4. Part 1: Buried Alive/Collapsed Building

("Ally" from Renewed By Love)

"What about the rest of it?" Princess Mithian asked, moving past Lancelot in the doorway of Merlin's room in the ruined castle, where the fugitives had lived after the revelation of Merlin's magic and survival, before Arthur's coronation had pardoned them all. "Can you get to any other part of the castle from here?"

"Perhaps, Highness, but we never came past this point," Lancelot told her.

Lady Alayna of Descalot felt a bit shivery, and followed quickly, to keep near the knight she'd fallen in love with. "Maybe we should go outside again," she suggested. "Gwen will wonder about us, and Merlin will come soon, and there's lunch–"

"This passage goes on," Mithian said. "If we could squeeze past this rock–" part of the wall, or ceiling? Ally wondered. "Look, there are candle drippings here. If you all didn't come this far…"

"This is fresh," Lancelot said, stepping forward to feel where she indicated. "Maybe Merlin–"

"Hello!" Mithian called forward, trying to wedge her slender body between the chunk of masonry and the intact wall. Ally looked up and thought, possibly a person could go over the rock – into the gap it left – and continue down the passage. The princess added with mild exasperation, "Oh, I think I've torn my dress."

Ally had an idea. "I know something that might help," she said, moving next to Lancelot to place her palm against the boulder-size impediment. Merlin had taught her this spell, to vanish solid objects. "Athwinan –

"I think I hear something," Mithian said.

"-Thas–"

"Hello?" the princess called again. And maybe Ally heard another voice respond, far away toward the interior of the ruin, but she continued anyway.

"- heard."

The rock vanished, and Mithian stumbled a bit at her sudden freedom. For a moment, all was perfect, and Ally felt happy and satisfied.

Then an ominous rumble shifted the stone under her feet, and a great puff of sharp dust blinded her and knocked her into Lancelot.

Something else knocked Lancelot into her, and then she was falling.

All was noise, and darkness, and the earth trying to swallow her – pinched tight in an enormous mighty throat, she couldn't breathe and she couldn't scream but it seemed to her like someone was roaring–

on and on and it wouldn't stop and–

For several disorienting moments she imagined that she'd fallen beneath a horse's hooves and the excited beast was kicking and trampling – she felt blows distantly, but there was no pain, only a dark dusty ache.

The unrelenting noise finally, reluctantly, retreated. Her ears rang, and the air was barely breathable – there was no room to cough, and all was black as a pit.

Or maybe she was blind. The thought induced more panic, and she tried to touch her eyes, tried to feel where-am-I.

Her hands were trapped. She coughed, and sobbed, and something – someone – moved against her.

Warm. Solid. Heavy.

"Ally? Ally!"

Lancelot's voice, and she gasped with the piercing pain of relief.

She wasn't quite prone; he wasn't quite behind her, but she squirmed and forced her hands to find him, climb his chainmail til at last her fingertips found skin at his collar.

His breath curled across the side of her face. His voice sounded naked, hoarse and desperate and the unfamiliarity of that scared her even as the fact that it was his gave her a deeper sense of security. "Oh, Ally. Are you all right? Are you hurt?"

"I don't know," she managed. "Not much?"

He tried to move; she felt one arm around her, his hand on her back, their legs entwined so it couldn't be told, where one ended and the other began. But it was an aborted attempt, as he grunted with pain – and panic threatened to flare in her chest again.

"You're hurt?" she said. "Lancelot?"

"Just… hit on the head," he answered. "What of… oh, no. The princess!"

Ally sucked in a shocked dusty breath – and as they both froze, she heard a voice. More than one? And words became clear.

"Are you all right? Sorry about–"

"No, never mind." Feminine, husky and breathless. "It's fine, you – saved my life."

"Just be still and I'll – sorry… No, you go first, so you don't have my boots in your face…"

"Merlin!" Lancelot said, and Ally's body shifted with the effort he put into raising his voice. Something in her back twinged; he swallowed a tight, miserable-sounding moan.

"Lancelot – are you two all right? Hold on, I'm–" Merlin spoke words Ally both recognized and didn't, and dust pattered in her face as stones clicked and ground together.

She gripped Lancelot, knowing because Merlin was there she was safe, but instinctively fearing another cave-in. She couldn't sense any other change, but Lancelot rolled away from her with another stifled groan, and the sounds of scraping and shuffling were nearer, unmuffled by rock.

"Lancelot?" Mithian's voice said. "Ally?"

"Yes, we're–"

"Is there anyone else?" Merlin – on Lancelot's other side, Ally guessed - interrupted rudely, but there was a strain in his voice that excused it. "Lancelot. Anyone else? Only you three?"

"Gwen was outside. And two knights of–"

"No one else in here?" Merlin demanded. Shuffling continued, and a couple of grunts of exertion. Ally could hear Mithian's panting breathing, too.

"No."

"Okay, don't…" Merlin's audible magic shifted rock again. Grinding, groaning – pebbles fell on Ally's skirt just next to her leg, and she flinched closer to Lancelot again.

Merlin gasped – growled – a shaft of sunlight pierced their tomb in the further-collapsed ruins so suddenly Ally's eyes stung, watered, blinked.

"Now, go. Go. If you can, and… hurry…"

Merlin was crouched just near Lancelot's head – blood and dust on her knight's face as he looked up toward the sorcerer – one knee down, both hands up and fingers spread as if he was trying to lift an impossible weight. His face was twisted into stark lines and planes, gray with shadow or dust.

Rough, jagged rock, only inches above them – and how much above that? Quivering, as Merlin's hands and fingers trembled.

Ally scrambled sideways – elbow, then knee – seeing the light figure of Mithian doing the same on Merlin's other side, close enough to touch. Lancelot was on his belly, rising to hands and knees – freeing one hand to guide-coax-encourage Ally.

Mithian said, hesitating, "But what about you–"

"In a minute," Merlin ground out. "Last. Go, for the… love of…"

Ally's fingernails flared and ached, as she clawed her way into the shaft of sunlight. Through its agitated swirl of motes – Mithian touched her shoulder like an older sister helping a younger – and they almost pitched together down the broken stair.

"You go." Ally's voice trembled.

Probably Mithian guessed that she wanted to wait for Lancelot, needed to wait for him; the princess began to slide down the stairs on hands and rear, clinging to the wall.

Ally's neck clicked and stuck as she tried to look behind – Merlin's back bent, bowed, arched so slowly it was excruciating to watch. Lancelot crawled past him carefully – dark eyes enveloping Ally, then glancing back to Merlin. Through the sunlight her knight came to safety, and she stretched to take his hand, to pull him with her, after her down the stairs. Merlin rose slowly, hunched under his invisible burden, and began to shuffle back toward them.

Voices, again. More voices.

"Oh my goodness!" Gwen. "What happened? We heard this awful rumble – I thought of thunder – are you hurt? Where are–"

Overtaken by other, lower, hurried male voices. That would be Mithian's pair of guards, Ally thought, reaching the bottom of the stair and finding that her legs were too wobbly to hold her. Lancelot stepped down, trying to lift her – lurched and had to steady himself with one hand against the wall.

Gwen suddenly appeared to help him, bending to take one of Ally's arms with both hands. "Are you both okay? Lancelot, there's blood on your–"

Lancelot ignored it, one arm around Ally's back beneath hers, sliding them both along the rough stone wall, out into the main hall where the outlaws had lived. He said to Gwen, "Merlin's still–"

She followed his upward gesture, and made to take the first step.

"Guinevere." Out of sight at the top of the stair, Merlin spoke her name the way Arthur sometimes scolded her, but so sharply even Ally's nerves flinched. "Get out. Everyone. Now."

More rumbling.

Ally looked up to see the two veiled knights manhandling a reluctant Mithian out the doorway to the corridor that passed the stable-chamber; the princess cast a glance of urgent entreaty over her shoulder. And then Gwen was at Ally's other side, her warm vitality making it possible for Ally's legs to obey, though stiffly and stumbling. Her fingers were cold and numb and she had to resist a ridiculous urge to giggle, of all things, and there was blood on Lancelot's face.

Because she stopped dead and turned to examine him fearfully – the chamber lit by sunlight reaching through a new crack somewhere high – all three of them were drawn to turn as Merlin stepped out of the other doorway.

Arms still spread. Every muscle taut – some drawn, some bunched – under the dirty-fine dark trousers and dusty forget-me-not blue shirt. He spoke spell-words again – hadn't enough breath – gasped and staggered back as the upper wall bulged… then exploded outward.

Ally clutched Lancelot, petrified. Great chunks of broken masonry tipped – crash-landed – cracked and tumbled.

Obscured the hearth.

Smashed the great round table to a crazily-canted position. Then chipped a great crescent out of the upward curve.

Merlin's table fell to kindling. Herbs and book-pages fluttered in the dust, in the settling sunlight.

Ruined. The ruins were ruined.

Ally couldn't breathe. Tears struggled to leave her eyes, descend her cheeks, as she watched Merlin's back and he stared at what remained of the hall.

But when he turned, in delayed degrees, she realized that it wasn't loss or disappointment on his dust-streaked face, but intent concern that the collapse was finished. Concern for them and their safety. And then she was blind with tears, and choked with weeping.

"Ally, are you hurt?" Gwen.

"What's wrong? Was she hit? I tried to–" Merlin.

Lancelot's breath warmed and filled her ear, spilled down her neck. "Ally?"

"I'm sorry," she sobbed. "I'm so sorry, Merlin, it was my fault, I tried to clear our way with the spell, we wanted to explore and see if you were–"

"It's all right, Ally." Lancelot's hand cupped her elbow supportively, his other passed around the back of her waist, but Merlin's long arms wrapped her shoulders, gathering her in. "You're forgiven. But it's not your fault."

She couldn't stop crying, shaking his body at the same time. Someone stroked the tangles of her hair.

Merlin said to Lancelot, "There's blood on your–"

"Ally first. And then–"

"Just take her outside. I hope it's mostly shock. Maybe bruising, I couldn't… hold it all back."

4. Part 2: Buried Alive/Collapsed Building

("Alarrum" from Past Faults and Future Perils)

The ordinary people of Camelot's lower town slung dripping buckets toward the blazing inferno cast by Morgana's attacking magic-users, tossed empty buckets away to be retrieved by others. Townsmen half-dressed carried water from the nearest wells, shouting to each other, shouting to the knights, stepping back as the rain cast by Merlin's cadre of defending sorcerers drenched everyone and everything, dousing and darkening the flames.

Merlin slipped on the cobblestones, having to shade his face against driving, blinding rain.

Enough? Too much? Is this still my spell?

It was hard enough to start a rainstorm; how did one go about stopping it – more wind to scatter the clouds?

He tripped again, the cobblestones seeming to lurch up under his feet like a horse bucking for freedom. His elbow caught someone square in the chest – bruising chainmail – and the king steadied him, smoke-smeared and drenched.

"Morgana sends her people to sacrifice themselves," he growled, blowing rain away from his face and blinking under his scowl. "This isn't finished yet."

"They've done this before?" Merlin asked, his ribs clenching around his heart. The road rippled under them again, and the patter of rain gave way to the sounds of distant shouting once again.

"Not for a while." Knights gathered to them as they moved toward the noise of new distress, Merlin staggering, the king stalking. "Her goal now, though, is simple and might seem easy to achieve…"

Me, Merlin thought bleakly.

Abruptly and without warning, the road threw itself into the air.

The soles of Merlin's boots left the ground for a moment. The king crouched, bracing himself – two knights went flying, rolling, tumbling.

And the two-story tavern just next to them leaned with a groan – with shrieking, snapping timbers and shifting foundation. The men clawed to move faster – the cobblestones were wet – unbalanced, Merlin pushed back with instinctive magic, and the tavern's second story began to collapse inward rather than outward.

"Hold it!" someone barked. "Can you hold it?"

Two of the knights – then Gwaine – rushed into the building through the yawning door. Hinges snapped and the door bent – then popped back into shape, clattering over at a drunken angle.

Merlin held – and felt his magic trickle through his grasp, in whatever capacity magic can be measured. Drops, grains, lengths. It felt like when he held time itself, slowing the imminent so he could counter it, because… if there was magic for fixing this, he didn't know it.

Making a hundred snapped timbers whole again, shoring up a foundation with two hundred cracks, nails loosened by the score and placed as haphazardly as the builder's whim anyway.

So he held, as raindrops shimmered in the air, sliding slowly down, and leaned into his intention to dash into the structure himself, though he couldn't carry everyone back outside. But someone's arms encircled his chest from behind; it was a fast hold, and he'd never noticed.

And time, more dangerous than magic, trickled away from him, coming faster and faster – creak shift snap rumble – the magic slipped away as well, but someone else was there, dashing into the corner of his vision like a knight in skirts, wielding empty fists like a broadsword.

Gwaine came skidding out the door in the grip of her magic, boots stuttering and arms wrapped around two half-grown children, whirling the width of the street careless of his own limbs and locked around the children.

The king let go of Merlin to catch the three – one child staggering loose, and steadied, Gwaine himself quick to catch his feet and balance.

"Help me!" Dusty gasped to Merlin, crouched and reaching back into the depths of the collapsing tavern.

He held the tavern like a broken shelf with his shoulder, like a slamming door with his knee, leaving incorporeal hands free to find and snatch at the people still inside, yank them roughly but alive out into the street while the weight, the weight of the whole structure trying to fall down, trying to obey the demands of the earth, crushed and crushed him.

They were out, slipping and tumbling like Gwaine, cries of pain and fear, terror and loss spiking through Merlin – splinters and shards tugged from his hands – and he let go.

Half the roof slammed down into the second floor – chips of wood and stone mortar shot out, dust billowed into the continuing drizzle, and the earth rolled again.

Everything light as a feather for a moment - but moments don't last.

Down with a crash like a child jumping into a play-house built of twigs and soft mud. Merlin was knocked to his knees, coughing into the crook of his elbow, eyes stinging themselves functional again. He heard Gwaine behind him, tones indicating he was speaking to the strangers rescued from the tavern, maybe the children.

"It's like a leap-on-back," he said, and Merlin's mind caught up a moment later – his friend interpreting the foreign words of the magic spell as they sounded to an ordinary person. "Only in reverse, you see. Dusty has a helluva leap-on-back."

Merlin put a hand down to assist him turning on bruised knees. The king had the smaller child up in his arms, little limbs wrapping his chainmail, tousled head tucked right in his neck – his eyes were on Merlin. The other knights, and those who'd just caught up with them were helping half a dozen others – a white-haired man, a teen-aged boy, women in night-dresses.

Dusty gave a choked cry, kneeling into Merlin in a rush, curling her arms around his neck. His own were too heavy to hold her; his knees were in the way.

And the effects had been dealt with, but not the cause.

The ground rumbled again, shaking like a wet dog, and Dusty was bumped away from him, back onto her rear. The old man and two of the women fell down in the street again, and the king staggered, thumping back into the wall of the opposite building to avoid dropping the child.

Gwaine passed his own charge to one of the women, and turned to take the king's precious burden. Arthur's attention was past them, over the buildings, searching out the origin of the threat – in his mind already dashing ahead to personally meet the enemy.

Dusty flung herself at Merlin again, kneeling over his lap, finding his wrist and lifting his hand and burrowing her face into his filthy palm. He didn't resist, and as his fingertips brushed past her ear-

He stood at the edge of a long boat-dock, anchored to the ground beneath the pond that spread, green-gray serenity in the late afternoon, heat and the promise of cool. On the opposite side, the same dock without a boat to tie to it, and Dusty waiting at the edge, far enough that he'd have to heave it high and hope for luck if he was going to throw an apple to her. She didn't wait, however, launching herself gloriously ungraceful, out into the water of the pond – splash, and shower of displaced droplets, and waves and expanding ripples – the whole still surface of the pond disrupted. When she surfaced, a second set of crest-trough-crest erupted. What do I do. What do I… Independent of thought or intention, he felt his body dive forward, cleave through water, creating ripples of his own that met, and checked, and diminished those others disturbing surface serenity.

Dusty let go of Merlin's hand, one instant of solution and explanation conveyed.

I can't – but you can.

More than just this one building in danger, more than just the dozen people sheltering here.

Merlin lunged forward, hands spread wide on the cobblestones, snarling as he sent his own tremors of magic through the earth – meeting, obstructing, dissipating.

"That way," he said to Dusty, freeing one hand momentarily to point. "Twenty-five – thirty paces."

She scrambled up, dashing off without so much as a glance for the king or Gwaine, though both men took off in the same direction – hearing Merlin or taking their cue from Dusty, Merlin didn't know.

The ground trembled again, and he focused on answering – countering – negating.

How long til Camelot's defenders reached this enemy? Merlin gripped the street, head up to watch the king slow to round the corner, then disappear out of sight.

That made him shiver.

But after all, the king wasn't the target tonight, it was him.

Rain trickled down his face, down his already-drenched clothing; the wreck of the tavern continued settling. The children were crying – some of the women, too, huddled together for comfort in their shock. Huddled over the young boy, the old man – one other man stared at the ruin of the building, hands clasped helplessly behind his head.

Devastated. Nothing could be done.

The ground was quiet. Was this part of it over, then?

Merlin pushed to his feet, avoiding everyone's attention, and trotted around the corner, following the king.

4. Part 3: Buried Alive/Collapsed Building

("Thrice Treasured" from Kingdom Games)

Merlin cupped his hands around the widest part of the dragon's egg atop the pedestal, the bulge of the teardrop. It felt warm in his hands, and alive. He wondered how heavy it might be, and lifted. The egg fairly leaped upward into his palms, like a very small child jumping into the sure embrace of her father.

"Ah!" he breathed involuntarily, wondering if Arthur had felt something similar as the legendary sword slid into his possession.

A section of stone at the top of the pedestal, freed from the weight of the egg, rose an inch or so, and clicked into place, and Merlin froze in wary apprehension.

For a moment the silence reigned.

Then a trickle of dust sifted through the shaft of sunlight, and the floor trembled underfoot. Somewhere in the dark distance, a stone clattered sharply as it fell, a shard cracked from a block or the block itself.

The egg, Merlin felt, was eager to leave.

"You and me both," he said, tucking it under one arm in a secure grip. "Let's go."

He sprinted for the door and the stair to the outer chamber, and a heavier section of stone fell – clatterclatterthud.

Leaping down the stair, he found Arthur and Gwaine halfway to him across the primary chamber, the immortal sword bared in the king's hand.

To the sides, the stone of the wall cracked, shifted. Clouds of dust and disturbed cobwebs billowed up, obscuring the air even as more light penetrated through the breaking wall.

Gwaine exclaimed, "What happened?"

"It wasn't me, I swear!" Merlin coughed.

"You've got it?" Arthur confirmed, slowing as Merlin reached them, then turning to hurry back the way they'd come.

"Let's get out of this place," Gwaine suggested.

A block toppled from the wall and the daylight brought a yellow glow to the dust-gray of the room.

Arthur grabbed Merlin's sleeve to urge him along. More stones fell, and heavier.

Then the three of them were pounding across the dusty paneled floor, buckling and bending under their feet. Merlin took a second to be glad the wood wasn't polished as smooth as the flooring in Camelot, and then several planks splintered.

The stairway was dangerous at the pace they were going. Merlin's boots skidded out from under him off a narrow step, and he knocked Gwaine off his feet as he slid the rest of the way down.

His friend cursed repetitively until they came to a rest, Gwaine on top, Merlin's arms a flesh-and-bone cage shielding the egg. His right elbow was scraped raw from the curved wall of the stairway – the sleeves of jacket and shirt in shreds, blood trickling warmly toward his wrist.

Arthur stood over them, haloed in the sudden brilliance of daylight, sword gleaming in his hand.

"This way," he said only, and Gwaine and Merlin disentangled themselves to dash after him, down a corridor open to the outside air. The support for an archway cracked and crumbled as they passed.

"This isn't the way we came in!" Gwaine shouted from behind them.

"No time to go back!" Arthur called back over his shoulder.

As they came to the end of the gallery, it began to collapse behind them.

"Out and down!" the king ordered.

Gwaine spat out an obscenity. Merlin merely swung his legs over the low wall and dropped down beside Arthur on a section of slate roof.

One arm curled around the egg, he lost his balance and began to slide, the edge of the sloped roof coming closer every second. He rolled to keep the egg uppermost, padded from the roof by his body, and readied to catch himself. As his body shot out into empty space, he cried out with the pain in his right hand, which felt as if it had been ripped apart at the thumb joint, but hung on grimly.

Arthur's head appeared over the edge of the roof – then Gwaine's, sweat streaking the dust on their skin and hair. Arthur glanced down over Merlin's shoulder.

"Merlin, do you trust me?" he said quietly.

Every one of Merlin's breaths was a panting whimper, but he managed a nod as his body twisted midair.

"Then let go," Arthur said.

Merlin obeyed.

He fell for a heartbeat, then landed hard on the tilted stone beneath.

Gwaine and Arthur rolled to the edge of the roof in preparation to drop down beside him, the tower silhouetted against the blue of the sky behind them, crumbling slowly but inexorably. The king and the knight landed awkwardly, careful of the respective weapons in their hands.

Merlin turned to find that they'd landed on the narrow walkway atop the outer wall. Before them, the level dirt of the plateau, sinking gradually toward the south. Behind them, the uninterrupted and increasing rumble of destruction.

"Jump?" Arthur said grimly, leaning over the parapet, turning back to raise his eyebrows at Merlin. "Jump?"

It was thirty feet if it was an inch. The stone of the wall shuddered beneath their boots. He knew what the king was asking.

If they stayed they would be buried alive.

"Jump," he agreed breathlessly, and as he positioned himself on the parapet, he felt a glow of exhilaration push against his consciousness, as though he himself bore a pair of wings on his back – if he filled his lungs with enough air, would it come out again in a rush of flames?

"Ready, Merlin?" Gwaine grinned.

Feet braced against the outside of the wall, egg cradled in his arm – he had a sudden vivid image of his own body, broken and bleeding, the shell not so much as scratched – and all three leaped outward.

The air tugged at clothing and hair – the ground surged up – and Merlin froze them all in midair, long enough for them to land on hands and knees, to tumble and come upright as though the wall were no more than a man's height.

They ran, feeling the thud of dropping masonry behind them, their feet pounding in the dirt.

Merlin's chest ached, a stitch opening in his right side like a fiery wound, but he didn't stop until Arthur slowed, then turned to look back at the tower. Merlin fell to one knee, nestled the egg gently into the tiny spears of brittle yellow growth on the ground, then stretched his full length on the ground.

Over the thundering of his breathing and his racing pulse, he heard the final grumble-roar of the collapsing tower.