Stay, part 2
It was all Leon's fault, he knew that.
The moment when Percival and Elyan, fresh in from patrol, stopped him at the juncture of the citadel hallway to mention seeing Merlin and Gwaine heading out – and he heard his king's voice at the other end of the corridor. "What's going on?"
Should have lied, Leon reflected, sliding down to a crouched position in the corner of the tiny dark cell, keeping his feet under him because both Merlin and Arthur were sprawled out, relatively speaking. Beside Leon, Percival as the biggest and Elyan as the smallest, were negotiating shared space – and in the opposite corner, Gwaine remained restlessly on his feet.
I am sorry, sire, he thought, but could not say, here and now. Not before the other knights, who were his subordinates. Not before Merlin, who saw everything and knew more and bested them all for compassion and loyalty.
Though maybe right now, he wouldn't hear Leon's whispered apology, after all.
"Arthur," Merlin said, not turning from where he was curled toward the great timber-bars of their cell. His tone was slightly off, as though nothing was wrong and they were all falling peacefully to sleep, one by one beneath the stars on some casual outing. "Arthur?"
The king – in a brown study, and who could blame him – grunted.
"D'you think he was telling the truth? About letting Gaius go?"
One could barely see in the grayest of dim, the only illumination an indirect glow from the chamber high above, where they'd fallen from. But Leon knew Arthur would be meeting his eyes, if he could, over a shared worry. The same worry that was drawing silent intensity from the other knights. Because this was the third time Merlin had asked the same question.
"Someone else want to answer this time?" Gwaine said, leaning against the rock wall that provided the fourth boundary of their cell, above Arthur. "Someone he listens to better than Arthur?"
"Shut up," Arthur growled – glancing up, by the sound of his voice. "Merlin…" He shuffled his position, when it probably pained him to move. "I don't see what the sorcerer gains by lying, in this instance. If Gaius was abducted to… draw me out. It worked. I'm here. There's no reason for them to keep Gaius."
Except, the old man presumably knew where he'd been taken, which would direct a rescue mission, which the sorcerer would presumably wish to avoid… unless he had ways of avoiding it, with magic.
Merlin didn't respond, and Leon wondered if he'd absorbed the king's judgment, this time.
"I make it fourth watch," Percival said to Leon in a low voice, though the rest probably heard anyway. Except maybe Merlin. "Almost dawn."
Enough of a question for Leon to agree, "I would say so, yes." Eight hours since they'd left the citadel, or thereabouts.
Arthur sighed at their disquiet. "Regardless of the state of Camelot's defenses – which we can do nothing about, at the moment – the sorcerer more than implied his return."
Yes, he had. That lesson he'd mentioned. It was only logical to assume he meant, a lesson for the king. The rest of them didn't matter, unless it was as leverage. Leon bit his tongue on a question of his own, D'you suppose the sorcerer would have gloated if he intended taking Camelot by force in our absence… And because he hadn't, could they assume Camelot wasn't his goal, and rest easy on that count, at least?
"What about your uncle?" Gwaine said, sounding uncharacteristically thoughtful. But at the same time, still more reckless than any of the others – even including Leon – dared to be, voicing the query aloud.
"What about my uncle?" Arthur shot back.
Geoffrey of Monmouth would rally the council and hold the citadel in the event of an attack, Leon was sure. The warriors of Camelot knew their business well enough to hold. The trouble would come if the king was ransomed for the citadel's surrender, or some such… The only man who'd dare step beyond his bounds to take the mantle of leadership, though, would be Lord Agravaine – but what when his loyalties were called into question?
"The sorcerer claimed he was the traitor," Gwaine continued. Leon recognized that, deprived of the opportunity for action, his fellow knight would choose to talk. "Letting them into the citadel to take Gaius and torture him for information…"
"He also said Gaius was fine," Arthur stated.
"Not the point," Gwaine said - brave or foolish, or both. "Merlin never trusted Agravaine, did you know that?"
Silence from the king – who was probably looking in the direction of the prone servant.
Leon shifted uneasily to keep circulation flowing from bent legs to his feet, bruises pulsing unpleasantly in several places on his body – the same for all of them, probably. And Merlin must have hit his head, to react so violently ill – and now so confused and lethargic. It was hardest to bear when Merlin suffered. He was the youngest, the least trained to expect and endure injury.
"So – Agravaine." Gwaine was not going to let the topic go, short of order or threat. "Can you believe it?"
Percival and Elyan shuffled uncomfortably and said nothing, but theirs was not the silence of incredulity. And Leon felt, rather than saw, Arthur's gaze on him again.
"Can you believe it?" the king said softly.
I can, was the honest answer. But the man wasn't Leon's uncle.
"He was one of the few people who knew the secret of our route through the Valley of the Fallen Kings, a fortnight ago," Leon answered, the same way. The time Merlin was lost. He didn't have to say that; they'd all thought it might be for good, and only Arthur and Gwaine had believed otherwise.
Arthur put a careful hand sideways on Merlin's shoulder, as if he was thinking of those days, too. The young servant made no sound or movement that Leon perceived, but Arthur removed his hand in reactive swiftness. "Merlin said, my uncle was making up the story about Gaius leaving because of his own guilty conscience."
"To my knowledge, Lord Agravaine has never spoken an outright lie," Leon said. "But…"
"But," Arthur echoed. Without disagreement.
"Sire," Percival said. "All of us have proven that we'd die for you, in service to Camelot. Lord Agravaine has not taken the chance to prove the same, in any of the battles we've fought."
And Percival rarely spoke up. Leon answered him so Arthur could hear the counterargument without owning it. "Lord Agravaine is not a warrior. And he kept distance from Camelot while Uther was alive for reasons known best to the two of them."
Arthur grunted.
And Leon knew what he was thinking. Family, though. Arthur's blood, not Morgana's – why would Agravaine's loyalty lie with her? If he understood it correctly, and if there was not another spy or traitor in Camelot, it was either, Gaius had betrayed Merlin in that incident a fortnight ago, or Agravaine had betrayed Arthur.
But he'd seen Gaius' devotion to Merlin, they all had. Years of it, and reciprocated. Proven loyalty. Agravaine declared that he stood with Arthur, but…
"Boys," Gwaine said abruptly, pushing away from the rock wall and looking up.
There was a figure visible in the dim glow above them, at the edge of the shaft that had tumbled them down into the waiting cell. Leon glimpsed the gleam of torchlight from a bald head – but also bare muscular shoulders and arms. Not Alator – an accomplice, then?
A growing shadow eclipsed the light of the shaft, and Gwaine reached up to receive a large rough bag, let down on a rope.
Leon put an elbow against one of the timbers, thinking suddenly of leaping for that rope – even if it was let go of, they might be able to do something with a rope toward their own escape –
But it twitched, and released the bag, and the unknown man above them yanked it up.
Gwaine, opening the mouth of the bag, said succinctly, "Food. And a waterskin. Hey, mate, can you toss down a torch? I like to see what I'm eating!"
A moment later, Gwaine was dropping the bag into Arthur's lap, leaning forward to catch the falling torch before it could burn any of them in landing – Percival scrambled to back him up in case he missed – which he didn't, and it did feel more comfortable, with better light. Gwaine smiled in satisfaction, setting the torch on the ground and leaning it against one of the side timbers – which didn't catch. Disappointing.
"Merlin," Arthur said, and moved his boot to nudge one of the servant's legs when he didn't respond. "Merlin, wake up. There's food."
"You don't think they'd try to poison us?" Gwaine asked Elyan, kneeling over Arthur to reach into the bag. "I'll try it first, then you'll know it's safe."
"That's really generous of you, Gwaine," Elyan remarked sarcastically.
"Merlin," Arthur said – and maybe Leon was the only one to catch that hint of worry in his voice. He let Gwaine appropriate their meal, to poke his servant with his opposite hand, leaving his injured side unmoving. "Wake up, you lazy idiot."
A moment, for Leon's own worry to wake again, before Merlin grunted and shuffled to his back. Because they'd all seen Arthur without Merlin, for a few days those few weeks ago. Hollow and cheerless – functioning, but without hope. However that worked. And surely Arthur himself couldn't forget.
"What?" Merlin said.
"Sit up," the king instructed. "They've given us food, and water."
"There's bread," Gwaine said. "Some dried meat. A couple apples… How's your head, mate?"
"Still on my… shoulders?" Merlin said, sounding faintly uncertain. "I don't want… to eat anything." Not after that bout of unexplained vomiting; Leon sympathized.
"Come on, you've got to try," Arthur ordered, accepting a torn piece of the loaf from Gwaine. He tore off a hunk with his own teeth and dropped the rest on Merlin's chest, saying indistinctly around his first mouthful, "Here. Don't say I never gave you anything."
The torch was placed to throw Arthur's shadow across Merlin, but as Leon received his share – slightly stale, but still admitted welcome in a grudging way – he watched Merlin pick crumbs and pass them slowly to his lips. If Arthur was watching and dissatisfied, at least he didn't say anything.
The waterskin came around to Leon after the other three knights. He offered it first to Arthur, who declined with a shake of his head; his one hand was still occupied with a strip of dried meat. Leon washed his bread down with two careful swallows, and made to pass it to Merlin.
"Take this," he said to the servant. "You've got to drink some water. It'll help settle your stomach, and keep your strength up."
For a long moment he believed Merlin was going to refuse. Then the servant set his bread down on the dirt next to Arthur's knee, and used one of the timbers that hemmed them in, to drag himself upright. For another long moment he hesitated over the spout of the waterskin, before lifting and swallowing. Once, then twice. Then lowered the skin to his lap.
Swallowed again. Breathed – sucked in another quick breath… swallowed – gasped –
And flung the waterskin aside, turning to retch again on the dirt floor at the edge of their cell.
Percival caught up the skin so the water didn't leak out. Gwaine cursed softly – and Arthur frowned at Leon over Merlin's bent and heaving back.
Leon scooted around to put a stabilizing hand on the boy, and make sure he didn't put a hand or knee in the vomit, involuntarily. The loose earth could soak it up; Leon thought he could probably push the soiled clods right out of the cell in a minute, when… Merlin finished…
Crumbs. And a couple trickles of water. But the wretched sounds of misery continued. Slowing, weakening – Leon didn't think he'd ever seen someone so ill.
"That's not from a bump on the head, still, d'you think?" Gwaine asked, behind them.
Merlin rocked, swallowing convulsively – and barely missed coming down in it, as he collapsed. " 'M'all right," he moaned, in the absolute silence of everyone else's frozen anxiety. " 'M'all… right."
Leon didn't think anyone believed him. No one said anything.
He didn't know what else to do, than scrape a couple handfuls of loose earth over the mess, prepare to shove it between two of the timbers – then paused. Cursed silently. But… didn't think it was best to keep this to himself.
"What is it?" Arthur said, immediately alert to Leon's hesitation.
"I could be wrong, sire," he said. I'm not. "But there seems to be… blood here."
…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..
The darkness spun in random, loopy whirls, trying to tip Merlin off into – nothingness.
He resisted. He wasn't sure why.
It was raining. It felt like it was raining, cool shards that cut through him effortlessly like drops of lightning, leaving fiery trails and.
Blood where there should have been bone. Bone that dissolved and washed through him like choppy storm-waves, with no pattern to adjust to, no crest to brace for or trough to relax into even momentarily. All his organs sloshed unsteadily around his insides and he wanted to weep, I'm not even moving…
This was all so alarmingly wrong. He had to fix it. No one else would, or could…
He swallowed. And again. Again. It felt like that was the only way he'd keep his insides inside, and not spew them out onto the cave floor – which never would stay put, or solid. It was above him, behind him, now melting away, now slamming into him from an unexpected direction. Cramps seized all his joints, slowly turning them to bone.
"Merlin?"
Someone said his name, and it ricocheted around the inside of his skull, liquifying everything in its path and bleeding warmth from his ears and down the back of his neck.
Say the name again, anyway? He had to cling to his identity, or it would melt and wash away as well – there was something he had to do, but he couldn't remember what, and didn't know how… Existence was good enough for now, wasn't it? Except he wasn't sure he wanted to accomplish it, if the converse meant peaceful and painless oblivion…
"Food, Merlin. Try to eat something…"
"Try a little of the water again, see if he can keep it down this time."
Merlin was his name. He moaned at the feel of something at his lips and teeth – soft teeth making dents in each other as he clenched his jaw, and hard-crusted lips – and tried to retreat.
"It's been almost a full day. If he doesn't drink…"
Liquid gushed over his lips, and he swallowed reflexively, his throat sticking sore to itself, his tongue tasting sour-rotten. More liquid trickled – hotter or colder than his body temperature, he couldn't tell. He couldn't remember how to swallow – did he want to swallow? – and choked.
And coughed til he gagged.
Dimly he realized he was lying down, if he didn't at least roll over the vomit was going to wash up his throat and mouth and fill up his nose. So he rolled, and got an elbow under him. It bent and wavered like a reed and it didn't feel like it belonged to him.
"Hold his head, he's going to –"
He didn't care if it got on his hand, or on his clothes, or anywhere else really, he just didn't want it in his lungs. His head swung so low that the ground spattered metallic regurgitated liquid back into his face.
Again. And again. His legs were sore from vomiting, he was going to lose control of other functions, and each muscle in the core of his body was a red-hot wire drawn to snapping.
He fought it. Swallowed convulsively, breathed shallowly. Reality was the stench and taste of bile.
Someone said, There's more blood. Someone cursed, obscenely and bitterly.
Someone wiped his face with sand, it felt like, and said, If he can't…
Arthur said, "Merlin?"
He opened his eyes. Arthur's face in his vision wouldn't hold still, but bobbed and circled and he couldn't focus but some instinct told him, Arthur was all right. That was good enough for him, but Arthur appeared to be frowning. And that was often Merlin's fault.
Merlin managed a smile. "Sorry," he said.
"Not good enough." Arthur's voice was tight, as if with anger. "You told me you wouldn't leave me…"
A groan crawled its way up his tormented throat, but it was one of acquiescence. And he whimpered. "Yes, my lord…"
Continued existence it was, then.
…..*….. …..*….. …..*… …..*….. …..*…..
Leon had learned patience and discretion under Uther. He could hold himself still in any circumstances – it was not so different from younger days spent on guard duty in the council room or the receiving chamber, when the only diversion possible was watching the other people in the room. This room, was very small, and the men in it familiar to him – but the habit remained.
Percival had a surprising amount of patience, also, and the welcome ability to relax his very large frame. Gwaine, however, was not a patient man. He couldn't sit – but neither could he pace, and he twitched and fidgeted, wanting to. Elyan, beside Percival in the corner, was also wishing he had something to do – but unlike Gwaine, he was focused on his hands, not his feet. Wanting tools and heat and purpose and accomplishment. Fix something, make something.
That was background realization, though. Leon was focused on Arthur.
Because the king was blaming himself for their predicament. He didn't do well with lack of options for action or decision, either. Usually it was Merlin raising their spirits by raising Arthur's spirits with his illogical hopes or his inadvertently amusing clumsiness – that generosity that never held their teasing against him, and even seemed to relish it, on occasion. That quick yet gentle wit that had gotten him closer to Arthur than Leon ever would be.
But Merlin was the worst off of any of them. Sick, somehow, and they all felt it, more than being trapped or at the mercy of a sorcerer. Merlin was sick, and this time Percival didn't nudge Leon and mention, I make it to be dusk…
By unspoken consent they'd rationed the food in the bag and the water, in case they'd seen the last of Alator's bodyguard. Leon couldn't think of a man that big and muscular, who advertised the size and strength of his body in not covering it, in any other terms. That was what Percival was, after all, also.
The torch had burned down considerably, by now. It wouldn't last them the night. Leon deliberately closed his mind to the comparison of the torch to Merlin.
Then Gwaine's head came up like a hunting dog scenting prey – the light rose, a footfall scuffed – and Elyan and Percival both tensed, turning.
Leon got his knees under him and reached across for Arthur's good hand, slipping his other behind the king's elbow to help him to his feet. Arthur's chin was up, and his eyes glittered; Leon pressed Percival back so he wouldn't come between the king and –
The sorcerer who'd introduced himself by the name Alator, torch in hand, emerged from some passageway that lay hidden in the rough-hewn folds of the chamber.
There was room for him to move on all three sides of their tiny cell that weren't bounded by cave-rock, and still avoid a sword thrust as far between the timbers as any of them could reach it. Therefore there was no point in drawing sword – so none of them did. It was the king's privilege and responsibility to speak, but Arthur waited, watching.
Alator propped his torch in a cleft in the rock wall, and shuffled around toward Merlin's side of the cell, rather than Gwaine's, his eyes studying them all in turn – even dropping to the servant on the ground, who didn't show that he'd taken any note of the arrival, or the fact that the rest of them were on their feet.
"My apologies, Your Highness," Alator said, in a thick accent. "It was not my intention to leave you here so long without returning."
Arthur moved Leon out of the corner without taking his eyes from their captor, and the others shuffled around to accommodate the shift. Beside him now, Gwaine crouched to check on Merlin.
"Well, then," the king said. "Perhaps you could get to what you wanted to say, and then let us out of here."
"Impatient," Alator observed, leaning on his odd staff.
"My servant is… not well," Arthur said, and Leon could hear tightness in his voice that made an effort to calm. "If you haven't lied about returning Gaius to Camelot –"
"I haven't," Alator said. "He's there now. Though you will not need a physician to cure your servant."
"You've done something to him, then?" Arthur challenged, lifting his chin.
"Indirectly." The sorcerer moved further to the side, coming into Leon's vision beyond the king's chainmailed shoulder. He bent as if to view Merlin for himself between the timbers of the cell, in an attitude curiously similar to Gaius himself, Leon thought. "Which I do regret."
"Restore him, and I will banish you from Camelot, rather than see you executed," the king responded evenly.
"And that is –" The sorcerer's eyes deep-set eyes glittered as he straightened to point the forefinger of the hand that gripped the staff, at Arthur, "what I wished to speak to you about. Your attitude toward magic."
Gwaine rose to his feet with an ugly roll of laughter. "You're joking, yeah? You attacked the king and imprisoned us and – I don't know, cursed our friend somehow, and you expect us to –"
"Quiet, Gwaine," the king growled without turning.
"That cell provides me protection from you," the sorcerer said, darkly amused. "Could I ask for an audience in your fine palace, and speak my mind effectively, and gain your attention – and then leave unharmed? I would do so. But your laws bar you from any who would use magic for any cause you'd consider good."
"Good?" Leon echoed without thinking. Though Arthur was not as sensitive about interruptions as his father had been, Leon was not as uncontrolled as Gwaine.
"Defense of the innocent, women and children who've never done wrong. Healing. Dozens of other ways I could mention. You think you've never met a good sorcerer because your father believed there wasn't one, and killed indiscriminately and created many enemies."
Leon felt a shiver chase a chill up his spine. Hadn't there been executions where he'd wondered. Executions when Arthur himself had found excuse to be absent.
"What do you mean, I think?" Arthur demanded.
"There is one," Alator said. "A man of prophecy and legend, who bears the hopes of our kind, the burden and responsibility and privilege of returning magic to Albion. He is meant to serve and guide the once and future king in the union of the Five Kingdoms for peace. The king many believe, is you."
And – astonishingly – Alator made Arthur a very proper and respectful bow.
"That… makes no sense." Arthur sounded strained, but it was hard to read anything of his expression in the flickering torchlight, and very nearly behind him. "My father spent his life trying to eliminate magic from our kingdom – I have no reason to allow its return. And no sorcerer would willingly help m-"
"Ah," Alator said, lighting on the hesitation that even the others had noticed – Gwaine exchanging a glance with one of the other two behind Leon. "You have someone in mind. Emrys, perhaps, in a different guise?"
"Emrys," Arthur said.
Leon dared a glance of his own at his fellow knights – worried, attentive, interested.
"He it was whom the Lady Morgana was determined to find, through Gaius who knows his true identity. He who is her mortal enemy. He who has defended and protected Camelot and Your Highness from the shadow, seeking no advantage or negotiation, neither with you nor your father. But always giving and suffering in silent hope of the man he believes you will become. So much I saw in Gaius' mind."
"There is no such person," the king exclaimed.
Leon's mouth was dry, because… it made sense. So many times, the inexplicable happened, to their benefit, it seemed fate itself was on their side…
"You're – misinformed, at best," Arthur continued. Maybe a bit desperately. "Do you now seek to force me to some accord? I warn you, I will make no such legal agreement –"
"That is not my task," the sorcerer said.
Again, surprisingly. Who would go to such lengths to capture the king – and several other hostages – and then back off from making demands?
"What is, then?" Arthur said, with the air of going on the offensive, verbally. "You tortured Gaius for information about this Emrys, and you'll turn him over to Morgana in exchange for – what?"
"I took Gaius and questioned him, because the Lady Morgana and I had a similar resolution, to find the legendary sorcerer. But I never shall betray the hope of my people to his enemy. I contrived this cell expecting Emrys to come for his friend Gaius, that I might speak with him in neutrality and truce and explanation, to determine why he yet hides from you, why he does not reveal himself and persuade and advise you in the return of magic."
"Because, if he exists, he knows that to be impossible," Arthur said. "It is against the law."
"And you are the king," Alator responded. "Was it legal for Uther Pendragon to change the law years ago, and proclaim magic forbidden?"
"Magic is evil," Arthur said.
"So you have been taught, and so you have seen because you have not seen Emrys," Alator said. "See him, listen to him. Learn from him – and then make your judgment with open eyes."
It was a very different speech than the angry vengeful rhetoric Leon had heard on occasion. And but for Arthur's collarbone broken in the fall – and Merlin's inexplicable malady – the sorcerer had not harmed any of them. Had provided food and water, and returned to converse, and offer this strange plea.
One which Arthur was considering. Genuinely, Leon saw, watching his king stare at the ground, not just for show as a way of gaining Alator's trust, and their release.
"If Emrys comes for an audience," Arthur said finally, "I will grant him safe passage through the kingdom the once, as long as he offers no harm, and hear him out. This I swear as king of Camelot. Are you satisfied with that? Will you lift your curse from my servant and let us depart this place?"
"It is ironic," Alator said, "that you agree to meet with Emrys for your servant's sake."
"And why is that?" the king said, sounding mildly exasperated.
"Because the only curse on your servant is one which is inherent to this place, and none of my making." Alator gestured to indicate – as Leon understood – the chamber, but also the mine entire. "I carry my magic with me in this staff, but Emrys is magic. And in this place, is cut off from its source."
Gwaine exclaimed, initially derisively, "What does that have to do with Merl…"
Leon swallowed hard. Arthur's shoulders were stiff with tension. Was Alator actually claiming –
"That's – not possible," the king said, soft and desperate. "You –"
The sorcerer moved, around the corner of the cell toward the rock wall, just outside the timbers where Merlin lay. Leon thought for a moment that Gwaine was going to lunge across Merlin's body – still curled and unmoving – to snatch their captor through the bars and make some threats or demands of his own.
Counterproductive, of course, the sorcerer was safe as long as they were trapped, and Gwaine had to realize that – but sometimes his temper overtook his intellect.
Arthur held up his free hand to signal the knights – hold – and gave Alator a warning command, "Do not touch him."
The sorcerer inclined his head in acquiescence, and lowered himself to his knees on the ground, gripping and using the staff in such a way as to remind them, he wasn't a young man. It made Leon wonder what he'd seen and experienced, over the years of Uther's Purge.
"Emrys," Alator called to Merlin.
A moment of breathless expectant silence. Leon noticed Arthur's free hand was clenched in a fist at his side.
"Emrys," Alator said again, his inflection this time insistent and authoritative.
And Merlin answered, clearly enough. Slightly petulant, like a child awoken from sleep.
"What?"