The night is cold and bright. Far above, scraps of clouds cover the moon until its light seeps and stretches across the night sky. Every so often, an owl hoots, and something rustles in the branches.
Merlin ignores it all. Instead, he considers the road in front of him and where it leads. Whether he should follow it.
His plan had been anything but well-developed. At the time, it simply amounted to him leaving Camelot. Get out, avoid people, avoid Achlys if at all possible.
But now, standing in the middle of the main road leaving Camelot beneath the moonlight brushing everything in white-silver, he feels more lost than he has in a long time.
It feels that despite all the running and scrambling and hiding and improvising of the last few years–despite all the loneliness and heartache and uncertainty–this, right now, is the most alone and lost and desperate he has ever felt.
The feeling makes a home commingled with the leaden thing in his stomach and claws upward, circling his throat and tightening.
His pack is both too heavy and too light on his back. He didn't bring much with him. An extra change of clothes pads the bulky weight of dried meats and cheeses and bundles of medicinal herbs. A water skein hangs loosely from the ties of the small bindle. He had brought enough to last several days. After that… after that, Merlin would just have to figure it out.
A few minutes pass silently as he stands in the middle of the road. But eventually he decides the movement is better than hesitation. He moves forward down the main road with a purpose of movement that evades his mind.
He still does not notice the figure clad in a black cloak moving through the shadows behind him.
It is three more hours of walking before Merlin turns off the road. As he does so, he picks up a fallen tree branch still adorned with some tenacious winter leaves, and drags it along behind him in an irregular fashion, pulling it back and forth behind him. He is careful to do the least to disturb the skeletal protrusion of the snow-laden bush branches to either side.
It is a difficult thing, to leave no trace in the snow. And yet Merlin accomplishes something close to it on his journey from the road to Camelot.
The figure following behind him makes no such effort. Instead, they focus on silence, relying on Merlin's heretofore assumed negligence of the obvious to conceal their own footsteps through the forest.
Despite the lack of obvious trail to follow, Merlin does not again break form and look behind him to see the footprints left in his wake, nor the black-clad figure moving from tree to tree behind him.
He walks until dawn is near, washing the world grey-white with the setting of the moon and the rising of the sun.
Eventually, he comes to a bunch of trees that looks like any other. He hesitates, then stops. After a moment or two spent looking around, he walks to the opposite side of a large tree and begins making camp–such as it is–between two large enough gnarls of branches that if he were lying down, no one would see him.
He's halfway through perfecting his sleep roll and dreading actually falling asleep when his follower finally steps forward, washed in a dawn light.
"We're supposed to be leaving Camelot right about now," Gwaine says. Merlin whips around then, his stance so oddly like that of a knight preparing for battle that Gwaine tenses as well.
Gwaine remembers himself and relaxes, holding up two hands palms-outward. "Peace, Merlin, it's me."
Merlin looks his friend up and down before barking out, "Leave, Gwaine."
"Nah, mate," Gwaine says, stepping forward. Merlin freezes for a moment and Gwaine can almost see the gears turning in Merlin's head.
Run from a friend now, or ditch him later?
"I'm not going anywhere," Gwaine finishes. He walks forward slowly, then with more purpose, until he is standing nose-to-nose with his best friend. "After all the times you've bailed me out of trouble, you really think I'd leave you alone when you need me?"
"I'm not–" Merlin starts, but Gwaine cuts him off.
"Shut it," Gwaine says, his convivial smile at odds with the sharp order. Gwaine slaps a hand on Merlin's shoulder, jostling the other man's entire body. "I'm here. Deal with it."
Merlin's hands tighten into fists at his sides. Gwaine turns slightly, his arm brushing against Merlin's chest, and surveys the small campsite in the making. Merlin had used his ratty boots to push aside a few piles of snow, baring the cold, hard ground at the base of the tree. A few evergreen branches have been placed there and leaned against the tree, offering some kind of protection against the wind and icy forest floor.
"Not bad," Gwaine comments. "Fire?"
"Attracts attention," Merlin replies. "Gwaine, look–"
Gwaine picks up one of the branches that Merlin had used in the lean-to and brushes away more snow.
"You're better than I thought at covering your tracks," Gwaine interrupts. "And sneaking out. I'm not as surprised as I think I should be."
Merlin watches as Gwaine slowly expands the campsite, enough for the two of them to share space and sleep comfortably between the large tree roots.
"Why is that?" Gwaine asks.
"Why what?" Merlin replies, tone tired and tight.
Gwaine looks up from his work to fix Merlin with a searching look. "Why am I not surprised?"
Merlin looks right back at him, jaw working slightly. His eyes are shuttered, weary, adorned with deep, dark bags beneath just hinting at his exhaustion and fear.
"You tell me," Merlin says finally.
"Ah," Gwaine responds. He turns again and starts repositioning the branches that make up the lean-to, providing slightly more room beneath. "I suppose I'm never really surprised when it comes to you, Merlin."
"Why not?"
Gwaine sighs and drops his work, turning back to Merlin. The iced-over leaf litter on the ground crunches beneath his boots.
"You're more than anyone gives you credit for, Merls," Gwaine responds. "Even me."
Merlin raises an eyebrow at the knight. "Oh?"
"Yeah," Gwaine says, shrugging a shoulder. "You're more than a servant. More than a physician's assistant. More than a knight."
Merlin presses his lips together, furrowing his brow, then asks, "Then why not let me go? If you're so confident in me."
"Because you're also more than just my friend, Merlin," Gwaine responds, exasperated. "You're my brother. And if you think I'm going to just let you wander into the cold night, all alone, facing… whatever it is you've been facing these past months, you're also more of a nutter than I ever thought."
"Gwaine…"
The knight throws his own pack onto the ground and sits next to it, looking up at Merlin. The warlock looks down at him, expression equal parts fond and tired.
"Come on," Gwaine tells him, gesturing to the cleared-off space next to him. "Sit. Tell me what's been going on and why you're so convinced you need to do whatever this is by yourself."
"Arthur sent you," Merlin guesses.
"The princess gave me whatever information was necessary to keep me punching his nose in," Gwaine responds easily, shifting to get more comfortable. "You should've heard the fight we had when I learned he had you arrested. Pretty sure half of Camelot heard it."
Merlin studies Gwaine. The knight, so disposed to easy grins and carefree body language, has carefully arranged himself on the ground while Merlin still stands. Gwaine's lips are still pulled in a self-satisfied grin, but his eyes and jaw are tight. He would appear to anyone else as casual, one knee propped up, his arm resting atop it, cape arranged carefully beneath him to keep some of the cold from the ground from seeping into his legs.
But Merlin can see more than that. It's a position easy to get up from if Merlin were to run. One positioned to leap into action if the warlock were to leave, or if anyone else were to happen upon them. It isn't a threatening posture. Simply prepared.
"I won't run," Merlin says after a few quiet moments.
Gwaine shrugs again. Even as he fixes Merlin with a sad stare, he still wears a knowing grin.
"Not yet. I know."
Merlin looks around at the quiet, snow-covered forest, then settles himself cross-legged across from Gwaine. He heaves a sigh, his breath forming a small cloud between them. Gwaine relaxes almost imperceptibly at the allowance.
"So," Gwaine says. "What's been going on with you?"
Merlin casts his eyes over the landscape, skipping from tree to tree before landing on Gwaine again.
"How much did Arthur tell you?" Merlin asks.
"Enough to make me think I should follow you," Gwaine says. "Before whoever Arthur actually sent after you caught up."
Merlin raises an eyebrow. "I figured Arthur was the one who sent you."
"Nah, mate," Gwaine replies. "You think the princess would trust me to not just abscond with you myself?"
Merlin snorts at that, which makes Gwaine give him a real grin.
"No, I'm sure he's sent someone else. Someone he can trust more to actually report back to him."
"What makes you so sure he had someone else follow me?" Merlin asks.
"Because he knows you," someone says from around the tree.
Both Merlin and Gwaine leap to their feet. Gwaine's hand goes to his sword.
From around the large tree comes another man dressed in Camelot red. His grey-green eyes peer from beneath black hair dusted with snow. Both his hands are held up, palms out, in a gesture of peace.
"Mordred," Merlin breathes.
Mordred studies Merlin's grim face.
"King Arthur knows that you would do anything to keep him and Camelot safe," Mordred continues. "Even if it means doing something foolish and dangerous. And noble."
Gwaine's hand stays on his sword, eyes flicking back and forth between the cautious Mordred and distrustful Merlin.
"Neither of you should be here," Merlin insists.
Mordred raises his eyebrows. "Perhaps. But are you really so against my presence here?"
Gwaine's gaze goes back to Merlin. The warlock presses his lips into a line as Mordred stares back at him, the youngest knight's gaze equal parts challenging and disappointed.
"I understand you wanting to send Gwaine away," Mordred says, taking a step forward. "But why me?"
Merlin is quiet a moment longer, memories of the vision he had been granted–the one he has been forced to relive every night for weeks on end–playing over and over again in his mind.
Mordred is right. At this point in time, Merlin should be more inclined to have Mordred with him than anyone. If Achlys were to take Gwaine… the thought is intolerable, just as is the thought of that creature killing any of the other knights or, gods forbid, Arthur.
On the other hand, Merlin has shown so much dislike toward the young knight. So much contempt, distrust, because of that glimpse of destiny he had been shown. Merlin should be find having the knight accompany him. Even if the monster killed Mordred, Merlin shouldn't care as much as if one of the other members of the Round Table found the fate Achlys deals out.
And yet…
And yet Mordred now looks so much like the boy Merlin had helped to save all those years ago. Eyes large, worshiping, trusting. The distance between the two–between Mordred now and Mordred in the vision, as well as the distance between Merlin himself and the druid boy he protected all those years ago–seems larger than ever. One full of hope, the other hopeless. One young, spry, and desperate to be trusted. The other older, tired, too experienced to be trusting. Twisted by a fate written hundreds of years ago into mimicries of their former selves.
The warlock's damaged heart fractures even further. Doubt claws at him, but the decision seems obvious now that he has made it. He can't bring himself to command his best friend to leave while the druid boy stays. He cannot in good conscience save Gwaine while condemning Mordred for something he might do in the future. He cannot let the druid boy die even if it might possibly save his friend and circumvent some disaster.
"You both should leave," Merlin says finally.
Mordred exhales heavily, shakily, eyes shining. His expression melts from one of cautious, calm reason to one of sorrowful hope. Sorrowful that Merlin would sacrifice himself for the safety of both Gwaine and Mordred. Hopeful because Merlin made that choice. That Merlin–Emrys himself–finally acknowledged that Mordred may be worthy of his mercy and protection.
He sends toward Merlin not any kind of verbal message, but a feeling through their mindspeak connection. The druid knows–can sense–how his own message is but a drop against the ocean of magic and feeling that comprise Emrys. Every ounce of feeling Mordred sends to the manservant, all the kinship and gratitude and love, should disappear against the power and immensity of Emrys.
But nonetheless, when Merlin's eyes finally flick over to meet Mordred's gaze, it is with an expression so human in its forgiveness and comprehension and intelligence that Mordred almost forgets himself and drops to his knees.
Because Emrys felt it. He felt the feeling that Mordred sent more like a prayer than words toward him, and despite how untouchable the man should be, he knew. He felt it.
As Merlin looks at Mordred, his gaze is at once pitying, hopeful, and compassionate, Mordred feels once again the potency and impossibility of knowing a legend in the flesh. It is a look so inhumanly human in its forgiveness that Mordred's heart skips.
But even as that happens, the orders that come from the Once and Human King echo in Mordred's head. The young knight considers the choice before him, then decides to trust that his gratitude has been understood.
"The king commanded that I send a signal so the rest of them can find us," Mordred says slowly. "However…"
Merlin raises his eyebrows.
"...He did not specify when I should do so," Mordred says finally. "May I join you?"
Merlin looks from Mordred to Gwaine's questioning gaze, then to their small campsite. He sighs, then extends a hand toward it. The three of them sit in a small circle on the cleared ground, both knights setting aside their weapons.
"So," Gwaine says cheerily. "What in the gibbering fuck is going on?"
Merlin sighs, looking to Mordred. The younger knight gives him an encouraging look, face open and earnest. So different from the expression he holds in the vision.
And finally, Merlin understand what the difference is between the Mordred in his vision and the Mordred sitting before him: trust. Hope.
Such fragile things, hope and trust. So damaging when they are broken.
So powerful when nurtured.
"I've been having nightmares," Merlin says finally. "For the past few weeks."
"What kind of nightmares?" Gwaine asks.
"Memories, more like," Merlin replies. "Bad ones. They're… they're so real when I dream. Like I'm back there again."
"Memories of what?" Gwaine asks, his voice soft.
Merlin lifts a shoulder in response. "Deaths. The grief that accompanies them. The misery that comes with grief."
Gwaine and Mordred both nod their understanding.
"Gaius and I started looking for signs of… I don't know. Enchantment, or curses, or something that would explain why these memories are suddenly more… more than they usually are. More damaging. More haunting. But we couldn't find anything."
"Nothing?" Gwaine asks.
Merlin shakes his head. "Nothing. But then, one morning, Leon came to tell us that a person in the lower town had met a horrible death. So Gaius and I went to examine the body and the scene. We couldn't find anything there, either.
"The dreams continued after that. But now…" Merlin's eyes become slightly unfocused as he looks into the snowy branches above Gwaine and Mordred, "...they had changed."
"Changed?" Mordred echoes.
Merlin nods and says, "Yes. In every memory, the people in it–the person in it–they looked over my shoulder. At the end."
"The end," Gwaine repeats softly.
Merlin nods again, his face carefully blank.
To Gwaine, the face is a familiar one. It's his battle face. The one he wears when the problem at hand is more severe than tavern brawls or chores or a difficult potion–the normal things one should worry about when Gwaine's friend and the prince's manservant and the physician's apprentice. To Gwaine, it perfectly symbolizes a side of his friend only knowable under incredible, inhuman duress. It was the face Merlin had on the way to the Perilous Lands, traveling to the Isle of the Blessed plagued by Dorocha, the expression in the months following Lancelot's death. A face that says, I have faced more than you know.
And to Mordred, it is Emrys's face. The subtle and solid transformations from Merlin, that charming, helpful, cheerful man who takes pleasure in teasing his friends–the very king included–the man who grumbles and grouses and keeps after, to the man who would face down any danger in the pursuit of safety and happiness for his friends. The expression that makes this very human man take on the mantle of the legend. The man who would change a prince into a king, and a kingdom into a nation. A face that says, I have faced more than you know. I know more than you know. And I am stronger than you because of it.
"And then, the morning after that death, after I woke from those distorted memories, I… I felt it. A presence in my room."
Merlin rolls his shoulders against the sudden prickling on his neck. Gwaine and Mordred, though never turning their heads, let their eyes rove over the landscape behind Merlin. Gwaine finally gives in to his own sudden, strange feeling of being watched and glances over his shoulder.
The forest is quiet.
"I couldn't move. Couldn't speak. I could only see a shadow against the wall in front of me. In the shape of a man. And it spoke to me… it said it knew me. That it was close. And I saw it move its hand, and the silhouette on the stone made its fingers look inhumanly long and… and sharp."
Merlin's own hand comes up in the air, mimicking the movement he had seen cast in shadow against his bedroom wall. Gwaine and Mordred each track the gesture carefully before their eyes land back on the young warlock.
"And then Gaius woke me up," Merlin says. "It was as if the scene suddenly changed before my eyes. Instead of the shadow, there was Gaius. I could suddenly breath and move and the creature was gone. Gaius took his leave to let me get ready, and I tore apart my room. Bit by bit."
"Looking for something it left behind," Gwaine guesses.
Merlin nods. "Or something we had missed before. Arthur found me, gave me a few days off. And then…"
"Henry," Gwaine finishes.
"Yeah," Merlin says, casting his eyes downward. "We learned a little more. Called a meeting of the Round Table, which you both were at."
"And then Gretel," Gwaine supplies.
"Right. And the night that Gretel died, the creature arrived again. Which Mordred was there to witness," Merlin says.
Mordred cuts in here, looking somewhat nervously at Gwaine.
"I was on patrol and saw firelight in the rooms reserved for the monarch's manservant, which is not normally in use," Mordred says. "So I went to investigate."
"A lucky thing, too," Merlin says smoothly. "I woke from those same nightmares to the creature behind me again, but in a new room, one only Arthur and Leon had known I moved to. But it was there anyway, and I couldn't move. When Mordred broke his way in, finally, he saw the creature."
Gwaine's gaze moves to Mordred, who nods, face grim.
"I saw it," Mordred confirms. "A creature made of fog, or mist, yet… yet dark. It had two eyes that glowed from within, and were as red as the most precious rubies. And it spoke to me."
"What did it say?" Merlin asks. "What did it say to you exactly?"
"It said…" Mordred says, words trailing off as his gaze lifted from Merlin to the landscape around his, drifting into some memory. "It said, 'Look at me and know me. I am sorrow, misery, and despair. I am that which walks with death. I am Achlys.'"
Merlin's face does not stray from that implacable, stoic mask. His battle face. His Emrys face. He gives nothing away as a reaction to those words.
"The next morning I tended to Arthur and Gwen, went to see Gaius and help there for a spell, then went to the woods to gather herbs for Gaius," Merlin says, swallowing the guilt that comes from the easy lie. "And when I returned…"
"Arthur had you arrested," Gwaine says darkly.
"It was not because I was under suspicion of a murder," Merlin reminds him. "Word travels fast. People were suspicious. He acted as he had to."
"He could've just showed what he thought of people spreading vicious rumors," Gwaine responds. His fingers twitch as if he's about to reach for his sword.
"It was smart," Merlin insists. "You cannot control thoughts or gossip with threats of violence. That would only damage his authority and reputation. Besides, the king must consider every possibility and take it seriously, especially in the face of public opinion."
"He told me what he had been thinking," Gwaine grinds out. "Because I understand it doesn't mean I have to agree."
Merlin shrugs. "And so we find ourselves here."
"So Arthur thinks that this Achlys," Gwaine says, "is responsible for haunting you and responsible for these deaths."
"Gretel acted like she knew me," Merlin says, voice quiet. "And this man named Gabriel wrote a message on the wall in his own blood before he died. A message that told me to come home."
"So he wanted to get you out of Camelot," Gwaine says, his gaze held unblinking on Merlin. "So that if another murder happened, no one else would be hurt. And at the same time, possibly putting everyone assigned to go hunting as well at risk."
Merlin gives him a nod.
"So you left," Mordred ends. "To protect everyone else."
Gwaine huffs, something between a disbelieving grunt and an incredulous laugh.
"What was the plan, Merlin?" Gwaine asks. "Be away forever?"
"To kill it," Mordred whispers. "Merlin was leaving to kill it."
Gwaine fixes Merlin with an unreadable stare. The longer Merlin looks at Gwaine, the closer he gets to letting the mask fall. Letting his friend and Mordred see whatever is written across his face. An eternity passes under the growing light of dawn as Gwaine studies Merlin, and as Merlin suffers the other's gaze.
"Mordred knows," Gwaine says.
"Excuse me?" Mordred asks, turning toward Gwaine.
Even without the unspoken feelings of trepidation from the druid boy, Merlin would have been nervous.
Gwaine's face hasn't changed when he explains, "That's why you distrust him. Because of how he found out. Isn't it?"
"What on earth are you talking about, Gwaine?" Merlin asks.
"Mordred," Gwaine says, turning toward the young knight. He moves forward slightly, until the bulk of his frame is inclined toward Mordred as if ready to tackle the young boy. "What do you know?"
"I have no idea what you're speaking of, Sir Gwaine," Mordred replies, just a beat later. His face has become challenging as well, lips turning into a frown, shoulders straightening.
Merlin surveys the two for a moment,. Then, he waves his hand through the air. Both knights turn toward him again, reluctantly backing off.
"Gwaine," Merlin says. "What are you talking about?"
Gwaine's eyes dart from Merlin to Mordred. His gaze is calculating as he looks at the young knight, suddenly distrustful and measured. As if assessing a threat.
Never before had Gwaine looked at Mordred like that before. He's looked upon the younger knight with a friendly gaze, or a curious one, depending on the level of iciness displayed by Merlin. But never before distrustful.
How quickly that had changed.
"If I say it out loud and he has no idea, we're both going to have to run," Gwaine tells Merlin, voice low and serious. "And Mordred, if you follow us, just know that hell will follow at your heels forever more. I'll see to it personally."
Merlin blinks his eyes as if trying to get something out of them. His mask finally breaks, and he looks at Gwaine with something approaching revelation.
"You know," Merlin breathes.
Gwaine glances at Merlin. His gaze softens from the hardness posited toward Mordred, though his tense body language does not change.
"Of course I do, mate," Gwaine says. "I've known for a long time."
Mordred looks between the two. "Why didn't you say anything, Sir Gwaine?"
Gwaine's eyes harden again, lit with some determined fire, and looks back at Mordred.
"It's his secret to tell, isn't it?" Gwaine asks the younger knight.
"Of course," Mordred murmurs.
Gwaine furrows his brow. Merlin brushes his hand against Gwaine's sleeve, catching the knight's attention.
"I don't–didn't–distrust Mordred because he knows about…" Merlin says, then his expression becomes once again his blank mask and he continues, "...about my magic."
Gwaine studies Merlin's face.
"Then why?"
The question does not come from Gwaine. It is a small thing, barely pushing the air with all the force behind it, but still somehow is audible against the frozen air of the early morning.
Merlin looks at Mordred. The knight's head is slightly ducked, shoulders hunched.
Just a boy again.
Merlin sighs. "Destiny plays strange games."
Mordred is quiet for a moment, staring at Merlin. He glances toward Gwaine, then asks both men, "Do you know the meaning of the word, 'Emrys?'"
"It's a druid legend, isn't it?" Gwaine asks, looking between Merlin and Mordred. His posture has fallen from a threat to a tensing. Ready to move, but willing ot be still. "Some legendary magical figure."
"Right," Mordred says, surprise coloring his tone.
Gwaine shrugs. "I've been around. Heard some stories. This one seems to be a big deal among not just druid, but magic users. Never really listened closely."
Mordred and Merlin are both quiet for a minute. Gwaine is still, then leans toward Mordred.
"You think Achlys has something to do with this Emrys character?" Gwaine asks.
Merlin and Mordred fix him with a stare. Mordred goes to say something, but is interrupted.
Merlin giggles. Then, he laughs. Before long, he is doubling over, seized with some kind of hysteria. Gwaine and Mordred look at him with varying degrees of worry and disbelief. Upon seeing their expressions, Merlin laughs harder.
"You could say that," Merlin finally says, gasping the words out between lingering laughs.
"I don't get the joke, mate," Gwaine says finally.
Merlin giggles again, wiping at his eyes.
"Emrys," Mordred says as Merlin quiets, directing the words more toward Gwaine than the man himself, "is a part of prophecy. Seers further back than recollection allow for predicted a Golden Age blossoming in this land. The person all unite behind, the golden leader, is known as the Once and Future King. At his side is the legendary magic user known as Emrys. A warlock, born with his powers. Said to be the most powerful sorcerer to ever walk the earth, surpassing all those before and after him."
Mordred shifts his gaze to Merlin. Gwaine follows the look. Merlin shifts beneath the stares, uncomfortable as always when it comes to the legends about him.
"You?" Gwaine asks.
Merlin takes a deep breath in and says, "Me."
"I can't believe it," Gwaine breathes. Merlin holds his breath. Gwaine stares at his friend a moment longer, then says, "You can't have the right guy, Ems. Arthur is an idiot."
Merlin's eyes widen. Then, he once again doubles over with laughter. Gwaine's grin stretches wider and wider until he is guffawing too. Their laughter echoes across the waking winter landscape, inspiring a few birds to burst into noisy song.
Even Mordred gives them a smile at the words.
"That's exactly what I said the first time I heard that," Merlin gasps.
"Holy shit, Merlin," Gwaine says, wiping a tear away. "I thought you were a sorcerer, but the most powerful one ever? What's a warlock, anyway?"
"It means he was born with his powers," Mordred answers. "An incredibly rare thing among magic users."
Gwaine shakes his head. "No thing by halves, eh, Merlin?"
"How long have you known?" Merlin asks, voice wondering.
Gwaine shrugs. "Since I met you. I never actually saw you throwing plates, you know."
Merlin rubs his hands over his face. Mordred's expression becomes amused and curious.
"What?" the young knight asks.
"I met young Merlin here in a tavern brawl," Gwaine answers, grinning. "He threw plates at these big brutes, but I never saw him use his hands."
"Oh, by the gods," Merlin groans. "I'm an idiot."
"But a powerful idiot," Gwaine says. "I mean, really, Merlin. Someone has to cover for you, you know? Do you really think Arthur hasn't marched into the tavern to ask me where you are by now?"
"Oh, gods," Merlin says, burying his face in his hands. "What in the world did you say to him?"
"Every time, I told him that he just missed you," Gwaine replies, a satisfied smile on his face. "Didn't know where you were going. But really, the tavern?"
"That's where he thinks you are? The king really believes that?" Mordred asks, scrunching his face.
"Gaius thought it up years ago," Merlin complains. "And apparently Gwaine has been corroborating it."
"Emrys, legend in the flesh, is a terrible alcoholic," Gwaine admonishes, chuckling.
Mordred shifts a bit, obviously uncomfortable. Both the manservant and the other knight take a break from their shared mirth to look at him questioningly.
"But do you know what Emrys means, Merlin?" Mordred asks carefully.
Merlin shrugs. "I thought it was just another title."
"Another?" Gwaine echoes.
Merlin casts a weary gaze over to Gwaine, then nods. "There are a few. Apparently."
"Like what?" Gwaine asks.
"Dragonlord," Merlin offers with a shrug.
Mordred sucks in a breath. "I had heard rumors, but…"
Gwaine raises his eyebrows and asks, "What's a dragonlord?"
"A noble line of parentage in which the first sons in the family tree inherit a kinship with and ability to command the race of dragons," Mordred answers, his tone reverent.
Merlin shifts again. "My father was Balinor. Arthur and I left to beg his help during the dragon attack, and Gaius told me before we left that he was my father. Apparently, Uther had chased him from the kingdom during the purge, and he found himself seeking shelter in a small village called Ealdor on the border of Cenred's kingdom."
"If you were a dragonlord, why seek him out in the first place?" Gwaine asks.
"The powers of a dragonlord are passed from father to son upon the death of the father," Merlin replies quietly.
"Emrys and a dragonlord," Gwaine says, and lets out a low whistle. "I bet you've got some stories, eh, Merls?"
"You have no idea," Merlin says darkly. His memories race through in the same sequence as his dreams: Freya, Lancelot, Balinor, Morgana, Mordred, Arthur, Gaius, Merlin, Camelot, Timothy, Henry, Heda, Gretel.
"But do you know what it means?" Mordred says, some impatience finally breaking into his voice.
Merlin shakes his head. "Like I said. I assumed it was just another title."
"Our people," Mordred says, glancing toward Gwaine then back to Merlin, "the druids, say it comes from a word meaning immortal."
The mask does not falter.
"Immortal," Merlin repeats.
"Yes," Mordred confesses.
"I have never been told that," Merlin says. "Isildir never mentioned it. Alator never mentioned it. You, Mordred, you have never mentioned it."
With every name, the volume of Merlin's voice rises. Mordred looks, slightly panicked, at Gwaine through the corner of his eye. Gwaine is uncharacteristically serious, hand half-raised toward Merlin as if to grasp the man's shoulder.
Mordred leans backward as if to escape Merlin's growing ire.
"I'm sure it is with good reason," Mordred murmurs. "I've always been told that knowing the future is a burdensome thing."
Merlin's blue eyes snap to Mordred with a sudden intensity. Mordred flinches away from the look.
"Would you like to know your future, Mordred?" Merlin asks, voice steady and low.
Gwaine's eyes move slowly toward Mordred. Once more, he takes on the stance of a man about to leap into battle.
"What do you mean, Emrys?" Mordred asks.
"Do you really want to know why I have been so cold to you?" Merlin asks, voice sharp as a blade.
Mordred hunches inward, his posture turning into that of an abused puppy.
"Yes, Emrys," Mordred whispers.
Merlin takes a deep breath inward. Then, he studies Mordred and deflates somewhat. His gaze becomes pitying, straying from his stoic mein.
"No," Merlin says. "Knowing the future is a burdensome thing."
Mordred's eyes snap to Merlin's. The two stare at each other a long time.
Gwaine finally breaks the silence. "What does that etymology have to do with Achlys, Mordred?"
Mordred glances between the other two. "Well, Achlys is associated with death. So if Merlin can't die…"
"It would have to do with other people and not him," Gwaine finishes. "Perhaps it just appeared to you, Merlin, because it's close to you… but cannot get to you."
Merlin shakes his head, lips pressed into a grim line.
"Gaius said he may have found out what it is," Merlin says.
"What is it?" Mordred asks, leaning forward.
"An instrument of Oblivion," Merlin answers quietly.
"Oblivion?" Gwaine echoes.
Merlin nods. "That to which all things fade eventually. A Master of All Things. A Master of Life, and Death, and the gods themselves."
"And this creature–" Mordred starts.
"Comes from Oblivion," Merlin confirms. "Is a tool of it."
"So you ran," Gwaine finishes. "Because this Achlys scares even you."
Merlin nods again, drawing his knees to his chest. The three of them are quiet for a long time.
And then Merlin feels something creeping up his spine, between his shoulders, to the base of his neck. His eyes flicker up from the ground to see both Mordred and Gwaine looking behind him, faces frozen in expressions of horror and trepidation.
A voice comes, uninvited, crawling between his skull and brain.
Leave them, the voice commands. Save them.
Merlin blinks, then pries his arms from his legs. Gwaine and Mordred do not move. They simply stare over Merlin's shoulder, the same expression adorning their faces as all those in Merlin's nightmares had worn since Achlys's first visit.
Merlin blinks away tears. He looks at the other two, studies them, waves a hand in front of their faces.
They do not move.
"Swefe nu," Merlin whispers.
Mordred and Gwaine collapse where they had been sitting, trapped into a deep and sudden sleep. Merlin climbs to his feet, looking around at the forest that surrounds him.
Come home, Merlin, the voice says.
An image comes unbidden to the warlock's mind. It is of a cave, one that is a popular resting place for patrols and hunts, about a two hour walk from the campsite.
Merlin glances at his sleeping friends, then faces the west and begins walking.
The smoke signal comes at noon. Arthur and the rest of the Round Table, excluding Guinivere and Gaius, had been expecting it much earlier. But as soon as they saw it–about two and a half candlemarks away into the woods–they move toward it with as much speed as they can muster.
When they come across the small camp, Arthur had expected to see a recalcitrant and angry Merlin, surrounded on either side by Gwaine–who had been anticipated to follow the servant, but not directed to do so–and Mordred, who had been ordered to follow the man.
Instead, Arthur swung off his horse to find Mordred frantically shaking Gwaine, standing next to a hastily improvised lean-to against a large tree. Merlin is no where in sight, but a pair of footprints traces between trees to the west.
A fire burns next to the pair of knights, Mordred's cloak left discarded next to it. The smoke from the fire drifts up in a steady, curling stream, no longer the dotted signals Mordred had used to alert the knights to his location.
As Arthur approaches, Arthur recognizes that Gwaine's gaze seems directed more through Mordred than toward him. The younger has Gwaine by the shoulders and shakes almost violently. Gwaine's mouth moves, but it is only when Arthur draws closer that he can make out words.
Gwaine mutters, over and over, a single phrase. His voice is more strained and full of sorrow and despair than anything Arthur has heard before. It is more desolate than Heda's wails, more desperate than Gretel's screams.
Arthur stalks forward and displaces Mordred, shaking the roguish knight himself.
Gwaine does not respond. Instead, he says, "No. No, no, no, no, no, no, no. Merlin."