13. Part 1: Breathe In, Breathe Out/Delayed Drowning
("A Queen and a Lady" and "The Sword and the Cup" from Payment in Gold)
Honestly, upon first sight of the hidden lake, Percival had anticipated several swim-and-dive expeditions, to acquire the sword legend said had been hidden there. A lot of wading and hoping not to cut their toes when they found it. He had not expected magic.
He'd only just got over the shock of the lake-lady – what was the word? dryad? – appearing to speak privately to Merlin, to call Arthur into the water, when another phenomena caught his attention.
A stone's throw to Arthur's left and about the same distance from the shore as the lord, the water began to swirl, dropping the center of the whirlpool below the surface of the lake. Arthur turned instinctively to the sound and movement, but Percival – whose instincts were roused when the dryad began to lead Merlin to deeper water – spared the disturbance only a glance.
Because the dryad was very close to Merlin, and it looked like she might–
Merlin moved toward her as well, bending his head as if he meant to kiss her – and both of them dropped right into the water like they'd inadvertently stepped into a sinkhole. A small splash closed over Merlin's head – Percival caught his breath and strode forward, only to meet an invisible barrier of resistance.
He couldn't get to the water.
Merlin didn't reappear. And the dryad was gone.
Arthur didn't notice right away, plowing a determined path through knee-deep water toward a short column of stone or ice rising from the whirlpool, from which the gleaming hilt of a sword thrust upward.
Merlin didn't surface, spluttering and splashing and wiping water from his eyes. The ripples smoothed, and the anxious cousin of panic rose from Percival's belly to grip his heart.
"Arthur!" Leon called urgently.
Percival began searching for the boundaries of whatever invisible barrier kept them from the water. Further down the shoreline, Gwaine was doing the same – with increasingly frantic movements and no luck.
"Go further!" Percival shouted to him, motioning. He shoved his shoulder against the barrier, leaned lower and shoved again, boots sliding in the gravel of the lakeshore – there was no give – he slammed his fist into it, drove his fists into it, battering with all his strength. It was like punching one of the wool-filled mattresses Merlin had conjured for them every night when they made camp.
Gwaine was no more successful than he, darting down the bank, hands spread to feel the barrier, occasionally pausing to swipe lower, in case there was some sort of break. To Percival's other side, Leon was doing the same, shouting again for Arthur's attention.
Percival added his greatest bellow – along with a fair amount of desperation. "Arthur!"
Still short of the offered sword, Arthur glanced over at them, annoyed, and Percival swallowed a bit of hysteria at the thought of how ridiculous they must look to him.
"She's taken Merlin!"
Immediately Arthur spun – took in the placid ripples of the rest of the lake – and began running, surging as best he could in thigh-deep water toward the place Merlin had last been standing. He struggled only a moment, however, before he impatiently abandoned the effort in favor of diving forward to begin to swim.
Percival's lungs burned with quickened breathing, and each inhalation felt like a betrayal of his submerged friend. He stepped unsteadily along, still pushing against the barrier. Twenty paces along, Gwaine had drawn his sword to hack at the invisible wall, but he didn't look to be getting anywhere.
Arthur reached the place where Merlin had disappeared, and ducked down below the surface.
"It's been too long," Leon said in a voice of dreadful calm.
"Shut up," Percival told him roughly. Hope rose to choke him – until Arthur emerged to gasp another breath, and dive down again.
"When the lake-lady said payment, I didn't think she meant someone's life," Leon added. Percival recognized that the other soldier was speaking from a sense of disbelief and helplessness. "She didn't seem vicious or bloodthirsty, or dangerous, even…"
"She can't have him," Percival said, though he knew his denial didn't make a lick of difference to the situation. "Oh lords, Arthur…"
Only one head surfaced, sodden golden hair slung back from Arthur's face. He gasped three times; Percival could only imagine the burning torment of his lungs denied air–
Oh, Merlin.
And Arthur dove under again.
Percival punched the air-wall and cursed, trying to blink the stinging sensation away from his eyes.
Heartbeats ticked past, slower and heavier.
"Oh, no," Leon said. "Look."
Expecting to see a black-haired body floating face-down, Percival obeyed – but saw only the whirlpool swirling madly the opposite direction, the stone-held sword beginning to sink slowly.
"Arthur!" Leon shouted. "The sword!"
Percival didn't blame him; his job was to make sure his captain had every scrap of possibly-valuable information in every circumstance. Arthur staggered upright, lost his footing with a splash, and glanced their way for an instant, before turning his gaze in the direction Leon pointed.
Then, for one eternal second, Arthur stood motionless to watch the relic retreating by slow inevitable inches, his back half-turned and his expression hidden from them. And at comprehension of the young lord's choice, Percival felt his insides hollow out.
Was Merlin beyond saving, even now.
Was continuing the attempt to locate and rescue and revive – less certain with every second that passed after the boy's disappearance, and there had been a lot of them – worth losing the chance at the sword.
Keep searching – and maybe lose everything anyway?
Or make for the sword and claim it and all it stood for – justice and equality and freedom – in Merlin's name. And with the first movement, abandon hope for the boy himself, accepting the immutable fact of his death.
One man, or a kingdom full of men? And neither was by any means guaranteed…
A terrible choice…
But Arthur only hesitated a single second, before turning his back on the sword to dive under the lake surface again.
Percival held his breath also. He was aware that Leon beside him was watching the sword sink slowly down, though he doubted that visually marking the spot would give them a second chance at retrieval later. Gwaine had dropped his sword and was slumped bodily against the barrier. Percival didn't dare even voice his hope - that if the sword had not been claimed, then Merlin as whatever sort of price the lady charged, might be returned to them.
Leon heaved a sigh and stepped back, one hand still flattened on the barrier, and Percival spared a single glance to see concentric rings smoothing away on the surface where the sword's hilt had been re-submerged.
And Arthur surged from the lake, his back to them, half-falling into the waist-high water. Percival glimpsed a smudge of black near his shoulder – and his heart rose into his throat when Arthur righted himself, twisted, and began to stagger backwards toward shore. Both of his arms were wrapped around another's body – whose arms dangled lifelessly to either side of the young lord.
Gwaine alerted, and Percival shoved against the barrier anew. Leon shouted, "Is he breathing?"
Percival didn't see how it was possible, not after so long, but…
Arthur was grim, pale and dark-eyed, and it was a struggle for him to get to the shore, dragging Merlin behind him with his arms hooked under the younger man's. Slow steps, missed footing, lost grip. He fell half a dozen times, and when his bare feet hit the damp sand of the shore, the barrier disappeared.
Still pushing against its invisibility, Percival nearly sprawled headlong, but caught himself and rushed forward to help.
Arthur didn't let go of Merlin, even when his legs gave out and he thumped down ignominiously on rear and back; Percival lifted Merlin's legs to bring him all the way out of the water. Soaked and breathing hard, Arthur hovered protectively over their youngest, searching his neck for evidence of heart-beat, twice shifting his fingers. Percival snatched up one arm to do the same at Merlin's wrist.
Gwaine slid into Merlin's legs panting from his sprint. "Is he alive? Is he still alive?"
Leon bent over Arthur, one hand on his captain's shoulder. "Tip him sideways," Leon said. "If there's water in his lungs, maybe it will–"
"I found a pulse," Arthur announced, even as Percival convinced himself that the tiny flicker against his fingers in Merlin's wrist was not wishful thinking.
"He's breathing," Gwaine said, right on the heels of Arthur's claim.
And Merlin was. Very slowly, and very shallowly, but without spluttering or choking or gagging. He moaned, and Percival sagged from crouching to sitting, in his relief, against Merlin's back, incredulous at the feel of muscles expanding and contracting in his friend's breathing. Gwaine huffed a rather emotional chuckle, and Leon sighed, clapping the hand that rested on Arthur's shoulder, as Merlin opened his eyes.
"It's okay, you're safe," Leon said, but Percival doubted Merlin even heard him.
Wet lashes starred the brilliant gold of magic – only Arthur didn't startle at all – flickering and fading back to blue. Merlin focused right on Arthur, who dropped off his elbow to his shoulder, sinking to his side to face the younger man on the ground.
"It was… so… beautiful," Merlin whispered hoarsely. Then his body curled slightly, hugging his arms to his chest, and he began to weep – not with harsh desperation, but with a helplessly exhausted sort of grief, and inexplicable loss.
Percival glanced down to meet Gwaine's eyes, brows raised, and read his thought - an odd reaction to nearly drowning, wasn't it?
Arthur shuffled closer to Merlin, one arm curving over his shoulder, his cheek tucked to sodden black hair, and just held their young friend.
Leon seated himself silently. Percival's trouser leg began to soak lake-water from Merlin's clothing, as the last of the day's sunlight faded from the peaks around them, but he didn't move. Perhaps Arthur would think to make some second attempt for the sword, or give up entirely and go back to Camelot empty-handed.
Whether or not Merlin was capable of arranging camp as they'd expected him to, as he was used to doing, or whether they'd make do sleeping on the ground, Percival thought he'd have to be told what had happened during his time underwater – maybe he'd have something to tell them, about his time underwater? Perhaps in a while they'd all have stomach for the rations Leon had carried.
But for the moment, the three of them simply surrounded their two leaders, soaked through and completely worn, to offer what comfort and recovery might be found in simple companionship.
13. Part 2: Breathe In, Breathe Out/Delayed Drowning
("Any Port in a Storm" from Son of Poseidon)
Lancelot bellowed orders preparing the ship for the sudden storm. Take in the sails! Douse all lights – and the galley stove! Man the bilge pumps!
Arthur braced himself against the growing fury of the sea, wondering if he should tie a line to Merlin, at least. "Sit down!" he shouted, as the first drops of rain began to patter down, and lightning streaked from heaven to water in the distance. He crouched beside Merlin as the younger man tumbled to the deck in the dubious shelter of the gunnel, trying to keep those gangly legs organized. "Is there anything you can do about this?"
Merlin didn't look scared, only deathly resigned – which was worse, somehow. "Only the horn of Trytn can start or stop a storm," he called back. "It gives the sea-king power over the water in the air also, you see."
Helluva lot of water in the air, suddenly.
The ship began to toss, lines snapping loose, tardy canvas ripping in the rising gale. They wallowed in a trench, with waves towering over them; the next moment they were flung upward so violently Merlin tumbled against Arthur, and their strength together was not sufficient to push apart against the shifting gravity.
In one flash of lightning Arthur saw Lancelot grimly struggling with the wheel, dark hair blown straight back, Leon gripping the stern railing just behind him, ready to relieve him if and when it became necessary. Merlin clung to the rail through the rush of the water – waves cresting over them, draining back out the scuppers at the base.
Time passed.
The ship rolled, rose and sank in a never-ending series of stomach-jerking trips over colossal waves. Lightning flashed, and it was impossible to tell whether the water that hit them came from the clouds overhead or the wave-spray around. Drenched was drenched – there was a point at which one could get no wetter, and then took little notice or mind of superfluous water. Though Arthur's heart was in his throat every time they plunged down – fearing they'd keep descending to the bottom of the ocean – the fact that over and over they rose again, still afloat, served to steady his nerves.
Maybe hours later – and starting to hope for some indication of dawn to ease the uproar around them - he pushed to his feet. Staggering to the ladder to the quarterdeck, he climbed halfway and held fast. Cupping his hand to his mouth, he hollered his question to the ship's captain, crouched now at the railing as Leon took a turn fighting to hold the wheel steady.
"Way off course, sire!" Lancelot hollered back. "The sea is carrying us far to the west – and fast!"
The sea is carrying us. Shouldn't it be, the wind is blowing us?
He lowered himself carefully – at one point, both his legs blew nearly horizontally away from the ladder – blinking his eyes clear to see Merlin on his feet, swaying as he gripped the stays, screaming into the wind.
Arthur stumbled back toward him – he's so skinny the wind will blow him away – and never afterward could quite remember, or define, what happened next.
The ship lurched. The deck dropped away. He might've hit a line, or the gunnel, or maybe just a wave...
Once, when he'd been too young to know any better, he'd taken a dare to ride an unbroken two-year-old colt. One moment the saddle was beneath him, a twist and a hop later, he was airborne with nothing but the dirt far below and inevitable.
This time, it was the water.
It might've been his imagination, to recall that he saw the ship from the outside, masts and yards and hull sketched against black waves and clouds by lightning, weirdly remote – before he hit the water.
The chill of the sea stole his breath away, and the depth of the wave that rolled over him would not allow its return. His perception tumbled, and he did not know which direction was up, to try to swim. But try he did, agonizing moments that stretched toward eternity while his senses tried to convince him that the world had been annihilated by water and that was all that was left, water and him and nothing else not even air…
He entered a darkness that was cold… and muted… and deep.
…..*….. …..*….. …..*…..
Merlin's teeth chattered. His whole body shook uncontrollably, as his limbs fought for balance and stability. And his magic fought for survival for all of them. It made it a little easier, that this storm was not aimed at Merlin. Only, the ship that carried him.
His control of the water element was adolescent compared to Balinor's, and with the added command of Trytn's horn, it took every ounce of power he could wring from his soul to keep the ship from keeling over, from sinking.
The magic felt different to him, and he used it without understanding. Fighting blind, allowed not so much as an inch of purchase on the water, still he managed to keep Arthur's ship from being swallowed by the hungry ocean somehow. They were flying on the currents that obeyed the sea-king, but his realm could not claim them, his element could not suck them down.
Merlin kept pulling them up to the air.
How long? He didn't know. It was dark and he was soaked and weary, shaking on the inside from his prolonged and sustained magical defiance of his sworn liege and his beloved parent. It felt like his heart was splitting, and that hurt more than what his body had already undergone.
He struggled as upright as he could get and screamed into the storm, "Father, stop! They are not our enemies!"
The ship listed suddenly, and almost before he could draw breath to replace his desperate – and probably unheard – plea, something slammed into his shoulder, spinning him about. He clutched the rail and stared at the empty square of deck where Arthur had been. Where Arthur should have been.
Leon at the wheel was bellowing – Merlin dragged his gaze up to the quarterdeck – and pointing, Lancelot trying to make his way to the ladder through the deluge.
He spun - and glimpsed the human prince struggling briefly in the waves, further than a stone could be hurled through the air, before a storm-surge crashed down over him.
Arthur did not reappear.
Merlin did not hesitate.
One foot pushed off from the deck, one foot from the rail, and he embraced his homecoming eagerly.
Plunging into the deep water, it was dark and the legs were slower and clumsier than the mer-tail he was used to, but his direction was sure and his resolve bedrock-firm. His eyes strained in the murk and the muffled quiet underwater – a white blur – his outstretched hand brushed cloth, then solid warm flesh.
He slid his arm diagonally across Arthur's body, and kicked for the surface.
Only… only… ah, hells, he was human, too.
Arthur was heavier than Merlin was strong, and already unconscious; grim reality leached his brief burst of fear-energy.
He couldn't breathe, and he couldn't swim.
For a moment, his eyes cleared and he could see as well as before, below the water. For a moment, he hoped he was changing involuntarily back into his mer-person form – and then he inhaled water.
He sobbed and choked as water filled his mouth, salty and smothering. He could see the surface, roughly lightning-lit above them, could almost reach out and break through – and another monster wave rolled them deep. Disoriented, starting to panic, knowing he was drowning and Arthur probably worse off, he tightened his grip on the prince and fought away from the depths, back toward the air.
Then abruptly, Merlin stopped fighting.
Clung limpet-like to Arthur with his whole body, allowing the water to move them, and focused on floating. Like he'd done with the ship. The water could rebel and roil about them if only he could keep their heads in the air to breathe.
It seemed to work.
At least, now he could feel Arthur's body struggling to fill his lungs. Merlin gasped also, throwing his head as far back as he could; the air was heavy and motionless and salty, but it was air. Coughing, he tried to push himself higher in the water, tried to see where the ship was – if he could float them back, if maybe a long-boat rescue was being launched – and saw only water all around, like they were inside the curl of a wave, just before it collapsed on itself.
Shadowy figures showed past the threatening wall of water, approaching – one, two, half-a-dozen. Slow and wary, but they were the mer-people - his people.
There was relief in the knowledge that they would help… but fear, in the thought that they would only help him.
Arms encircled him unexpectedly from behind, so like his nightmare he shrieked and thrashed instantly.
"Son, don't fight me, I've got you, you're safe."
He let himself go limp, for the moment, supported by his father's familiarity. The black-and-flash of the storm-lightning raged silently above them – between five and ten fathoms above them – but the churn of the surface seemed not as chaotic, as if the storm was abating.
Someone else, someone he didn't recognize but for one of the warriors, floated from the water that surrounded them – covered them – into the pocket of air, and reached to take Arthur. His father's arms twined around him – between his body and Arthur's.
"Let go," his king ordered in his ear. "Release the human, it will not hurt you any longer. You're safe, I promise. We have Merlin, we can let the humans' ship go–" this Merlin's confused brain recognized was addressed to the other warrior – "but take this one and get rid of it."
"No!" Merlin cried out, kicking to be able to use his legs to keep Arthur. "No!" Any rational explanation was lost in overwhelming fear and helplessness and exhaustion; he reverted to an almost childish tantrum. "He's mine!"
"Merlin, do not fight me," his father insisted in his ear, gentle but strong – they were stronger than him, they'd separate them and abandon Arthur to his death.
"Save him too," he demanded – begged – as the weakness in his arms and hands and fingers betrayed him and Arthur was drawn away by the other warrior, little by little. "As you love me – oh my father! – save him too."
No response. He couldn't tell that his father had heard him at all.
Merlin sobbed and cursed and struggled and screamed – "As you trust me! He must live!"
As he felt his connection to Arthur slip away, the water came rushing back and he choked. He never had fought his father physically before, but he did now. His fists and heels were slow and weak in the water and he wasn't sure if he was fighting to get to Arthur or the air – both equally as vital, in his mind at the moment –
"Merlin." Balinor's arms were unyielding, but his voice was calm. "Focus on the air. You must breathe as the humans do, now. Think of the air, and we will bring the human to safety, too."
He felt his head drop back onto his father's shoulder, heavily, involuntarily, as they both seemed to break the surface once again, into the close, dark air. Beside the unknown warrior – clearly unhappy to be burdened with Arthur's body – another mer-person appeared, and Merlin recognized the orange of his body-covering scales.
"William," he managed. "Please don't let him die." His friend gave him a nod of tentative promise.
Merlin felt the rush of the water around his body, the plucking of the current at his human limbs as if he were pulled through a great stand of sea-grass. Carried, he breathed, and knew no more.