A/N: This will contain a number of shifts of pov, but I think it won't be hard to follow… also it was long enough that it's split into three parts.

Some dialogue from ep.4.7 "The Secret Sharer".

Stay, part 1

He knelt in the tiny dim shrine, eyes closed against the myriad flickers of candlelight that surrounded him, body and spirit, ears closed to the noise of the busy market street just beyond Lireht, his bodyguard. Since the warrior was now more priest, so long had he been waiting.

The scent of the candles – smoke and wax and sandalwood - was his focus. Each one lit as a prayer, or a memorial. For the dead… for the living… for the future.

More than one was his. He'd been hounded through the four corners of the Five Kingdoms in his lifetime, and hadn't yet found the one he sought. Now, though – he sensed her at the doorway even as she claimed his expectation from Lireht, who stood silently aside to allow her entrance.

And opened his eyes to see – "Morgana Pendragon. High Priestess of the Triple Goddess, and the last of your kind."

That was prophecy also, though for many years he'd expected the last High Priestess would have been Morgause Gorlois. Evidently the beautiful blonde witch had taken short cuts and made bargains to ensure that her high-risk military endeavors wouldn't cut her line short before due time.

He watched Morgana as she spoke of her purpose in seeking him out – abduction, as though he was only a mercenary – and she seemed completely oblivious to the whispers of the shrine. The hope, the longing each still-burning wick represented, marking time passing… waiting. They increased substantially at the mention of -

Camelot.

"From what I hear," Alator said slowly, "the young king follows Uther's ways."

And that was wrong. The young Pendragon – King Arthur – was not destined to oppose magic. What had gone wrong?

He pondered, while this High Priestess – fairly mercenary herself, or so it seemed to him – spoke of payment, and bartering away the treasures of her order and an unusual artifact that could only be used for white magic. And they reached the name, the purpose of her visit, the base target of her self-centered ire.

Emrys.

She spat the name with hate, having just claimed the prophesied figure of light and hope and redemption, as a mortal enemy.

Alator controlled his reaction with an effort. Emrys was the enemy of no one who had magic, save those who declared themselves against himself and his prophesied king… who still supported Uther's Ban. Which was, essentially, a failure of Emrys, who was prophetically tasked to be the magical advisor and guide of the Once and Future King.

And fate had handed Alator the chance to right the course of history.

"It is as you wish," he said, carefully. "I will perform this task for you." Abduct the man who could lead him to Emrys. And then…

…..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Alator was on his toes, in Camelot. Not because he and Lireht were in any danger from the warriors there, but… Emrys. If Gaius the renowned court physician really was in contact with Emrys, there was no telling what protection the great sorcerer might have given him.

But there was nothing, save a residual sense of power in the chamber where they found the old man.

"Sleep," Alator commanded, and watched the physician melt back into Lireht's sizeable arms.

Almost disappointed. It had been too easy.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Kemeray. The rocky valley, the ridge that formed a land-bridge silhouetted picturesquely against the sky. The cliff-face riddled with mining-caves.

Alator had chosen the location carefully. It was an iron mine. And iron had the interesting property of causing interference with the flow of magic.

Certain chambers left hollowed as the miners passed through, seeking veins and deposits, were virtually unaffected by the phenomena. The place where he positioned torches and a circular trench around a tipped block of stone for Gaius' interrogation, was one such. And he carried his staff, the thick head carved in a swirl of characters, usually a repository of magical energy which he could draw upon reliably, though he wouldn't need its vestiges here.

He was surprised when the old man resisted, momentary quelling his flames. Acwence tha baelblyse…

But not disappointed. It was to be a battle of wills, two old men of magic – soldier against healer. Renegade against courtier.

"Feel the fire roar deep within you. Feel your thoughts begin to simmer. Let them flee the rushing flames. Let them run like burning oil. Let them escape. Allow them free, Gaius…"

As he began to plumb the physician's depths, he realized, it was Gaius' fault. He knew Emrys, indeed, intimately well – as well as he knew the prophesied king. His the decision and pressure and advice that kept them separate, that shackled Emrys in his destined work. That kept magic hunted and murdered and suppressed.

Ruthlessly Alator punished, ripping aside mental defenses, ignoring novice tricks of distraction, pursuing the identity of the great sorcerer who skulked in the dark, constrained by Gaius' fear of Uther's shadow… And finally found Emrys.

Not some canny old man, like the two of them were, secure in the many-layered habits of survival - manipulation and isolation, and in the very long game there was little that was not expendable. Not some enigmatic game-player, moving people like pieces on a board with little thought or care beyond the victory. Not some subtle riddle-reader, holding back for personal gain or amusement.

A boy. A very young man, with the loves and fears and inexperience of youth.

Fettered by old Gaius' caution and secrecy for his own good, to restrain an impetuous and thoughtlessly generous nature. Because this old man – weak and sweat-streaked and nearly broken beneath Alator's magic – loved him.

Emrys was still someone's son. Still in training, himself. Still prone to mistakes made from the heart.

Alator knew him, even as Gaius surrendered the name.

Merlin.

He stepped back, thoughtful, letting the fires of his vengeful inquisition die.

The two sides of the coin stood back to back. Neither seeing the other truly because neither could be truly seen. Not with this ignorance between them.

So maybe his plans for confronting Emrys in his failure to properly mold and instruct the young king could do with a bit of reorganization.

My lord, Lireht said. The only communication he was capable of, anymore, having had his tongue cut out as a boy himself, courtesy of Uther's prejudice, fanatical even so long ago.

Startled, Alator jerked his head toward the tunnel entrance, expecting to see his muscle-clad friend – remembering a moment later that he'd remained in a lookout position at the cave mouth. What is it?

Riders approach.

Who? He waited – while he waited, he wiped Gaius' face of sweat and grime, offered the semi-conscious physician a few dribbles of water to drink.

Two men with torches, Lireht finally reported. Intercepted by a second group – four knights.

For aid or arrest?

I am sorry, master, it isn't clear. They're arguing and exchanging insults… but making to enter the cave together.

Lure them toward the lower workings, Alator instructed. I will meet you there.

He checked Gaius again – coaxed him to swallow two more mouthfuls of water, before leaving him to an unconscious rest.

The lower workings. Still rich with the iron ore that coated the ground in reddish dust. Alator had nearly depleted the magic of his staff in constructing a very small prison cell from the abandoned mine timbers. It was meant to hold Emrys comfortably away from the self-defensive magic that would certainly be dangerous for Alator, for whatever length of time might be necessary to convince him of the error of his ways, but it could also hold half a dozen men at a pinch. And perhaps Emrys would come for his friend Gaius anyway, sooner or later – but he'd definitely come at a threat to a handful of his kings' knights. Or the king himself might come, Alator had heard that Arthur favored fighting his own battles, still. And that would be sure to bring Emrys.

That, or more knights would be sent. Then, Alator would have to get creative in manufacturing more such holding cells. There was certainly room in this honeycomb of chambers and passages for Camelot's hundreds.

The thought amused him as he waited, poised at the head of the steep slanting shaft that ended in his makeshift mine-timber prison. Keeping his distance from the enchantment-mirage he'd constructed and inverted, so it should be imperceptible even to Emrys.

He heard voices, echoing and approaching. Bickering, indeed.

"Didn't have to come…"

"… Manservant and a wayward knight… out of the citadel gates after dark…"

"…'Re you in the lead, anyway?"

And then Alator heard pure gold disguised as a sneer. "Because I'm the king, Merlin."

Both of them. He took a deep breath to contain elation and anticipation and… trepidation, if he was honest. Nearly missing the rest of the king's comment about implied leadership and knights' oaths, as Lireht passed Alator in the tunnel, leaving the footprints that the others were following in the silent dark.

"Still think we ought to have split up…" The mumble carried to them more clearly, along with a flicker of light.

Alator, and Lireht behind him, stood in a passage that led away from the chamber the knights were just reaching; he calculated that they'd all step within his enchantment before they noticed him.

"I dunno, Arthur," a different voice said, carelessly familiar in a habitual way, which was in itself astonishing – "Not sure why any abductors would bring Gaius this deep…"

A young man strode into view, sideways to Alator's position, the light from his upraised torch gleaming from golden hair as he bent his head to study the ground, the footprints Lireht had left in the loose earth – and which stopped at the center of the room. He wore a ring on his left hand, resting casually but purposefully on the hilt of the sword belted around his mail shirt – but otherwise, no mark of royalty distinguished him from two others who caught up and stepped around him as he came to a puzzled halt at Lireht's last half-footprint.

One had dark hair, flowing over his collar; the other's was shorter and curly, reflecting red from the tint of the cave walls and floor. The dark-haired one faced away from Alator, studying the irregularities of the far wall of the chamber, bending to examine another small waist-high tunnel that led nowhere. But the curly-haired one caught sight of Alator – and Lireht silent behind him – almost immediately.

"Sire!" he gasped in warning, pointing.

Alator spoke the spell he had prepared, and power rushed forth from his staff to accomplish his will. All three young men wavered, catching their balance as their boots were magically planted solid in place. The blonde king managed to draw his sword also, by dint of allowing his weight to lean back against the dark-haired knight – who shoved him back upright into a defensive stance.

Alator lifted his hands to demonstrate passivity, and stepped out to see the rest of the chamber.

Two more knights, bringing the total to five, as Lireht had said. One very big, with massive arms left bare by mail and under-shirt. Possibly bigger than Lireht. And a smaller, dark-skinned one – both of whom were also caught in Alator's spell.

"Now we know why they took Gaius," the one with long dark hair said, grinning like a warrior who relished danger. "A trap."

"Who are you?" the king demanded.

"Your Majesty," Alator said, bowing without dropping his eyes. Which one was Emrys, then? Posing as a knight? Or Merlin, as he was commonly called. "I am –"

"Where is Gaius?"

Alator recognized the voice as the one bickering with the king most freely, as they came down the passage. He looked between the knights to the last figure, the servant just inside the tunnel's mouth.

Dressed in a shabby brown jacket over a blue shirt with a red kerchief bound around his neck, the boy braced himself with open hands against the rough red stone of the cave wall. Perhaps in readiness to launch himself bodily at Alator – there was menace and intent in his eyes and the lines of his face and neck and hands – in spite of the obvious enchantment that lay between them. Or perhaps he was feeling the effect of the iron that ran through the stone surrounding them in an irregular web of deposit and cache.

A servant, though? Emrys? If not for the iron of the mine, Alator was sure he could sense enough of that sort of power to know for certain.

"If you've hurt him…" the boy continued, as if they two were alone in the room, and he had the clear upper hand.

Alator exhaled. That was Emrys.

"Gaius is uninjured," he informed them, tucking his hands into his sleeves. "He will be returned to Camelot this very night. There are those, I assume, who will care for him there."

He glanced back, meeting Lireht's eyes; his bodyguard and best friend nodded, understanding his mission, and turned to leave.

In that moment, when his attention was distracted, the king twisted to give a command of his own, low and hurried. "Merlin if your feet are free, run! that's an order! Get back to Camelot, warn Agravaine – he can lead a rescue –"

Merlin, Alator was satisfied to note, didn't budge. But it wasn't because he was caught in the enchantment – it was because his king was.

"Lord Agravaine?" Alator said. "I wouldn't bother, if I was you. He's in league with the Lady Morgana, who wants you dead." And Emrys also – who didn't look surprised; he must have known this already. Of course he had known this already. "He it was who let us into the citadel to take Gaius. He was to be tortured for information."

"If you've hurt him –" Merlin said again, more menacingly. He pushed away from the wall, but paused just shy of the enchantment to glance down at its invisible edge.

Alator stretched the truth a bit. "Gaius is fine."

"So what now?" King Arthur interrupted. "You've – caught us." He threw a glare at Merlin over his shoulder, probably a reprimand for the disobeyed order to run. "What do you intend to do?"

"I'm going to keep you here for a time," Alator said.

"For ransom?" the king challenged.

"For a lesson." Alator didn't smile at the wary looks the fighting men exchanged. Uncertainty entered Emrys' expression as he spared a glance for his sovereign.

"And what of Merlin?" the dark-haired knight said cautiously. "He's only a servant. You're going to let him go?"

Emrys was hiding his magic from his king, still. Alator guessed, as long as he didn't threaten King Arthur, he wouldn't provoke the other sorcerer's response. He had anticipated, however, a single prisoner and an immediate private conversation.

"Are you leaving?" Alator asked him, readying the magic that would dissolve the illusion of the floor, and drop them down the shaft to the cell in the lower workings. "Or staying?"

Perhaps Emrys could read the intention of the spell in spite of the inversion that hid it. Or perhaps not. Perhaps he knew that the deeper level was entirely remote from magic's touch, and would remain to have that conversation with Alator apart from the others' hearing.

Eyes on Alator, Merlin lifted his chin and ignored the mixed protests and orders from the others, taking one long step forward into the enchantment.

"You idiot!" the king growled, frustrated.

Alator experienced the opposite emotion, and allowed himself a smile – it was high time the king recognized the extraordinary loyalty of his extraordinary servant. The dust of the floor shimmered, as he released that spell –

Then dropped, along with four knights, a king, and a sorcerer.

Alator called the torch and the king's unsheathed sword to his hand, as a precaution of his own. It wasn't that far to fall. Injuries would be minimal. But there was no way out of the cell – and magic was blocked in that lowest chamber where the cell was positioned. Ignoring the clamor of voices – distant and low, now – he turned and made his way to the entrance of the mine.

His captives could resign and accustom themselves to temporary captivity, and he'd begin to deal with them later. Lireht would see Gaius returned to Camelot, but Agravaine would surely not be ignorant of the young king's whereabouts. Alator guessed that the traitor would ride straightaway for his mistress – and that she would come to Kemeray, believing herself in command of the situation.

A notion he intended to disabuse her of.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

The floor of the cave disappeared. Gravity disappeared.

Reality disappeared.

The knights shouted surprise-shock-fear. If Arthur's voice was among them, Merlin couldn't pick it out. Light disappeared.

Or maybe he only had his eyes shut, anticipating – The ground slammed into him, rock-hard.

Maybe he bounced. Or maybe one of the others landed on him. All the air disappeared also – maybe being used up by the men who were still yelling, cursing, flailing and kicking.

Merlin dragged shaking fingers through the loose dirt beneath his face, all the way to bedrock, to make sure that was down. Because any sense of direction – as well as his stomach and lungs – had been left up there. Wherever they had fallen from.

"Is everyone all right? You fellows? Anyone hurt?"

One of the knights. He didn't know who.

He couldn't breathe – still upside-down, disoriented – and his magic. Must have been left behind, or disappeared, also. He felt shaky and empty, inside; he'd never felt like this.

Drowning. Gaping like a fish out of water. Submerged in the wrong medium or deprived of his medium or…

"Anything broken? And no, Gwaine, a bruised backside doesn't count for any sympathy…"

He'd been in a cave before, not so very different from this, but vastly opposite. Crystals thrumming with life, sparkling with a million points of light, overflowing with images of experience. Confusing in its riches of sensation – more more more – pastpresentfuture…

This cave was dead-dark. Nothing to be sensed, nothing to be touched. No magic. He spooked a little, trying to lash out – it was dark, no one would see, no one would hear his voice out of the babble of others –

Arthur? Sire? Where's Arthur? He's here – My lord, are you all right?

Five spells, he knew. After once being trapped in a tomb of stone in the bowels of Camelot by troll magic, he knew spells to get out of places like this, but.

There was no magic. There was no magic. There was no –

"I'm all right."

Arthur, with that little catch in his voice that made Merlin alert to the fact that the king's body was in contact with his, along the backs of his legs in the darkness. And all right wasn't all right. He scrambled toward his king -

up or down, over or under were they all suspended in midair or stuck to a cave ceiling like stalagmi- no, it was the other one, stalactites –

He scraped knuckles and grazed his head against rough wood - a thick solid upright beam he pushed away from in turning to find his master.

"Arthur," he managed. "What's wrong? Where are you hurt?"

There was light, he realized, a dim glow far above them – the effect where they were was not unlike starlight with no moon. Shadows and impressions the eyes strained to resolve. Arthur was seated, his back to the wall, legs partially stretched in front of him. One of the others crouched at his other side, as Merlin lifted and arranged his limbs to kneeling beside the king.

"My shoulder. My chest. Probably just bruised –" Arthur shifted, and hissed involuntarily.

Merlin rose to change the angle of his examination, to ease his fingers past the neckline of Arthur's chainmail – and of a sudden experienced the sensation that his movement would cause him to keep rising into the air – into the ether - and drift away. He clutched at Arthur in momentary panic.

"Ow – damn – keep off if you're going to be clumsy about it!" The king reacted pained-annoyed.

"Sorry." The sensation passed and Merlin continued, making an effort to be more gentle. "I told you, you shouldn't have come."

"And I told you, when my physician leaves in suspicious circumstances and my manservant and a knight who's supposed to be on duty –" Arthur cut himself off, inhaling swiftly through his nostrils.

Merlin had found the injury. "This is it, nowhere else?" he said. "I think your collarbone is cracked. Here."

He fumbled under the edges of his jacket – too hot, take it off – to unfasten his belt. His stomach rolled uneasily, which was odd, but he focused on tying the strap of leather around Arthur's opposite shoulder, and under the elbow of the arm on the injured side.

"Try to keep from moving too much," he said, "and this'll help with the pain, stabilizing the bone."

The others kept moving, shuffling, boots in dirt. The sound magnified til it filled his ears like water and he gritted his teeth against the raw irritation.

"There's no way out," Gwaine reported. "No door, just these timbers making a cell…"

Someone's knee jammed into Merlin's back, and he arched involuntarily away from the unintentional contact, his gut churning with nerves.

"Could we climb them?" Percival suggested.

"Arthur can't," Leon pointed out.

"Maybe if Elyan stood on Percival's shoulders, he could climb –"

"…Get out –"

"Get back to Camelot for help –"

It was too dark to see properly, but Merlin felt the weight of Arthur's gaze, accusing him of making the wrong choice. Should have gone for help. You're not a fighter. You can't do anything against a sorcerer… He'd heard it all before, in some variation.

"I'm not leaving you," Merlin whispered. Whether Arthur heard him or not. It was his life, his destiny, in four words.

"Maybe we can use our swords to hack through a beam or two –"

"No, don't," Elyan said from the corner opposite Merlin – what a tiny space, it was so hot. "These are mine timbers. That means the moisture that soaked into them would have contained the dust of the iron ore – they're nearly stone, themselves. You'll shatter your blade and barely nick them."

"Maybe if we dig…"

The tall shadows of the knights swooped downward and the scuffling, scraping sounds of gloved hands and belt-daggers at the timbers and in the stone of the floor swirled around him. Over him, through him – he was spinning again in every direction at once, weightless and lost and crushed and hollow…

He managed to spin away from Arthur before he vomited what little dinner Gwen had made him eat, however many hours ago it had been.

Not once. Not twice. But again, and again – spitting his mouth clear and trying to wipe drool from his lips and cold sweat all over his body and – his muscles all wrenching backwards to vomit again.

And then, when his stomach and throat constricted, nothing came up, and he swallowed reflexively. Again.

Reached a shaky hand to scrub his mouth with his sleeve. Collapsed to sitting before thinking about the slope of the ground and where the liquids which should have been inside him might have run to –

Awkward silence. And fiery-hot shame. He yanked his kerchief over his head to blot sweat awkwardly from his face.

"Merlin?" someone said.

He didn't know who; it sounded like his ears were full of moving air or water, a subtle rushing noise filled with purposeless urgency.

Someone else said, "Did he hit his head? Sometimes if you hit your head too hard –"

"I didn't," he said aloud. His voice sounded strange, as if his mouth had forgotten how to talk, and was only good for spewing out what it shouldn't. "I'm all… right. It's just…"

Medical explanation failed him – the ability to fabricate failed him – and exhaustion crashed down like the ceiling, like the floor, again. Weariness whirled around and through him and he thought – oh no, not again.

"Going to… lie down for a minute. Arthur. If you're okay?"

"Yeah. If you… need to." He could tell by the sound of the king's voice, the expression on his face.

Concern and ignorance and mild annoyance at both feelings. What do I do. I don't know. But I'm supposed to know… When that happened, there was default to just… being king.

So Merlin hitched himself round – wary of putting a hand in his own vomit in the dark, and curled up on the ground, his back against Arthur's leg on his injured side. The contact felt comfortable, rather than the reverse, and Arthur didn't try to scoot away as if he thought they both needed space between them.

He closed his eyes against the incongruous vertigo. Listened to the knights lower their voices, but question-question-question when the only one with answers was that enigmatic bald sorcerer…

Darkness beckoned, and he accepted with reckless gratitude.