Chapter 3: Shed Your Secrets

Merlin paced in the firelight, ignoring the way Leon's worried gaze followed him back and forth across the room. Five paces. Pivot. Five paces. Pivot. After Merlin had driven Arthur away with his barbed words, he'd slipped in and out of consciousness three times, each time resurfacing more chilled than the last. The relentless pacing neither calmed his thoughts nor warmed his limbs. His feet were as nimble as ice blocks; he stumbled on the next pivot and barely caught himself against the wall.

Leon cleared his throat. "It's getting late."

Merlin rolled his eyes as he righted himself before resuming his trek back across the room.

"At least try to sleep," Leon said. "Gaius says—"

"If you want a nap, I'm certainly not stopping you," Merlin huffed as he reached the opposite wall and reversed direction again.

Leon scrubbed a weary hand across his face. "You know that's not what I meant."

Merlin relented, shame weighing on his shoulders. "I know," he said quietly. "I just…" But what could he say? 'I need to go perform magic to save Camelot. Again.' Laughable. Or maybe: 'I'm sick of lying.' An invitation for questions he couldn't answer. Or perhaps: 'You don't know me at all."

All of those things were true, including the last, and he hated it. He met Leon's gaze, and the open concern he found there grated.

The friendships he'd built here—each one was a fragile, fragile thing. Just one forbidden word, one unnatural gesture, one untimely truth would be enough to reduce them to rubble. Leon's concern would turn to anger. Or hate. Or fear.

Merlin didn't know which of those would hurt most.

He shook his head and turned away. He needed to focus on the current problem. If—not when—if he managed to exorcize Morgause in time, then the sorry mess that was his life would still be here to deal with later. If not, well…either way, it wasn't his primary concern.

Each time the darkness smothered him, he had no guarantee he'd ever come up for air again. There was no discernable pattern to the switching, and even when he was in control, he could feel the gnawing darkness burrowing deeper into his bones. If I don't get to the books tonight…

He couldn't wait any longer. He turned, crossed to where Leon sat, and gestured to the space on the floor beside him. "Can I…?"

Relief flickered in Leon's eyes as he nodded.

Merlin stepped close as though to sit…then abruptly launched himself at Leon from the side, striking him hard in the head. As Leon tumbled to the side, Merlin whispered a spell—breath barely ghosting across his lips—and Leon crumpled on the stone floor.

Merlin paused just long enough to check that the limp knight's breathing was deep and even. A soft snore followed him as he stole the key, let himself out into the corridor, and locked the door behind him.

He glanced around, key gripped tight in one hand, trying to get his bearings. The window in front of him overlooked the courtyard from the north, so he set off down the hall to his right. He reached the first junction, turned left to enter the west wing, and took off running. He raced through the maze of darkened corridors, skidding on stockinged feet as he ricocheted into shadowy alcoves to dodge patrols and other servants. It was a miracle that he made it all the way to the top of the west tower without being seen.

He hesitated outside of Gaius' door, listening for voices. No light leaked through the crack under the door, but that didn't mean there wasn't a patient sleeping fitfully on the cot in the main chamber.

Silence.

Merlin held his breath as he carefully pushed the door open and slipped inside. A sliver of moonlight filtered in through the windows, illuminating Gaius, fast asleep on his bed by the screen. Merlin tiptoed over to the shelves.

"Leoht," he whispered, cupping the faint blue light in his left hand as he searched the shelves with his right. He pulled out the salt cellar and, with one more glance over his shoulder at Gaius, carried it over to within arms' reach of the bookshelves. Dousing the light, he spread the salt crystals in a careful circle around himself, then set the salt cellar aside, resummoned the light, and reached for the first book on his mental list. He sat cross-legged in the circle, light hovering near his left shoulder, as he skimmed book after book. Three books in, he hadn't found anything about possession nor about the Dorocha, let alone information about being possessed by one. He growled in frustration as he climbed to his feet to scan the shelves for a fourth book.

"Merlin?"

Merlin froze.

Gaius was sitting up in his bed, watching Merlin with wide eyes in the muted blue light. "What on earth are you doing here?" he hissed, eyebrows flung heavenward.

Merlin's thoughts raced as Gaius' eyes flicked from Merlin down to the salt circle, then up again. Gaius opened his mouth, but Merlin cut him off.

"Don't ask questions; just listen," he blurted.

Gaius snapped his jaw shut in dawning understanding.

"I don't have much time," Merlin said. The words tumbled out. "Don't say anything about my magic unless I bring it up first. Don't trust anything I say unless I first answer a question that only you and I know the answer to. Not Arthur, not the knights, no one else."

Gaius glanced at the closed door before holding Merlin's gaze for a long moment. "Your father's name. What was it?"

Merlin swallowed hard as the images from his nightmare assaulted him afresh. "Balinor," he managed between unsteady breaths. "His name was Balinor."

With a decisive nod, Gaius rose. "Now tell me what's going on—and quickly. I presume Arthur doesn't know you've escaped?"

"Not yet," Merlin confirmed darkly. He waved a hand at the nearest candle; the ball of light winked out as the candle flared to life, bathing the chamber in a warm glow. "It's the Dorocha. They're spirits of the dead"—Gaius' eyes flicked to salt again—"and I have to get rid of her before she attacks Arthur. Again."

"Again?" Gaius echoed, shocked.

Merlin simply waved his bandaged forearm in response as he reached for another book. "I've checked these three books already," he said, gesturing to the small stack beside the circle. "Nothing."

Gaius moved with a speed that belied his age. He ascended the rickety stairs to the upper shelves and returned with a heavy tome bound in faded red leather. Flipping it open to a bookmarked page halfway through, he murmured as he read, turning pages with urgency.

"Well?" Merlin asked.

"Aha, here we are," Gaius said, handing over the book and pointing. "Bottom of the left page, just there."

Merlin accepted the book with trepidation and numb fingers. His eyes fell to the passage Gaius indicated. "To banish the Darkness within," he read aloud, "the possessed must willingly subject themselves to the Light." He glanced up at Gaius. "What kind of Light?"

"Keep reading."

Merlin anxiously skimmed the next few lines until a phrase pulled him up sharp. He whipped his head up. "Dragonfire? Why dragonfire?"

Gaius sighed heavily. "Dragonfire is…not ordinary fire. It is a refining fire; it holds the power to purge impurities."

Images of flames from a thousand nightmares burned Merlin's eyes. "I have to…" He choked on the words, and the candle on the table sputtered. "I have to…burn?"

"Oh, my boy, no! Of course not." Gaius' expression softened. "Only the Dorocha must burn. A possessing spirit, even when exorcized, will try relentlessly to return to the host unless it is banished with conjured fire. The Dorocha are exceptionally powerful spirits; therefore, it requires a flame of unusual strength to banish them. A sorcerer's fire will not suffice, but dragonfire would."

"So…"

"Once you exorcize the Dorocha, then Kilgharrah must burn it."

Merlin thrust the book back into Gaius' hands and raced up the stairs to his room in search of his boots, waving another candle to life on his bedside table as he entered. "What supplies do I need for the exorcism?"

"Merlin—"

Merlin dropped to his knees on the knotted floorboards and swept a hand under his bed. "Where did you put my boots?" he called as he climbed to his feet and crossed to rummage through the cupboard. He pulled out his jacket and shrugged it on, then jogged down the stairs. "I need to go—" The words died on his tongue.

Arthur stood in the doorway, flanked by Leon and Percival. A nasty purple bruise bloomed around Leon's right eye: a souvenir of the head-first meeting with the flagstones that Merlin had arranged. Under normal circumstances, Merlin might have experienced a twinge of regret, but these weren't normal circumstances—not even by Merlin's admittedly skewed standards.

Arthur stepped into the room, eyes fixed on Merlin. His words were clipped. "What do you think you're doing?"

Merlin swallowed. Ice crystals encroached on the edges of his vision, and he stifled a curse. No! Not now. He curled his hands into fists and took a step back. "Gaius, I—"

Gaius must have heard the catch in Merlin's voice because he quickly stepped between him and Arthur. "My lord," he said, voice overly thick with relief. "I'm glad you're here. I would have sent word to you, but I didn't want to leave him alone in this state." He cast a glance over his shoulder at Merlin, eyebrows raised in silent question. Merlin managed the barest hint of a nod, and Gaius turned back to Arthur. "It is imperative that Merlin be returned to the safe chamber."

Arthur offered Gaius a tight smile of gratitude before stepping past him.

The icy fingers crawled up Merlin's spine and twisted around his lungs. "No!" Merlin scrambled back, tripping on the stairs and catching himself against the wall as Arthur approached. "Not you." It's not safe. "Get away from me!" She'll kill you if she gets another chance. And this time, I might not—

"Your Highness," Gaius interjected, catching the prince-regent with an apologetic hand on his arm. "Perhaps it would be best if—?"

Arthur's jaw twitched, but he stepped back. "Yes, of course." Without taking his eyes off Merlin, he issued an order to his knights. "Take him back to the room and stay with him, both of you."

He stepped aside as the knights obeyed. Merlin only needed to hold on a few minutes longer, but—

His knees buckled with the strain, and he hit his back on the steps as he fell hard. "Gaius," he pleaded through gritted teeth.

Gaius grabbed a vial off the shelves and thrust it at Merlin. "Drink. It will help with the, uh, pain."

Merlin obeyed without question. The horrible burn of the sedative was the sweetest thing he could remember tasting since…well, since before the darkness.

He sagged back against the stairs in relief as a softer kind of darkness blurred his vision.

It was a few hours before dawn, judging by the slant of the moonlight, when he awoke on the straw pallet in the bare chamber. He stared up at the ceiling and replayed the text in his mind:

'To banish the Darkness within, the possessed must willingly subject themselves to the Light.'

To banish Morgause, Merlin needed dragonfire. To get dragonfire, Merlin would have to summon Kilgharrah. Like so many other things in his life, there was no one left who could do that for him.

To summon Kilgharrah, he had to get out of this room, get out of the castle, and get all the way to the clearing in the forest two hours' ride west-southwest of the citadel. He could make another escape attempt, but even if he managed to make it past two knights who were paying close attention without revealing his magic, the knights—Maybe even Arthur himself?—would surely chase after him. He couldn't guarantee that he could reach Kilgharrah before they caught him or—even worse—before Morgause resurfaced and caught them.

As he wrestled with the shadows through the long watches of the night, one thing became absolutely clear: he couldn't do this alone. As dawn neared, time narrowed down to that one moment, that one choice. The oily darkness was slowly drowning him, and his lies grew heavier by the hour. Still, Merlin—being what he was, living where he lived—was accustomed to darkness. He didn't know how to step out of the shadows into the light; he would feel naked without the lies he wore like a second skin.

But if dragons could shed their skins as they grew and dragonfire could drive away the Dorocha, then perhaps a lonely, drowning Dragonlord could summon the courage to do the same.

As the sun rose, Merlin made his choice.

An hour after sunrise, the door swung open with a soft creak. Merlin pressed himself into the far corner as Arthur entered the little room.

Arthur's tone was guarded. "Gwaine said you asked to speak with me. Again."

Merlin nodded. He balled his fists, and his nails bit into his palms with the effort of holding back the darkness. "I need to tell you something"—he swallowed thickly—"but first, I need you to shackle my wrists."

"What?" Arthur's brows rose. "Why?"

"Don't ask; just do it," Merlin bit out through clenched teeth. The muscles in his shoulders cramped, and his injured forearm burned from the strain. He tucked his arms behind his back, applying pressure to the bandage with his right hand, lest the deep cut reopen. It would be rather ironic to bleed out before Arthur could order his execution.

Arthur's brows rose, and he spread his hands in a vague gesture encompassing the bare walls and total dearth of furniture. "I'm not going to restrain you like a criminal when there's nothing dangerous in this room."

Except for me. Except for you. Merlin huffed a derisive laugh. This was the most terrifying conversation of his life; of course, the oblivious prat just had to make it harder. Nothing new there. He swallowed the bitter thought alongside the darkness. "I'll explain, but not until you've done it."

Arthur gave him a long, searching look. "Fine," he muttered, rolling his eyes.

As Arthur turned to go, Merlin added, "Not just any chains, either. The kind your father keeps in the vaults."

Arthur froze, one hand on the latch. "Excuse me?"

Merlin chose his words carefully lest his control falter. "They have to be special. It's for your safety."

Arthur still gripped the latch. His knuckles had gone white.

A hollow ache settled in Merlin's chest, and he turned away to face the corner, leaning his forehead against the gray stones and fixing his eyes on a small crack in the mortar. He couldn't bear to face the darkness behind his eyelids. "If you don't believe me," he continued quietly, "then ask Gaius which kind. Tell him I told you to ask. And…" He swallowed thickly. "And tell him I said, 'Balinor.'"

The door banged shut behind Arthur as he left without a word, and the key turned in the lock with a grating protest. While Arthur exchanged hushed words with Percival and Gwaine in the corridor, Merlin roughly scrubbed fresh tears from his eyes before they could harden into icicles. By the time Gwaine and Percival unlocked the door and stepped inside, Merlin had retreated into himself, focusing solely on keeping the darkness at bay until Arthur returned with the cuffs—if he returned at all.

When the cuffs snapped shut around his wrists, Merlin sucked in a sharp breath, curling in on himself and ignoring Leon's worried look as the knight pocketed the key and backed away. Everywhere the cuffs touched, Merlin's skin burned—but it was like the brutal onset of frostbite, not the searing heat of flames. Despite the pain, he lifted his head and held Arthur's gaze across the room. "Thank you, my lord."

Arthur stood with his arms crossed, expression carefully blank. As Leon stepped past him, Arthur gave him a quick nod, but his eyes never left Merlin's. "You had something to say to me?"

Merlin took a steadying breath and flexed his fingers as a stray thought—Does cold iron cut off circulation, too?—wandered through his chilled mind. He shook his head to clear it, studiously ignoring Leon and Elyan as they flanked the chamber door behind Arthur. Arthur's judgment was the only one that mattered right now. "The Dorocha are spirits of the dead," Merlin began, just as he'd practiced over and over in his head while waiting, "and one's been possessing me since the attack."

"What?"

"Morgause's spirit, specifically."

"Morgause is dead?"

Merlin rolled his eyes. "Yes. Not the point."

"Fine," Arthur said through gritted teeth, waving a hand. "Go on."

Merlin resumed his prepared explanation, resisting the urge to fidget with the short chain linking the cuffs. "I've been fighting her, but she could take over again at any moment."

Arthur's eyes darted to the manacles. His eyebrows rose in understanding, and a glimmer of relief flickered across his face.

Arthur might as well have punched him; Merlin's stomach clenched as he continued, "I broke out of here last night because I needed Gaius' books to research how to exorcize her spirit. I found the answer…but you're not going to like it."

"There are a lot of things about this situation I don't like," Arthur said flatly.

"I know." Merlin took a deep breath. "The exorcism requires"—the word threatened to stick in his throat—"uh, something we can't get in Camelot. It's a two-hour ride west-southwest of the citadel."

Arthur's brow furrowed. "There's nothing but woods two hours west-southwest."

A rueful smile tugged at the corner of Merlin's mouth. "Exactly."

Arthur narrowed his eyes and took a step closer, dropping his voice. "Tell me something only Merlin would know."

Merlin blinked at him. "What?"

"If you can't, then you're not Merlin." Arthur folded his arms. "And if you're not Merlin, then—"

"Gaia berries," Merlin blurted. "You didn't know if they'd work until they did."

Arthur exhaled, and his shoulders sagged as a sad smile ghosted across his lips. "Well, that's something, at least."

Merlin swallowed thickly and resisted the urge to pick at the cuffs stinging his wrists. "There's, uh, something else. The exorcism requires magic."

"No." The word was hard and clipped, leaving no room for argument, but that had never stopped Merlin before.

"The Dorocha can't be exorcised without magic. It's the only—"

"Are you insane?" Arthur interrupted. "You know how dangerous magic is!"

Arthur's words stung worse than the cuffs. "Right, I'll just go on being possessed, then," Merlin huffed, throwing up his hands. "It's the lesser of two evils, obviously."

"That's not—" Arthur cut himself off with a frustrated growl. "You know exactly what my father would do to you if he found out you'd had anything to do with magic."

I don't need you, of all people, to remind me that my existence is a capital offense. "Oh, are you going to tell him?" Merlin sneered, the words barbed with the festering poison of a lifetime steeped in lies. "It's not like he's going to notice on his own; he hardly noticed when you left for the Isle!"

Leon cleared his throat pointedly—Merlin had nearly forgotten about the knights standing at the door—and interjected, "Enough, Merlin."

The too-short chain clanked as Merlin tried unsuccessfully to cross his arms, so he settled for pressing his lips into a bitter line and glaring at Arthur in stony silence.

Arthur's jaw twitched, at odds with the faint pinch between his brows; the soft downturn of his mouth belied the taut line of his shoulders. His eyes were suspiciously bright as he shook his head and remarked sardonically, "Let's pretend for a moment that your plan isn't utterly suicidal, that somehow no one on the council finds out, that you don't burn because of it." His voice caught, and he cleared his throat before continuing lightly, "Even if we ignore all of those trivial details, there's still one glaring problem: Where are we going to find a sorcerer who'd be willing to do that exorcism?"

'We.' He said 'we.' Merlin took a deep breath. "That's, uh, that's the easy part, actually."

Arthur snorted. "I highly doubt that. I've led enough searches to know how hard—"

Merlin cut him off. "I have magic."

The knights at the door inhaled sharply.

Arthur blinked at him. "You do not." His brow furrowed. "The Dorocha must be playing tricks on you. Morgause is the one who has—had—magic, not you."

Merlin shook his head emphatically. "It's mine. I was born with it."

A storm of emotions flashed like lightning across Arthur's face before his expression hardened into the careful mask Merlin knew he reserved for exactly two things: criminal trials and the immediate aftermath of public confrontations with his father.

Apparently, Merlin was a third thing now.

Arthur straightened his shoulders. "I presume there's a reason you're telling me all of this now, more than a week after the attack?"

"First off," Merlin snapped, "I wasn't in control for most of it, especially at the beginning. And when I was, I was working very hard to hide my magic from her, so—even aside from the threat of execution, my lord—I was doing everything I could to avoid exactly the kind of conversation we're having now. She can't channel the magic she had while she was alive, but if she were to take over mid-conversation and learn that I had magic, I can't guarantee she couldn't use mine." He squared his shoulders, using his one-centimeter height advantage to maximum effect. "And that would be very, very bad for you, sire. Even worse than if she could use her own."

"Worse?" Arthur blinked at him, then shook his head. "No. You didn't answer my question. Why now? What changed? You're still possessed; you still have—" Arthur waved a hand at the cuffs. "Did she find out?"

"No," Merlin murmured, "I don't think so. She hasn't used it, at least. I think—no, I'm sure I would know if she did."

Arthur was more stubborn than a hunting dog on the scent. "Why now?"

Merlin shrugged and glanced away. "I tried to fix it on my own. I…failed." Merlin quickly cleared his throat and held up his chained wrists. "If she knows about it, these should keep her from using it." He huffed a broken laugh. "I've worked too hard for too long to keep you alive; I'd rather die than let her make me the murder weapon."

Arthur went very still. "Say that again."

"Huh?"

"The last thing you said. Say it again."

Merlin fidgeted. "That I'd rather die than be the murder weapon?"

The color drained from Arthur's face. "I see." He turned on his heel and swept out of the room, shutting the door firmly behind him. Elyan and Leon stood frozen on either side of the door, watching Merlin with wide, wary eyes.

Merlin heard Arthur turn the key in the lock with cold finality. Wrists still burning, he sagged back against the bare wall and slid to the floor.

Well, that could have gone better, he thought. The combined weight of some of his secrets had lifted from his shoulders, only to be replaced by the weight of Arthur's judgment. At least Arthur will be safe, he thought, tipping his head back and closing his eyes. One way or another.

After losing time all week, Merlin almost resented the unbroken thread of consciousness as the hours crawled past without word about his fate. Was it taking so long because Arthur was arranging Merlin's execution? It wasn't an unreasonable theory, and—given what Arthur had been taught about magic—Merlin grudgingly admitted it wouldn't be an unreasonable solution, either.

Two birds, one stone, he thought ruefully.

The afternoon lingered, flowing slower than cold molasses. It does take a while to build a pyre, after all. Someone would have to cart the wood. Most likely Morris and Menw. If there wasn't enough chopped wood left in the reserves after the last pyre, then someone—probably Lucan—would have to go chop some of the not-fully-seasoned logs in the castle's reserves.

Two pyres in less than a week; of course, they'd need more wood.

A few of the younger servants—last time, it was Bedwyr, Ella, and Rosie—might be sent to gather sticks for extra kindling. It had been cold the past week but not wet—or at least not when he'd been awake—so anything they gathered should be dry enough to light. That was especially important if the freshly chopped wood came from logs that were still a little green.

Slow to light and lots of smoke. He chewed his lip. That honestly might be for the best.

Better still would be if Morgause conveniently took over when they lit it. As long as they left the cuffs on to keep Arthur safe from her, Merlin would happily choose oblivion.

However, the glaring problem with the pyre theory was that a pyre was a very public spectacle. There was no point in leaving Merlin discretely tucked away in a distant, disused guest chamber instead of throwing him in the dungeon—where common traitors belonged—to await execution at sunrise. That would free up two high-ranking knights for other responsibilities, and Merlin knew Arthur needed all the trusted help he could get as he tried to find his footing as regent. Not yet a king, yet more than a prince. Even so, Arthur had taken several knights away from their usual duties simply to protect Merlin from himself. And since Arthur still has knights assigned to me, then maybe…

That thought was enough to keep his heart from freezing solid. When he heard Gwen's voice accompany a gentle tap on the door late in the afternoon, his hope grew like a pale ember fanned into a delicate flame in a cold hearth.

When Elyan merely opened the door a crack and spoke with her in hushed tones, the flame sputtered. When Elyan and Leon both left soon after without saying a word to Merlin, the ember died.

As the last hope crumbled to ash, cold and gray, Merlin watched his breath fog in the still air and decided that if he were to be denied oblivion on the pyre, there would still be one last silver lining: after more than a week of freezing, he would finally remember how it felt to be warm.

A/N:

Merlin Bingo 2023: This chapter fills square G4 - "Secrets"