon. There would be spaces to hide. Probably.
"The what?" Abigail said. "A cave? Where?"
"Beneath the castle," Gwen replied. "It's in…" She wasn't sure exactly where—Merlin had been vague in his diary—but she was sure she could find it. Even if she didn't know what to do—what she could do—she was going to try. There really wasn't anyone else. "I'll show you."
"How do you even know about it?" Abigail demanded. "This cave—where, I'm assuming, the dragon was imprisoned."
"You can interrogate her later," Garrick said. "We should go now, before Wymond organizes the guards and gets a hold on everything officially. There won't be any sneaking around then."
"He's right," Gwen said. "I'll tell you later." And she would. Whatever her fears had been before, it didn't matter now. If Abigail and Garrick were going to help her, they would need all of the information she had to give.
She would just have to hope they would forgive her for lying to them about it all.
The world was wrong to Merlin's senses, as though the ground beneath his feet had evaporated into air, and he was falling, and it reminded him of being torn off of the tower by Morgana—except, hadn't he landed already? He couldn't remember; perhaps he had a concussion. There did seem to be a tightness in his head, though he could feel it elsewhere, too: a great constriction around his entire body, as though he'd been buried under the ground. Maybe that was what had happened. He'd landed so hard that they thought he was dead, and so they'd put him in a grave.
"Pay attention," a voice said. Merlin looked to the side, trying to find its owner. Why was it so dark? Maybe it was nighttime—or, no, he was in the dungeons, wasn't he? Arthur had put him in the dungeons, and he'd been left here to rot. Except that didn't seem right either.
"Cold iron isn't supposed to do this, is it?" This was a different voice, but similar. If voices could have brothers, this would've been the other voice's brother. "It's only meant to stop them using their magic."
"I know that," the first voice snapped, and Merlin's eyes finally focused enough to see the owner: gray eyes, graying hair, sturdy build. Oh, it was Wymond—very suspicious, that Wymond. Merlin couldn't recall what he'd done, but he was fishier than Agravaine, and Agravaine was an eel all but physically.
A firm, gloved hand gripped Merlin's chin painfully. He squirmed in his seat—oh, he was sitting down. Why would they give him a chair in the dungeons? "Tell me, sorcerer, what is it that you've done to the king?"
"Nothing," Merlin muttered to the hand. "You did something. Smells bad." Betrayal, that was it, and the stench was rank. Wymond had betrayed Arthur: he'd contacted another kingdom for help behind the king's back. And he'd disrupted the trial, which was very important to both Arthur and Merlin. Especially Merlin.
"He's not in his right mind, sir," the second voice said. "I don't think he's capable of telling us much of anything."
The glove released him, and Merlin's head lolled backward. He was definitely in the dungeons: the walls were dark and damp, with only the flickering of torches for light. But it wasn't a cell… "Well, we can't exactly remove the cuffs, can we? You saw what he did in the courtyard; he'll do the same to us if given half a chance. No, we'll have to do something else. What of the physician?" Wymond again.
"We have yet to determine if he was enchanted, too, or if he was in on the conspiracy," the second voice replied. "Personally, I lean toward the latter: he was known to practice magic prior to the Purge."
"And the king? With his magic bound, surely the enchantment must be faltering by now," Wymond said. An enchantment? On Arthur? Merlin would have to see to that right away; it was his job to break any enchantments placed on the king.
"Not if the magic is in the diary, as you thought, sir," the second voice said.
"Ah, yes, the diary. Conrad did well to bring it to me when he found it in His Majesty's chambers," Wymond said. Conrad, Merlin thought foggily, was one of the guards to regularly watch over Arthur's rooms. Well-trusted and well-respected, he'd been in service for over a decade. Merlin spoke to him often, talking of his wife and son, and Merlin knew him to be a quiet and pleasant fellow, if a bit dull. Did he work for Wymond now?
"That you sent him to search?" The second voice laughed. "Don't think I buy that 'it was just lying around' nonsense; you ordered him to look for something strange, didn't you? And what did you do with the king's new manservant?"
Wymond snorted. "He attended me, of course—far too stupid to realize what this was all about." There was a lull in the conversation, and Merlin realized Wymond was staring at him, his eyes piercing in the gloom. Merlin half expected them to leap from their sockets and skewer him straight through.
"Sharp eyes," he mumbled.
"Even like this, he still appears a fool. No wonder he deceived us, acting as he does," Wymond said. "Did you ever suspect? Magic, in the heart of Camelot…"
"You know I would've told you, sir," the second voice said. "I believed him to be a dullard, same as everyone. A brave dullard, perhaps, to follow the king as he did, but a dullard nonetheless."
"I suppose that's the genius of it," Wymond muttered. "And what say you, sorcerer? Pleased that you were able to lie to us all so easily?"
Merlin tried to move his mouth to say something, to get up, but he couldn't: he couldn't wiggle his fingers or his toes or turn his head properly. He was bound, yes, but it was more than that—it was like he'd gone without oxygen too long, and now starved of it, his body was shutting down. He was shutting down, half-paralyzed, and his eyelids began to close. This was important, whatever was happening here; he knew it. But he couldn't decipher what was going on, as though everything were being spoken in a language he'd never even heard of.
"Don't fall asleep, now," Wymond said, and something stung Merlin's cheek a second after he heard a resounding smack. Merlin jerked involuntarily—he'd been slapped. "We're not done with you yet." The same gloved hand that had gripped his cheek held up his journal: he recognized the worn cover, the pages he'd accidentally spilled wax on, writing by candlelight. "Is this the source of the enchantment on the king?"
"It's no' mine," Merlin slurred. He wasn't supposed to admit to it. His brow furrowed—he'd put his name on it though, hadn't he? Gaius was going to kill him, right after he burned at the stake. That was what this was about; it had to be. They needed him to confess to magic. "I'm notta—a sorcerer."
Wymond flung the book on the ground, and as Merlin's eyes finally focused on something that wasn't him, he realized he was in the torture chambers that led to what was usually the sorcerers' cells. That couldn't be good. "For God's sake—I know you're a sorcerer, and I know you've enchanted the king! Now, you'll tell me if this is the source of the enchantment, or I'll have to start using what's in this room." He stepped back, gesturing to the instruments cast in shadow. "Do you happen to have a preference?"
Not fire, Merlin wanted to say, but he couldn't get the words out. He couldn't get anything out, and as he tried to move, pain seized through him, and he couldn't breathe again—there was a terrible noise—he was suffocating, dying—he had to be, because what else could cause him this much pain—
Something foul-tasting was stuffed into his mouth, and he nearly choked. The noise cut off, and he realized he'd been screaming, and he realized he wanted to scream more. The pain was bone-deep, an agony he couldn't describe. Like being drowned and set on fire and beheaded and split open down the middle all at once. Not that he would know—or did he?
Maybe he was dead, and he was already buried, and now he was a ghost.
He panted through the gag, sweat dripping into his eyes. This had to be some kind of punishment, he thought wildly, punishment from the gods themselves.
"Useless!" Wymond spat. "I'll give you something to scream about, worthless wretch—"
"Commander!" A voice called, and the door on the far side of the chamber opened: it sounded like Conrad. "We searched through all the rooms in the castle—and, it's strange to say, sir, but we've found Lord Agravaine. Two of the king's peasant knights were guarding him in his own chambers." It was nice of him to drop by, Merlin thought, the tension coiled in his spine suddenly easing. Conrad was kind; he wouldn't let anyone hurt the king. He was always so concerned with Arthur's safety.
"I'll attend to it right away," Wymond said. "Maverick, see what you can get out of him."
The door closed, and Merlin was left alone with the second voice.
It was very dark, down in the dragon's cavern. Gwen had no idea why the door hadn't been locked, though she hadn't seen any sign of the guards, which she was thankful for. Perhaps Uther had banned them from coming down this way, for fear that word would get out he had somehow let the dragon escape—not many knew that the creature had been imprisoned here.
Gwen hadn't had the foresight to get a torch, though she'd managed to snatch one of the candles from the servant's chambers before showing Garrick and Abigail where the cave was. She'd only had a faint idea, but she and Arthur had spoken about it at length, which helped.
The two had wanted to come down with her, but Gwen had been firm.
"People know we're friends," she said, looking from Abigail's face to Garrick's. Both were lined with concern, and it looked out of place. Usually their talk was filled with trivial things, gossip about the nobility or their chores. Gwen had never thought to talk with them about more serious topics: her fear of Morgana, her worry about Merlin… And now, having admitted their relationship with her aloud, she realized that perhaps she had been doing them a disservice. "You might be scrutinized, especially if the steward is a traitor, too."
"I doubt it," Garrick said. "He's a bit cowardly, but he likes the king. He won't help overthrow the commander, but he won't stop us, either."
Abigail frowned. "Us? What are we going to do?"
"Let me worry about that," Gwen interrupted before Garrick could reply. The thought of it sent her heart hurtling up to her throat, but she clenched her fists. She had always done what people thought she couldn't; this would be no different. She'd helped Arthur take back Camelot before, had survived so much—Wymond was not the worst thing they'd faced. She could do this, not because she was capable but because there was no other choice.
If Wymond was truly convinced Arthur was enchanted, he would never relinquish the kingdom while the king was intent on legalizing magic. And although Wymond was an excellent military strategist, he was no Arthur; the commander couldn't know the intimate details of running the nation.
"You two go back, and if anyone asks, I fled. Go about your day like normal. Sneak back tonight if you can, or come tomorrow night if you can't. I'll—" She swallowed. "I'll have a plan by then."
"I… You're sure about this?" Garrick asked. "We're with you, Gwen, but we… We have no soldiers, no magic…"
"And I'm going to fix that," Gwen said. She forced herself to meet his eyes, to speak without stammering, though all she wanted to do was sob into someone's arms. That could come later, after she'd done what needed to be done. "I will."
If Abigail had been skeptical earlier, she was incredulous now. But she didn't say anything, simply pressing her lips together. Gwen didn't call her on it; as long as she did what Gwen said, there was no point to starting conflict. She just had to figure out what she needed Abigail to do.
"We'll bring you food tonight," Abigail said, looking into the vast darkness. Gwen could just barely make out the ledge by the light of her candle. "Along with more candles and some blankets," she added, rubbing her arms. It had grown colder, and Gwen knew these caves had to lead to the outside… The dragon had gotten out somehow, after all. And in.
"That would be much appreciated," Gwen said, trying to sound in control. She would not talk more than she needed to, and her voice would not tremble. "You should go now." She schooled her face into something neutral and unafraid; she could already feel the vast darkness pressing against her, like an unwanted stalker, terrifying in its persistence.
Abigail opened her mouth as if to object, but Garrick tugged on her arm. "Come on," he said, and she followed when he pulled her toward the door.
"We'll be back," Abigail called, and the door closed, leaving Gwen down in the huge, rocky prison by herself. She took a deep, shuddering breath, blinking back tears. It was just her—just her in the entire world, it felt like; there was no one else. No one else on her side, no one else here with her.
"Don't cry," she told herself, even as her lips began to tremble. She pressed them together firmly and held up the candle to see her surroundings better, using her other hand to hike up her skirts. She couldn't stay on the ledge: if anyone opened the door, they would see her right away. But the darkness beyond was intimidating, horrifying—who knew what sort of things might be lurking down here? What if Uther had imprisoned more than a dragon?
Gwen shook her head; she was being ridiculous. The stairs were a little off to the right, and they were steep and sharp, the way natural rocks were, as though not many had used them. She kept close to the side, her eyes glued to the path in front of her. It was a miracle Merlin hadn't tumbled down them—he was clumsier than a newborn fawn, with a wide-eyed, innocent expression to boot.
But thinking about Merlin tripping didn't cheer her up because thinking about Merlin meant she was thinking about Merlin now—Merlin, weak in Wymond's grasp… Not for long. Gwen was going to rescue him and Elyan and the entire kingdom. She just had to figure out how.
When she reached the bottom, she only had to walk a little ways before she saw the symbol Merlin must've carved—for the shield, she believed. A Basic Guide to Magicks had an entire chapter dedicated to runes, but she'd only managed to read the first two pages; she hadn't exactly had time for herself lately.
The candle could only catch part of the symbol at a time, the rest obscured in darkness, and Gwen took her time walking around it to drink in the entire thing. Each part revealed itself slowly, as if Gwen were putting the pieces of a ripped-up painting back together, and she couldn't see the entire thing, yet, but she could tell from each of the strokes that it was a masterpiece. It was almost thrilling: this forbidden art, mesmerizing in the soaring lines. Part of her longed, oddly and bizarrely, to be able to create something like it—something beautiful and practical, something that helped.
Like a suit of armor, she thought, then shook her head. She needed resources, not fantasies.
Gwen sat against a stalagmite, shivering a little. She knew she should conserve the candle; if it burned out completely, she wouldn't be able to see the stairs. Still, she was reluctant to dowse her only source of light.
Before she could stop herself, she blew out the small flame and sat in the darkness.
"Resources," she whispered to herself. The quiet spilled around her like the undisturbed water of a lake, and she couldn't cause ripples by speaking too loudly.
She needed men or magic—knights, soldiers, or mages. The knights who might still be loyal to Arthur were at the border on Wymond's orders; even if she could get to them in time to do something, they would never believe her. The king's harlot, the peasant knight's sister, ordering them around? She knew what they thought of her. No, they would sooner hurt her than listen to her.
The soldiers posed a similar issue. Gwen understood that this was how it was often done: whoever had control of the army had control of the kingdom. And currently, the army was dancing to Wymond's tune.
So that left magic. Gwen only knew one mage, and he'd been locked up. If she could get to Merlin, he was powerful enough to take the castle back, especially since he didn't have to do it sneakily. But how could she get in? The guards knew she was his friend; they would never let her in with food. If she could maybe find a less powerful mage, one who could get her into the cells…
It came to her: the druids. They had to be close to the citadel, didn't they? Unless they had used magic to transport themselves, but that was reportedly very taxing and difficult. If Gwen could find one of the druids who had testified, or any at all… Even if they wouldn't help her, perhaps they would know someone who could help, would know something she might do to solve it all.
Well, that simplified things. All Gwen had to do now was sneak out of the city.
Arthur sat at his desk and tried not to think.
His body itched all over, twitching to move, to do something. He wanted to shatter the window, to hurl his crown to the courtyard below, for all the hunk of gold was worth. He wanted to bash the chair he was sitting in against the wall, tear the curtains and sheets from his bed. He wanted to burn his stupid fucking castle to the ground, with Wymond and all his traitourous soldiers trapped inside.
But more than anything else, he wanted to cry, to curl up on the floor and weep because his kingdom had been lost to him yet again, his people—his family, Gwen and his knights and Merlin—in danger.
The king took a deep breath, flexing his hands, trying to work out some of his energy. What could he do? Hope for his knights to come back? For his soldiers to regain their senses? He paced in front of the hearth, scowling. And Merlin—what had been done to him? What of Gwen, and the knights still left in the castle? Elyan, Lancelot, Gwaine, Percival… Would Wymond kill them, all in Arthur's name?
Arthur growled, turning on his heel. It was all a waste, all for nothing, the thinking and feeling was only a replacement for helplessness; he would rot in here, a worthless king. Hardly into his reign at all—he would be known to history as King Arthur Pendragon, the one who could never keep his damn throne.
A knock came at the door, and Arthur looked up. He had no weapons. It had all been stripped from him: Excalibur, his daggers, everything. Wymond knew him too well—had known him since he was a child, watching the petulant prince grow into a hopeless man.
Arthur said nothing, only watching, waiting to see who would be so bold as to visit him here, trapped as he was. He debated bashing them over the head with a chair, trying to stab them with a fire poker, but for what? So they could see how crazed he was—so they could justify locking him up?
The door swung open to reveal Wymond himself, flanked by two guards. Conrad was one—the other was a guard Arthur recognized but couldn't name.
"Greetings, Wymond," the king said. Three against one, and he didn't have anything except a fire poker. He might try to disarm Conrad or the other man, but Wymond's threats to his people still stood. "Tell me, how fares your usurpation of the Crown?"
Wymond shut the door behind him. "Only a temporary regency, your Majesty, I assure you." He flashed his teeth, and it was a wolf's snarl. "How are you? Well cared for?"
"I have yet to be brought my midday meal, if that's what you're after," Arthur said. He sat at his table, gesturing to the chair across from him. He would not be made to sit again, like a child. "Why don't you join me? I assume you came for more than a chat? And Conrad—how are you? Snooped around in any of your other master's chambers lately?"
The guard shifted uncomfortably, which was all the confirmation Arthur needed to know he was right. He'd known Conrad for over a decade, and the man had been stoic but loyal. How could he have done this?
Wymond stood, refusing to engage in the power play. "There's no need to badger the poor fellow, sire. He did his duty—you'll understand that once you're out from under the enchantment's thrall."
"Do you truly believe it?" The king leaned back, resisting every urge he had to spring forward and fight. This wasn't a battle that could be won with fists—not yet, anyway. He had to be poised, in control. "That I'm enchanted? Or is it merely a ploy for the throne, to keep me as your puppet king as you look for the 'cure' to a nonexistent ailment?"
Wymond looked to Conrad and the other guard as if to say see how deluded he is? Arthur gritted his teeth.
"Your Majesty, you must be enchanted. Nothing else makes sense, especially given recent evidence. Else, why hide the sorcerer's journal? Why all of this 'trial' nonsense if you already had a verdict?" The king couldn't tell if he was lying, if this was a front, if he was saying these things only for the benefit of the guards—or if he believed it.
"You have no authority to question me," Arthur said. "But if you must know: I didn't want to cause Merlin further pain." The truth burned his throat, especially to admit it to someone so callus, so uncaring. But perhaps, if Conrad or the other guard spoke of this exchange to the others… "And I wanted people to see, to know—as I know—that magic is not evil. It does no good to change the laws without changing peoples' minds. It was well within my right as king to do as I did."
"Perhaps," Wymond said, looking down at Arthur. The king purposefully relaxed his shoulders, his jaw. "But you have yet to mention Lord Agravaine's place in all of this."
Arthur narrowed his eyes. "What of Lord Agravaine?"
"Only that my men—" The king noticed his careful emphasis on these words— "discovered him, not ill, but locked in his chambers and guarded by two of your most trusted knights. It could only have been on your orders that they did so."
And now Arthur had to worry about Agravaine, too? The man who had let the Sluagh into his citadel, unleashed nightmarish creatures on innocents? "He is a traitor," Arthur said, struggling to hold in his rage. The words spilled from his lips without consulting his mind, the way a river swelled and frothed after heavy rain: "In league with Morgana. The nobility were already stirred from the trial, and I could not risk—" He clamped his mouth shut. He owed Wymond no explanations, especially ones not carefully calculated to make his case. But the thought of his traitorous uncle roaming the castle, free on Wymond's orders…
You're a devilish child.
"And what proof do you have of his treachery?" Wymond asked, eyes piercing. How Arthur hated him, hated that condescending, smug expression, the tilt of the man's mouth. His toes curled in his boots. "As regent, I must now take care of these matters—"
"Oh, you will, will you? You'll take care of traitors?" Arthur said softly.
"Yes, of course. I take my responsibility toward Camelot very seriously, especially since you have taken leave of all your natural senses, replaced by that sorcerer's will." Wymond inhaled through his nose. "But never fear, sire. I will break him, and soon this will all be a bad dream. The traitors who aided and abetted him will be caught and punished." The man was deluded, absolutely mad.
"If you're after traitors, you can start with the one in this room. I believe hanging would be a fitting punishment."
Wymond stared at him. "You'll thank me for this, your Majesty, once you're in your right mind." Thank him for hurting Merlin, hurting his knights, threatening to kill his citizens, in his own name? Thank him for imprisoning Arthur, undermining his authority?
Arthur surged to his feet before he knew what he was doing, the blow whistling past Wymond's face only because the older man lurched backward, nearly tripping. The second guard drew his sword, pointing it at the king. Conrad seemed confused, a dazed look on his face, as though he couldn't believe what was happening.
"The day I thank you will be the day of your execution, traitor. I'll be grateful for you only in death."
"Sire—" Wymond's earlier bravado in the throne room faded to something less than arrogance but still more than confidence, and Arthur's blood bellowed in his ears.
"Get out of my chambers. You've done enough—you've gotten what you came for. Leave." It was a king's voice, a king's command.
"Lord Agravaine—"
"Go! If you are to confine me, at least grant me silence!" Arthur took an empty goblet from off of the table and hurled it at the commander, the man now in charge of all his soldiers. Wymond ducked easily, and Arthur snatched another missile—this time an inkwell. He raised it, a clear threat.
Wymond's lips were a bitter line. "Very well, sire. I will send someone with your meal."
They turned to leave, and Arthur saw something like guilt in Conrad's eyes. He gripped the inkwell tightly.
"Don't bother," Arthur called as the door shut. "I'd rather starve."
The glass shattered in his hand, ink gushing between his fingers like blood.
Abigail and Garrick brought blankets, food, and candles as promised. Gwen had fallen asleep on the ledge waiting for them, and Garrick had almost kicked her in the darkness, dropping a blanket on her head. In hindsight, it had perhaps been stupid to fall asleep there—what if guards had found her?
Gwen sat up. "You're back!" she said, standing. She brushed the dirt from her dress, clutching the blankets close. "What's happened? What does it all look like up there?"
Abigail shook her head. "Nothing good. Wymond's men—I mean the guards, the ones who're on his side—they've searched nearly the entire castle, top to bottom. The knights still loyal to the king have been locked up, along with the sorcerer, Merlin I mean. The nobility are trapped in their rooms. Everything's stopped."
"No one's made any noise, yet," Garrick said. "Nothing we've heard, anyway. Everyone's keeping their head down."
"That's good." Gwen shook one of the blankets out and wrapped it around her shoulders, chilled from her time in the cave. That meant Wymond either wasn't planning on killing anyone, or he was waiting to make his move. For more information, maybe? Gwen couldn't be sure. Wymond was a commander of the army; she didn't know how she was going to predict his moves. If such a thing were possible. "The exits—tell me, is the citadel more heavily guarded? The castle?"
Garrick nodded as Abigail pulled things from her basket—cheese, bread, a few apples, a waterskin. "Yes, though everyone's stretched thin. I've no idea where the rest of the guards are, but the ones still here are everywhere. No one is allowed in or out—no couriers, no merchants. You can imagine that nobody's pleased," he said. "It's a nightmare. And from one of our own…"
Garrick was older than Gwen; his memories of Wymond were likely clearer. Gwen could only ever remember a time when Arthur was the one leading the soldiers—everything before that was blurry with childhood. The commander had left no distinct impression on her.
"So—you don't think you could sneak me out, then?" she asked.
Abigail froze, a candle still in her hand. "Gwen… How? Everywhere is being watched, and if we're caught…"
"I understand. I wouldn't ask that of you." Gwen pulled the blanket tighter around herself. She would have to figure it out on her own, then.
"I thought you weren't keen on leaving," Garrick said.
Gwen pressed her lips together, considering. "I need to find the druids. I can't convince the soldiers or the knights—so they're the only ones who might have enough power to help. Camelot is weak to magic; they shouldn't have problems overtaking it if I can convince them."
"And you're so sure you can trust them?" Abigail demanded. She stood from where she'd been crouching and unloading everything to look Gwen in the eye. Candlelight flickered off of her red hair. "Merlin was your friend; I understand that, truly. But the druids…"
"They're a peaceful people," Gwen said, suddenly tired. A great weight pressed against her shoulders, her neck, like the very air had turned to lead around her. "I am not frightened of magic, not anymore than I'm frightened of good steel."
A moment passed, Abigail watching her carefully.
"How did you know of this place?" Garrick finally asked.
"I read of it," Gwen replied, "in Merlin's diary." Abigail opened her mouth, but Gwen held up her hand. "I can explain. Arthur found the diary… weeks ago, though it feels like years. He was so confused when he read it that—well, he asked me to read it with him, in secret. So I did, and I did my own research, too. I will tell you both: there is nothing to fear from magic, only from magic misused." She reached forward to grip their hands. "I am sorry for having lied to you; the king asked me to keep it secret, for Merlin's sake and for the sake of the trial. Can you forgive me?"
Garrick swallowed, but he squeezed her hand. "There is nothing to forgive."
Abigail withdrew her own and pulled Gwen into a hug, her body warm but firm. "Oh, you poor thing. Does the king think nothing of burdening you with such grand state secrets? No wonder you believe you must do something about all this." Gwen tucked her head against Abigail's shoulder, trying not to cry. They stood there a moment, soaking in each other's comfort, before the redhead patted her back briskly and pushed her away.
"I still must go," Gwen told them, wiping her eyes. Both pretended not to see. "Duty or no, I would not be able to live with myself if I didn't try."
"Do you even know where the druids went?" Garrick asked.
That was a good point. "No," Gwen said. "I don't. But they must be somewhere nearby; it hasn't been long since they gave their testimony, and the king made it clear they weren't to be persecuted. I'm sure they lingered for supplies, protection—to see if he spoke true, at least. And if I can find them, I'm sure I can convince them."
"But first you must get out." Abigail rubbed her chin. "The other servants are too frightened, and you're too deep within the castle—someone would certainly see you, and we can't be sure they wouldn't run to Wymond."
"There might be another way," Gwen said. "The dragon—it escaped from here somehow."
"Yes, and I imagine it escaped through a large hole in the ceiling, miles from here." Garrick pointed above them. "Or else Uther would've sealed this off—it's a breach of security."
Gwen bit her lip. "Uther wasn't always rational when it came to such things. And perhaps if you fetched me a rope…" But what did she know of climbing stone walls? Nothing. Her lip began to ache. And Garrick was right: the entrance would have to be far from here, or else everyone would know where it was. Unless, of course, the dragon had disguised it with some kind of magic… Dammit—none of it made sense. If only she could talk to Merlin or Arthur or someone who would know more…
"There's nothing for it," she decided. "I'll try to find the entrance from here, and if I can't, you'll have to sneak me out."
"Or you do nothing and wait for the situation to resolve itself," Abigail countered. "Gwen, this is not your job, your responsibility. I know you're close with the king and your brother, but you don't owe anything to Camelot beyond what you've already given it. We're only servants. You are only a servant."
Gwen tried to imagine what giving up would look like: staying down here for days, weeks, months, as her friends and her brother were killed or worse… Curled up listlessly, doing nothing, feeling nothing, in this cold, dark place…
She shivered.
"Thank you for the supplies," she said. She'd slept, and she didn't feel the need to bed down for the night. There wasn't any natural light to denote the time; in fact, if she found the entrance, it might be better to have discovered it in darkness. "I'm going to find a way out through the caves—if I don't come back within the week, don't look for me." She swallowed. No one would find her if she got lost down here; she would be wandering forever, entombed.
"You can't," Garrick said. "Abigail's right—this isn't your—"
"Sometimes duty goes beyond mere obligation," Gwen snapped. "I have not asked you to go beyond yours, and I would ask that you respect my decision to go beyond mine. It is my duty, regardless of job; Camelot is my home. Wymond has my brother, my friends. I will not be dissuaded. I am going to find the entrance, and I am going to get help, one way or another. I ask nothing of you, save supplies."
"You truly mean to take back Camelot—on what? Sheer determination? This is madness, Gwen—"
"Don't tell me what I can and cannot do." Gwen straightened her spine and grasped Abigail by the shoulders. "You are a dear friend, and I would hate to see you hurt. Go now, before they miss you. Come back in a week's time with more supplies: this should last me that. If I am successful, I will be waiting with a band of druids." If there was a way out, after all, there would be a way back in.
"And if you are not?" Garrick asked. Gwen let go of Abigail and pulled him into a brief hug.
"If I am not, say goodbye to Elyan for me, should you get the chance."
Pain. A full-body ache, with pin-points of fire. His fingernails—something about his fingernails. Merlin let his head loll downward: there they were, on his right hand. One, two, three… Hm. There should've been more than three. He whimpered, noise muffled by the gag. It tasted like salt, sweat and tears running down his face.
Merlin saw cherry-red forceps, heated by flame, wavering in his vision… Someone demanded he tell them the source of the enchantment… Agony flared on the tip of his pinkie, his ring finger, lasting for eternity, stretched all around him…
No, that had already happened, hadn't it? There were no forceps, anymore. No voices. The Wymond-brother had left him here. Alone? Merlin willed himself to move, to try to… escape. That was it—he needed to escape because he was in the dungeons.
But hadn't Arthur put him in the dungeons? Wasn't it part of the plan for him to stay? But then—Arthur would never hurt him; Arthur had held him, had been gentle with him. He wouldn't have done this…
Merlin blinked, trying to keep his eyes open. He couldn't tell what was wrong with him, only that something was. The edges of his vision shimmered like a heat haze, the torture chamber blurring around him. Like a mirage, an anti-oasis: Merlin was seeing a hell, not a paradise.
Something slammed outside, toward the direction of the regular cells.
"Unhand me! I am the king's uncle—not a traitor! You said yourself Arthur's mind is addled by magic—"
"I must investigate further, Lord Agravaine. For now, you will be accommodated here." Wymond, words cool, unfeeling. "I have yet to determine whether the king's accusation is due to the sorcerer or because you really are a traitor."
Takes one to know one, Merlin thought. He twitched, sending flares of pain down his missing fingernails. They throbbed in time to his heartbeat, blood pumping. There should've been something else pumping, something like blood, nestled next to his heart, flowing, running through his muscles and veins—
He coughed and heard another voice. It was familiar, but not Wymond's or Agravaine's or the man who had hurt him.
Merlin! Merlin—speak to me, young warlock.
Speak. He couldn't; he was gagged, wasn't he? He groaned quietly in the back of his throat, except he knew he wasn't supposed to use his voice to speak. But that didn't make any sense—how else was he meant to reply to the voice?
Who has done this to you? I cannot feel your magic.
Merlin tried to think words back, but they jittered and fell apart inside his head like a dome made of pudding. The voice was a friend, weren't they? Not like Wymond or Agravaine or the man who had hurt him. He knew it.
Coup—a coup… Cold iron… He sent it feebly, every inch of his skin burning, blistering. His magic: that was what was gone, an emptiness, a hollowness, like his bones had been sucked right out of him, leaving nothing but a useless mass of flesh—
Merlin, you must let me into the citadel. You need to rescind your orders, so I might come to your aid. I fear you will die if you are left like this much longer—
The warlock laughed. Did the dragon—he realized who it was now, that breathy, smoky voice, like crackling coals—think he was that stupid? Kilgharrah wasn't allowed in. He'd hurt people last time: killed people, destroyed their homes, their livelihoods…
"No," Merlin tried to say, forgetting that he wasn't supposed to use his mouth to speak. The gag made the noise meaningless anyway.
A great change is upon us, young warlock: the culmination of all that you have worked for. I can feel it—it is not yet your time. Order me to come to you!
Merlin's memories summoned up the thick stench of smoke, the heavy heat, the bright light of white-blue flame, burning hot from the dragon's mouth, hide glistening like gold.
I will not attack. The voice turned pleading. Let me come to your aid as I have before.
He remembered those same flames turned on him, a healing warmth, better than any of Gauis's bitter tinctures, curling up under a great wing, clutched carefully in giant claws…
You should not, he managed to say. He thought of Arthur riding out in armor, lance in hand, ready to slay the beast. Arthur's face flickered, replaced by Wymond's. Did Arthur know of Kilgharrah? Merlin couldn't remember. Where was he? When was he? Do not come, he ordered. Stay away. Cold iron on his wrists—that was what Wymond had said, or perhaps the other voice—Merlin remembered those great chains keeping the dragon from flying to freedom. Were there more? Could they be reforged?
I do not wish to be alone again, the dragon practically begged. Their connection wavered, not quite magic but not quite not magic, either. Merlin must be in bad shape, then; Kilgharrah was haughty, prideful, a greedy old beast by anyone's standards. The warlock had never heard him sound so desperate, tone leaking with despair, fear racing along their link, barely suppressed. The dragon was terrified.
Then stay with me, Merlin said. The words came easier, although the metal on his wrists tingled, as though unsure if they should be punishing him for speaking with Kilgharrah mind-to-mind, as close to magic as one could get without truly touching it.
I fear you will fall asleep. Something like dread crept into the dragon's tone, as though he feared something worse. Tell me what has transpired to have left you like this, young warlock. Tell me how you bested the witch…
The boy who brought Arthur's lunch wasn't anything like George, though he was oddly familiar. He wore rough clothes, haircut scraggily, the makings of a patchy beard on his chin—although his large ears reminded Arthur of Merlin's. Upon closer inspection, he didn't appear to be an actual boy: this impression was given by his hunched shoulders, creeping up to those large ears.
He set the tray down silently in front of Arthur, moving back to let him eat.
"Where is George?" Arthur asked, not bothering to even look at the food. He wasn't about to be made a liar. The ink and glass remained on the floor, a dark puddle, but the servant didn't even glance at it, nor at the stain on Arthur's hand.
"The dungeons, sire." He should've known. He hoped Wymond wouldn't kill the man; George was irritating, but he was loyal and Arthur couldn't stand the idea of the servant being murdered because of it.
The king squinted. "I don't recognize you as one of our staff, although you look familiar. Tell me, servant, what's your name?" He had to be a spy for Wymond—the man wouldn't have sent any other kind of servant to Arthur.
"Er, Gilli, your Majesty," the man said, bowing a little. He looked like he didn't know what to do with his hands, and they twitched at his sides. "I'm, uh, not one of the permanent staff at the castle—not usually, anyway. I mean, I was just hired as a stablehand. Rather, I was a courier, but the others sort of, well, no one wanted to bring you your lunch, sire. On account of what has happened to your previous servants."
"Hmm." So the new man was stuck with the task, then. "And why have you remained in the castle, courier? What kingdom did you come from—did you not have to bring a message back to them?" Perhaps this man could be persuaded, then. Arthur knew the value of a good servant. If nothing else, Gilli could bring him back information, so long as Wymond didn't catch him at it. Arthur's ex-commander had never paid special attention to the staff before; though with both Merlin and George now in the dungeons…
"Er, um, er—" Gilli went bright red, inching toward the door.
"Sit," Arthur invited. "Eat. I'm not hungry." He gestured at his customary place at the table, sitting next to it.
Gilli glanced at the door and then the window before finally deciding that disobeying a king's orders wouldn't be good—even a king trapped in his own chambers.
"Go on." Arthur leaned forward, making a shooing motion with his hand. "You look hungry. Do we not feed you?"
"Er, you do, sire. Or rather, the steward has given me food and accommodations." The courier-turned-servant made no move to start eating. "I've always been thin."
"Hm." Arthur debated asking him questions, but perhaps that would reveal his hand too early. Perhaps Gilli was lying, and he really had been sent by Wymond. But he would be a phenomenal actor if so: the man could barely make it through a sentence. Still, if he was easily frightened, he might cave to Wymond's threats regardless of whether he was loyal to the Crown. "Go on," Arthur repeated. "Don't make me say it thrice. King's orders—it will only go to waste, otherwise."
It was an obvious tactic—but then, servants weren't often trained in negotiations.
"Right, sire," Gilli muttered. He slowly started to eat, though he hardly looked at his plate—instead, he kept glancing at Arthur, as though expecting the king to say, Actually, I'm going to have you arrested for daring to eat at my own table.
A few years ago, he might have. He would never have let a servant near his food, except to bring it to him. But if there was anything Arthur had learned, it was that a person caught more flies with honey than with vinegar, and a carrot was more motivating than a whip.
"If you will not speak of your previous employment, then tell me what you do now—besides serving indisposed kings, of course." He needed to know what Wymond was up to, what this man could tell him of his knights, of Merlin, of Agravaine… Was his uncle using this opportunity to turn Wymond's ear? To escape the citadel, straight back to Morgana? Arthur almost growled at the thought.
"You know, he's not anything like you said he'd be," the man muttered, twisting the ring on his finger. It glinted in the light, and Arthur finally remembered where he'd seen him. The realization struck him all at once.
"You're the one who brought me Excalibur!" he exclaimed, jumping to his feet. The chair grated on the floor as it was pushed back. "You're not a courier at all." Arthur glanced at the door—he couldn't make too much noise or the guards would investigate. "Who the hell are you, really? And how do you know Merlin?" It couldn't be a coincidence: Gilli had come to him on purpose, new guy or not.
Gilli sprang back, away from Arthur, his hand raised in a very deliberate—and very threatening—gesture. When he caught the king looking, he lowered it. "I—I'm no one, sire. I just—I have to go. The steward—"
The king lunged, catching Gilli's wrist. "You're a sorcerer, then," he hissed, brain racing. "I thought Merlin would've hired an actual courier to deliver the sword, disguised himself as a nobleman… But he just asked you, didn't he?"
"Let go of me!" Gilli whispered back, wrenching himself away. Arthur let him go, and he watched in amazement as the man almost transformed before his eyes: standing straighter, looking him in the eyes, hands half-up. Were all sorcerers so good at acting? Or was Arthur just unobservant when it came to those with magic? "Yes, alright, I know Merlin. I owed him a favor—'just give him the sword, Gilli,' 'Arthur's bark is worse than his bite, I promise'—and then those things came from the sky, and I got trapped here, and then the stupid lout went and got himself arrested!" He narrowed his eyes at Arthur, peered at his empty hands. "You're not going to try and kill me, are you?"
"Of course not," Arthur said. He took a few steps back; he could tell when someone was jumpy. "Don't be stupid—magic was supposed to be legal in a few days' time anyway." He rubbed his chin. This changed things. He had an ally with magic inside the castle. "Tell me, what is going on? Do you know anything about Merlin? My knights? Agravaine?"
"I haven't exactly been gallivanting about, sire," Gilli said. "Merlin's unreachable. I've tried to contact him with…"
Arthur waved a hand. "With magic, yes."
"Right. He's not answering." That wasn't good. Arthur knew that Wymond had done something to Merlin, but this meant it was interfering with Merlin's magic. "Your knights have all been locked up. And I've no idea who Agravaine is, if that helps."
"My uncle," Arthur said, scowling. He appraised Gilli—he didn't have the look of a fighter, but then neither had Merlin. And just how trustworthy was the man? Merlin had believed in him enough to include him on a scheme; that had to count for something. "Can you fight?"
"I'm not going to become your bloody soldier, if that's what you're asking," Gilli muttered. The attitude difference was truly astounding—from stammering stableboy to irritated sorcerer. "Though you're a lot nicer than I thought you'd be. Sire." He said the last part almost begrudgingly, unwillingly, and Arthur wasn't sure whether or not this pleased him. Kings weren't exactly praised for their niceness. Uther would've had someone beheaded if they'd called him nice.
"Are all sorcerers as insolent as you and Merlin, or do I just have poor luck?" Arthur asked, then shook his head. "It doesn't matter—are you willing to help Merlin? Can you get him out of the dungeons?"
"Past all those guards? Not by myself," Gilli replied. He stepped forward, almost tentatively. "Are you really planning on legalizing magic, sire?"
"Yes, of course I am. I'm assuming you can't do lightning, then. Or fire." Arthur ticked those off his fingers. "What can you do?"
"What was that whole trial thing for, then?" Gilli demanded, crossing his arms. "And locking Merlin up in the dungeons—"
"For show. Now, do you want to help me get my kingdom back or not?"
Gilli scowled. "I'm not like him. When you say jump, I'm not about to ask you how high. Merlin and I are even—I'm not even sure why I came to this God-forsaken place. You're not a liar it seems, but I can't help you."
Was that what the other sorcerers thought of him, then? As a liar—a man who would legalize magic—to what? Trap them, arrest them? Arthur tried not to become mad, nearly trembling from the effort of it, tried not to get on his knees and beg. This might be his one chance of getting information, of having someone on the inside. "Why did you bring me my lunch, if not to help me?"
Gilli shrugged. "Curiosity, I suppose. I'm sorry, sire—I'm not the all-powerful mage you're looking for. I can't help you." The man didn't understand: one person could make all the difference, if they were the right person.
"If you can't do much magic, fine. At least bring me information—for Merlin, if nothing else. He will die. Others will die, Gilli," the king said. "If they haven't already." Couldn't he understand what this meant, how important this was? And he had come to Arthur, for what? Nothing, except to satisfy some trivial urge.
Gilli shook his head. "People die all the time, and Merlin and I—we're even." He said the words again, slowly, as though tasting them, mulling them over, affirming them. The king sensed his chance slipping away through his fingers.
"I can give you riches, lands, a title. Anything. I need you only to bring me word of what's going on. Surely you don't want to be trapped here with a tyrant." Arthur tried to keep the desperation from his voice. Here was a man he could be certain was not on Wymond's side, but it seemed he wasn't on Arthur's side, either. Not even on Merlin's side, or magic's side; this was a man who looked out for himself above everything else.
"I have been trapped by tyrants all my life, sire." The sorcerer gave him a long look—not sad or angry, only long. Seconds spiraled between them that felt like centuries. "I need to go now. Lord Wymond will become suspicious if I'm here too long."
Gilli bowed, took the partially-eaten tray, and left.
All Arthur could do was watch.
AN: Sorry this is so late! I make no promises for when the next chapter will come out, though you can check my profile for progress updates. College is killing me. I hope you enjoyed!
Alternatively:
Arthur: Wymond made me sit last chapter, so today I make everyone sit! :[[ Who's the usurper now?