Emrys took care of Mordred as he stormed through the woods aimlessly. Tree roots sunk a little deeper into the earth so as not to trip him, bushes curled their thorns away from his delicate flesh, and paths miraculously parted in the undergrowth to steer him away from precarious ledges. The spirit of Emrys was aware of Mordred in its veins as it was aware of everything. While Mordred found his way to the falls, a hummingbird's eggs were hatching on the other side of the forest. The pack of white wolves Emrys had sheltered from hunters were examining the knights' abandoned camp, nosing through their provisions. Emrys hummed with amusement, and a field of clover bloomed.
Emrys, like any force of the earth, did not have a rationale for its laws, nor was it bound by them. It simply did as it did for millenia, changing only to flatter Destiny and court Balance. Emrys was the ebb and flow of magic. It concerned itself with human matters only insofar as reclaiming its own matter. As the ocean rises into the clouds, so the rains fall into the rivers and return to the ocean. Mordred's little prince himself was born of magic - they all were, one way or another, and they forgot, with their clocks and candle marks and calendars.
Balance prevails, always. Magic flows from Emrys, magic must return to Emrys.
Balance is, by definition, a give and take. A comet struck the earth and froze it, but life returned warm-blooded. The dragons were slaughtered, and their arcane magic returned to Emrys, but the forest became hostile and violent. The High Priestesses were burned, and Emrys grew stronger still, but their unrestful magic poisoned the waters. Emrys, who had only ever known the language of the Land, learned to speak like a druid, then like a man. Emrys wore the vessels of animals and learned the names of inconsequential human kings. Emrys was filled with the most power it had in centuries; Emrys was more vulnerable than it had been in centuries. To be infused with the trivialities of mortality is to be fallible. Balance had returned twisted, unrestful magic to Emrys, and Destiny had preserved in it the bitterness of the mages and the austerity of the dragons and the terror of the druids. And there, then, in the bark of the old yew where a dragon's soul grew, impatience . For the first time, Emrys felt time.
Even as the knights picked their way back to their camp, families of druids that had fled Camelot at the tip of their swords relaxed in a nearby river. Down by the waterfall, Mordred was lying down in the soft moss, slow with exhaustion. In the swaying stalks of sugarcane, the Priestesses whispered sweetly.
Where is the Balance? Balance has Given our power so Emrys may Take.
Yes, a dragon in the soot of a campfire, Only Kilgharrah remains. Take.
A young druid girl, her weak magic driving the flutter of a rabbit's heart.
Take. To Give you must Take.
Emrys made a decision. Well, it made a decision in the manner age-old spirits made decisions, which is to say, it didn't make one at all. A decision to Emrys was not walking down a path, but creating the crossroads.
When Mordred woke from his impromptu nap, he groaned at the light hitting his eyes through the canopy. His head was throbbing something fierce, and he was parched. He slowly drew himself up, looking around with squinted eyes.
It was a beautiful clearing, lush with green grass and delicate wildflowers. And not too far away, a stream bubbled along happily, the water clear and glittering in the fading sunlight. A little further up, Mordred saw a little waterfall...how had he gotten here?
All of a sudden, the memories rushed back. Cenred's men, his outburst. Storming away from the others. He remembered them through a strange fog, much like he felt when he drank too much ale, but he hadn't had anything to drink. Had Emrys actually enchanted him?
We must find the source and destroy it.
Arthur's words echoed in Mordred's mind, and he felt the same concoction of anger and disappointment and shame. Not an enchantment, then. Why did he feel like he'd spent the night out at the tavern?
Well, nevermind. Mordred had bigger things to worry about. Like what he was going to do about Arthur and the others. Mordred felt like his soul was tearing in half. He had liked, even admired Arthur. But that was because he'd allowed himself to become swept up in Camelot and blinded himself to the atrocities he benefited from. Were they really his friends if they would burn him at the stake? Could they ever change?
We must find the source and destroy it.
A burst of panic exploded in his chest. He'd left them alone. They were out in the Forest of Emrys somewhere, looking for something to destroy! The forest was filled with magic - what if they actually managed to kill something? What if his naivete led to the destruction of Emrys?
"Oh gods...Emrys…" he groaned, dropping his head in his hands. He'd led them right into a veritable font of magic, to a benevolent spirit who had promised to protect them. What if Emrys would not defend itself?
Mordred , Emrys responded. Startled, Mordred shot upright, his heart pounding.
"I'm sorry…" he sighed deeply, "I'm sorry for bringing them here."
What am I to do with your apology?
Mordred stiffened.
"Is it unforgivable? I…"
There is nothing to forgive , Emrys said, but there is still much to be done.
"I...What would you have me do?" Mordred asked.
I give no orders, Mordred. You chose this task for yourself.
"I don't understand."
Why is Pendragonson here? Why do I protect he who is determined to destroy me?
Mordred made a frustrated noise.
You know the answer, Mordred. I will help you, but it is not I who has the ear of the prince.
Why protect him? Why not let Arthur die? The rage burning in Mordred simmered into a sour resentment. More than resentment for Arthur, Mordred felt resentment for himself. He could not be Arthur's friend anymore, it would be unbearable for his own peace of mind.
But what was Mordred's peace of mind for hundreds of lives that could be saved if Arthur was swayed?
Something clicked in his mind, and Mordred felt certain he knew what the spirit meant. Arthur had shown nothing but suspicion and hostility towards Emrys, but Mordred was one of his knights. Mordred had foolishly hoped that Arthur would come to see the beauty of pure, benevolent magic on his own, or that Emrys could change his mind. It all came from a place of denial, he realised - if he shifted responsibility onto Emrys, he could no longer be blamed for standing aside and doing nothing while his kin were hunted. But his complicity was now clear in his mind - he had to act.
Letting Arthur die was, of course, an option. If Mordred failed to restore his faith that Arthur would one day change Camelot for the better, he would wipe out the Pendragon line. With his heir gone, Uther's reign would be weakened. A sudden, utopic vision of Camelot under Morgana's rule flashed through Mordred's mind, but he cleared his mind of it. The nobility would never allow Morgana to take the throne, and he had no army to compel them. No, Arthur was still the best option as of now.
But what was he to do? If he approached this wrong, he'd lose Arthur's ear and his trust and it would all amount to nothing anyway. In that case, Mordred was a traitor to his people and a failure both. He could stay in Emrys, but then what of his kin dying outside? Were they all to simply concede the land to Pendragon and hide in other kingdoms and in magical forests? Concede a land that had ancient magic fossilised in its very foundation?
Mordred slowly made his way over to the stream. The water was clean and cold, and felt heavenly as he drank. Right now, Arthur thought Mordred was enchanted or cursed by something in the forest. If he went back to camp and tried to convince them, they wouldn't believe a word he said.
Feeling lost in more ways than one, Mordred looked around for some sort of clue, some sort of sign. He looked in the direction he'd come, and vaguely remembered that he'd walked a thin dirt trail, but he couldn't find it. He walked around the treeline, but no path called to him. Finally, he returned to the stream. A fish swam up and kissed the water's surface, swimming down and away with the current.
Well, Mordred needed more time to come up with some sort of plan, anyway. Might as well explore the most magical place in all the lands while he was at it. Feeling a pull, Mordred took off his boots and socks, rolled up his trousers and waded into the water. The press of the current parted around his ankles, gently inviting him to follow.
Was this pull downstream his own impulse, or a guiding hand of Emrys? What did Emrys mean, when it said it would help him? Was this part of the plan?
"What do I do?" he asked the sky. Emrys didn't respond.
Mordred sighed, took one last look around, and set off with the current. He strolled slowly downstream, the setting sun warmed his skin and cleared his mind. His anxieties receded with every step. The sounds of the forest gradually returned. Tentatively, while he was alone, Mordred allowed himself to enjoy the wonder of Emrys again.
"Keep going, Anwen! Hold it!"
Mordred startled. He searched for the source of the sound, but couldn't see anything. Curious, he followed the sound of voices around the bend.
Standing on the banks in front of the stream was what looked like a druid family, practicing magic. Two small boys were sitting in the stream, playing and splashing each other. A round man with greying hair was demonstrating a stance for a young girl, whose eyes were shining gold. Before her, a rock about the size of her head hovered in the air. Mordred gasped in delight.
It had been so long since he'd seen open, joyful magic. Mordred felt a grin grow on his face. He started walking towards them again, raising his hand in a friendly wave.
"Hello!"
The girl dropped the rock, and it landed in the stream with a loud splash. They looked over in surprise. For a split second, the older man looked afraid. Mordred realised with a lurch that he was still in his Camelot colours. He bit down on the cresting shame and regret. Ready to apologise and back away, Mordred timidly looked back up at them, but to his astonishment, the fear was gone. They were all smiling. Mordred knew they must feel the same conviction that he did - Emrys would never allow them to come to harm. He felt vindicated, understood. Take that, Arthur. The older man took a few steps toward him, beckoning warmly. His daughter, uninterested in the newcomer, returned to her magic practice.
"Welcome, brother!" he greeted in a deep voice, "Welcome to Emrys!"
"Thank you," he enthused, "My name is Mordred."
"I am Gethin, and these are my children. Anwen," he gestured to the young girl, who was absorbed in perfecting her stance, "and Hefin and Hywel." The little boys waved cheerfully.
Father, look!
Mordred and Gethin turned to see Anwen steadily holding the rock high in the air with her magic, stance strong and joy written on her face. Gethin clapped enthusiastically.
Wonderful!
She's skilled for her age, you must be a good teacher, Mordred chimed in, unsure of how Gethin would react, but desperate to speak to someone in the way of his childhood. The other man whipped his head around in surprise, then smiled broadly, the corners of his eyes crinkling.
A knight of Camelot and a sorcerer?
A druid.
Gethin laughed delightedly, a booming sound.
Well met, Mordred! You have a taste for danger. Come, sit, tell us your story.
Faced with the sight of a happy druid family, celebrating magic with pride and reverence, Mordred felt hopeful and safe. He followed Gethin over to the children and sat beside him.
For what felt like hours, long, blissful hours, Gethin and Mordred spoke about everything from magic and Emrys to the children and the druid camp. He learned that there were a great many settlements in Emrys, composed of a mix of druids and sorcerers from throughout the lands, and the one Gethin and his family lived in was the smallest. Gethin told him of powerful sorcerers who lived nearby in cosy little wooden cottages, and how they made medicines and harvest potions for the druids in exchange for company and produce. He told him that many of the animals in the forest were friendly with people, as if they were domesticated. Mordred delighted over the knowledge that druid festivals were celebrated openly and exuberantly with all of the inhabitants of Emrys, even the ones who were not druids. With every word that Mordred heard about the forest from Gethin, his elation and excitement returned. He felt astonishingly comfortable with this man he'd only just met. It was refreshing. It was liberating.
You must come stay with us tonight! The others will love to meet you, Gethin enthused when the sun began to set.
You are the first I have met here, Mordred admitted, I wasn't sure if I would see anyone at all...
Gethin seemed to understand that he was referring to his association with Camelot, because he nodded solemnly. He clapped Mordred on the shoulder.
There are many of our people here. You are with family, now.
The words filled him with emotion, the multitude of feelings he'd had to tamp down during his time in Camelot. Our People. Family. He didn't deserve such comfort.
You would accept me so easily? Mordred asked shakily, unable to look Gethin in the eyes.
Emrys has seen good in you, Gethin responded easily, No man is shunned for the colours he wore outside. Not here.
I betrayed our people...I didn't just wear these colours, I wore them with pride. I stood by and watched people die, I abandoned The Old Religion…
To Mordred's horror, he felt tears welling up in his eyes. His armour was heavy on his shoulders, it had been buoyed by pride and ignorance, but now he felt the full weight of it.
That may be, Gethin acknowledged, But Emrys has given you a chance to atone, and he has brought you back to us. You will restore the balance in your soul, Mordred. Have faith!
"Thank you," Mordred choked aloud, unable to stop the tears from falling.
Then, looking up at the sky, he said again, "Thank you."
Meanwhile, the Knights of Camelot had returned to find that their camp had been ravaged.
"What happened here?" Elyan gasped, examining his destroyed pack sadly. Gwaine picked his way to the edge of the clearing, bending down to look at something in the dirt. Tracks, and distinctive ones.
"Wolves."
Arthur huffed and angrily kicked a stone off into the trees. The others startled at the outburst, Lancelot and Percival sharing a meaningful look.
"Wonderful! Just what we needed! Magic wolves!"
The prince was seething. Everything that could possibly go wrong on this quest had gone wrong. Usually, Arthur was cool headed in a crisis, but Mordred's ire struck deeper than anything Cenred's men could say. Something about his words rang with truth, like he really believed them, like contempt had truly brewed in a man Arthur considered a friend. Mordred was enchanted, or cursed. There was no way he was sound of mind. Otherwise, the rest of his friends- No. He shook his head firmly. Mordred was ensorcelled - he had to be.
"Simmer down, princess," Gwaine rolled his eyes. Arthur spun around to face him, eyes burning. The others winced in pre-emptive sympathy for the hiding Gwaine was sure to receive. Pointedly ignoring Arthur and his temper, Gwaine continued.
"I'm pretty certain normal wolves scavenge for food, too. Not discounting magic, of course, but I reckon magic wolves would do a little more than eat Leon's jerky."
"My jerky?" Leon blurted out, making for his pack before he caught himself. Gwaine snickered. Leon rubbed the back of his neck in embarrassment, but laughed along with him, causing the others to join in.
"Alright," Arthur growled, and the laughter instantly died down. The other knights watched their prince warily.
"Alright," Arthur repeated. He took a few deep breaths and composed himself, "Let's salvage what we can, find Mordred, break the enchantment and get out of here."
All but Percival managed to contain their sighs of relief as the tension broke. They'd experienced Arthur's volatility often and viscerally.
"How will we find the source of the enchantment in a forest full of magic, sire?" Elyan asked.
"We'll find it. We have to."
"Perhaps we can negotiate with Emrys, get it to release him," Leon suggested.
"Or at least get some information out of it," Arthur agreed, "Good thinking, Leon."
"What do you believe the nature of the enchantment is?" Lancelot asked hesitantly, "None of us were affected, and it didn't seem to do much to Mordred besides..."
"Make him boiling mad," Percival supplied.
Gwaine sighed.
"Did you ever stop to consider that perhaps Mordred isn't enchanted at all?"
Arthur gaped. Elyan elbowed Gwaine in the side.
"Do you want him to throw things at us?!" he hissed.
"Yes, it's really quite rousing," Gwaine snarked back.
"I suggest you explain yourself, Gwaine," Arthur said dangerously.
"Sire, Mordred's a druid. He was raised in the ways of the Old-"
"But magic is-"
"Yes, evil and all that. I know that's what you believe, but it isn't illegal to disagree. Do you think Mordred is a sorcerer?"
"Of course not!"
"Then what has he done wrong besides hurt your feelings?"
"Gwaine!" Elyan yelped. Gwaine looked around to gauge the other men's reactions. Lancelot looked pensive.
"I've never heard Mordred speak like that before," Arthur insisted, "It isn't in his nature."
What do you know of Mordred's nature? Gwaine scoffed internally.
"Well...I have no doubt Mordred knows it's dangerous to disagree with the crown, sire," Lancelot said slowly, turning the matter over in his mind, "Perhaps he's felt this way all along."
"Exactly," Gwaine nodded, sounding just a bit too pleased. In a moment of clarity, Arthur turned discerning eyes on Gwaine, all the anger and outrage set aside.
"That's how you feel."
The men fell into a tense silence. They all looked to Gwaine, who looked away.
"And if I do? Will you think me enchanted, too?"
Arthur looked stricken, the same expression he had on when Mordred had snapped at him. He stepped back, rubbing a hand over his face.
"You've done it now, Gwaine," Elyan said under his breath.
"Look, Arthur, I've seen the evil magic can do. But I've seen the good it can do, too," Gwaine said softly, ignoring Elyan. Arthur looked back at him silently. Uncharacteristically earnest, Gwaine pursed his lips and tried to gather his thoughts.
"Magic can save lives...I've seen it make crops grow, banish childrens' nightmares. It can't all be bad..."
"Magic corrupts the soul, even a good one."
"But Gaius-"
"No, Gwaine!" Arthur snarled. Gwaine clenched his jaw and turned away, shaking his head in disappointment.
A bird chirped up in the canopy, the only sound in the clearing. Uncomfortable with both the tense conversation and his own moral conflict, Percival turned away, looking for the cheerful creature up in the trees. He spotted its shape on a nearby branch. It looked like a falcon, much like the magical one from before. Strangely, it seemed to be looking right back at him.
Eventually, the knights began to follow Arthur's plan wordlessly. They gathered up their things, salvaging what they could in silence, each contemplating the events of the day. Leon was wracking his memory for any hints that would release Mordred from his enchantment, diligently avoiding any troubling thoughts about Gaius and magic. Elyan and Percival took stock of the food and water that was left, giving Arthur a wide berth. The prince rifled through his things absently. He didn't seem to be doing much more than moving them around. Lancelot moved over to help Gwaine.
"You grew up around magic?" he asked casually. The campsite was so quiet that the others could hear every word, despite Lancelot's soft-spoken nature.
"Well, you know what it's like. You meet all sorts when you travel."
Lancelot hummed in agreement.
"And it's legal in Caerlon, isn't it?"
Gwaine just nodded in reply, unwilling to elaborate. They all knew Gwaine hated talking about his noble upbringing in Caerlon, especially since he'd been backed into revealing it by King Uther ordering his execution. Sometimes, Lancelot watched Gwaine in Camelot and thought he might regret saving Arthur and getting roped back into this life.
"Strange," Lancelot mused, "Seeing one thing all your life and being told to believe another."
"Alright, Lance, I know," Gwaine said stiffly, "You don't have to play peacekeeper. Hating magic is all they've ever known. Mordred believed this place to be heaven his entire life. I get it, those things don't just go away."
"No, I suppose they don't."
"I don't know why I expected anything else from him. He is his father's son, after all."
Across the way, Arthur balled his hands up into fists and clenched his jaw tightly. Leon glanced between them, holding his breath, reading to intervene. After a moment, Arthur stood and walked a little ways off into the trees, just far enough away to be out of earshot. Lancelot, who usually alternated with Leon to calm Arthur down, was more fascinated by the hidden depths that had apparently been lurking under Gwaine's blasé attitude. Let Leon handle the prince this time. When he was sure the others weren't paying attention, he leaned in close to the other man with a whisper.
"Do you have many friends who are sorcerers?" he asked, genuinely curious. He wouldn't put it past Gwaine to smuggle sorcerers out of Camelot just to spite Uther. Gwaine paused in his work for a moment.
"Friends? Not many," he said finally, his gaze and mind travelling far away, "Just one."
On that nearby branch, the little falcon tilted its head curiously, watching the knights with eyes that shone gold in the orange sunset.