Summary

Elyan, struggling with the emotional scars of his past, finds himself increasingly isolated and resentful towards the growing acceptance of magic in Camelot. His bitterness and anger reach a boiling point during a tense confrontation with Gwen.

Chapter 30 Fury's Crucible

Elyan prodded the lingering pain in his shoulder, face screwing at the tender ligament torn – his fault for a thrown dagger poorly executed during the final round of Friday's tourney. Another wound to conquer like all the rest. He sat on a bench in the armory, hunched over a sword he'd been polishing, a scowl etched onto his features. The rhythmic sound of the whetstone against the blade should have been a welcome distraction, but he could feel his thoughts pressing upon him like a suffocating burden. An almost palpable aura of resentment radiated from him, as bitter as wormwood.

Across the room, Sir Ranulf sat at a table, carefully polishing a dagger with his good hand, his broken arm – a souvenir from a brutal joust against Arthur – cradled close to his chest. Though part of Arthur's inner circle alongside Elyan, even he kept a respectful distance, sensing the dark cloud that hung over him. A few other knights milled about the armory, their good-natured banter and the clang of metal filling the space as they retrieved or stored their gear. They laughed and joked and hesitant in approaching his corner, lest they suffer his scorn.

The clash of metal started to irritate his ears like their useless platitudes and he rolled his eyes away from them. He set the sword aside and reached for a hunk of bread he'd brought with him, the burning scars of the serpent's bite flaring under their continuous stares. Or perhaps the pain merely smoldered within now, the snake long dead while its venom festered in thoughts that savaged him still. Tearing off a chunk of the bread, Elyan chewed slowly, his jaw tight, expression sullen. Peace was a fleeting dream, one that eluded him even in the midst of duty and labor and rest. The ghosts of his past saw to that, ensuring that tranquility remained far, far out of reach.

Those ghosts took many forms, each a scorching memory seared into his mind. Father's death, a loss that still ached like an unhealed wound. His own silent condemnation toward Gwen under magic's cruel influence – her patient sorrow in the face of his accusations carving deeper scars than any spectral blade. The helplessness and violation of a spirit's possession, his own body and will twisted to harm his sovereign and friend. And the bitterest of all, the festering shame of betrayal under Morgana's tortured interrogation, a king's secrets wrenched from him like teeth from a jaw. Now the wicked sorcerers rampaged freely through his city, his kingdom, their cruelty a relentless echo of his own failures. After so much pain inflicted by them, and by himself, Elyan felt his very self splintering under the magnitude.

He drew in a breath, tore another chunk of bread, and chewed it absently. Adrift and alone in his sea of agonizing torture, he forced down another tasteless bite. If only balms could penetrate the gashes no physician's hands might touch, granting relief to the vicious wounds wrought within, to the very soul. Only magic could do that, he thought, grinding his teeth, and he'd rather suffer a thousand times over than be touched by its wretched ilk again.

Amidst the clamor of the armory, a familiar swish of a gown caught Elyan's attention. He tensed, twisting on the bench to see Gwen enter, her head held high, Percival towering behind her like a mountain of muscle. The other knights fell silent, their eyes widening at the queen's unexpected presence, all bowing their heads in respect. Elyan's surprise at her arrival was quickly replaced by a flicker of irritation.

Gwen had requested his audience for several weeks now – but he'd purposefully refused to obey his older sister, not his queen. Her purposeful stride and Percival's stoic presence made it clear that she would not be ignored and had brought brawn to ensure that he would not avoid her this time.

"Hello, Elyan," she said gently, her voice a murmur amidst the din as she stood beside him. The pity in his sister's eyes stirred a bitterness that choked him, thick and acrid in his throat. He returned to the sword, hunched over the blade as he ran the whetstone along its edge, the scrape of stone against metal an echoing counterpoint to the surrounding chatter.

"I've wanted to speak with you – in private," she continued, as congenial as ever. "Did you not receive my messages?"

"Yes, Gwen. I received them." His voice was flat, annoyance lacing his tone. "What is it that you want?"

Gwen's brow furrowed, concern etched into the lines of her face. "I'm worried about you, Elyan. You've been distant, withdrawn. I know you're hurting, and I want to help. Please, talk to me."

Elyan's grip tightened on the whetstone, the rough edges biting into flesh with the force of his emotions. The sincerity in Gwen's voice was like a rusted blade dragging across his exposed heartstrings, her gentle prodding like salt in his wounds. He couldn't bear her compassion, not when it was tainted by her acceptance of the very thing that had torn their lives apart.

Elyan rolled scalding eyes upon her, his gaze searing with resentment. "Alright," he bit out. "I'll talk to you. But I have some questions first." The time for triviality over, her genteel overtures tipping his anger over the edge. "How many more excuses will you make for practices that led to our father death, cursed you? Curse me?" His words were meant to pierce, and they found their mark, Gwen inhaling a sharp gasp, her eyes widening in shock and clouding pain.

Percival stiffened, taking a step forward, his hand instinctively moving to the hilt of his sword. Elyan cast a threatening scowl in his direction, a silent warning to stay out of this. Meeting Gwen's horrified gaze again, he continued. "What about that little boy that was killed not two days after the law changed? Do you even remember his name? Or the reeve whose mouth was sewn shut by that swamp witch? How many others are being killed or cursed that we don't even know about? Where does it end, Gwen?"

His words granted no warmth, no lightness to justify this rupturing of soul – only exposed the scars between siblings once close, the wounds gaping and raw in the dim light of the armory. What could she say to heal such wounds, to bridge the chasm his resentment had carved between them? What absolution could she offer him when her blind trust in the corruption of sorcery compelled his agony? When her beloved now unleashed the very forces that reduced knights to whimpering cowards?

The armory fell into an uneasy hush around them, the silence broken only by the scrape of benches and the clink of hastily set down swords as brothers averted their eyes out of respect or lingered in concerned attention, sensing tensions escalate like gathering storm clouds.

When the shock passed, Gwen's expression turned remorseful, pity oozing from her once more as cloying as honey and just as unwelcome. He hated pity and would cut anyone down who tried to extend it, his pride a shield as battered and unyielding as his armor. Most everyone gave him a wide berth of late except his commanders – and Gwaine. And his special kind of intervention, all jests and jabs, was insufferable!

Elyan turned his face from her, leaned against the scar-ravaged oak table, the rough grain biting into his back. His head bowed, memories descending upon him like an avalanche, the specters of the past pressing down on him like a physical burden. In his periphery, Gwen clasped her hands in front of her, shoulders as rigid as her expression, a queen's mantle settling over her like a cloak of steel.

"Clear the armory," she ordered sharply, her voice cutting through the tension like a blade, her gaze fixed unflinchingly on him. "Everyone. Sir Percival, see that no one enters."

"Yes, your majesty," Percival replied crisply as he ushered the men out of the room, his massive frame making the other knights seem small in comparison. With a few long strides, he crossed the armory, his powerful presence ensuring swift compliance with the queen's command. He and Ranulf cast concerned glances over their shoulders as they filed out, the door clicking quietly shut behind them.

When they had left and silence draped over them like a heavy curtain, Gwen moved nearer, the soft rustle of her gown whispering in the stillness. She sat beside him, the bench creaking slightly under their combined weight, and clasped his hand. Her palm was warm and soft against his calloused skin. He recoiled slightly from her tender touch, his muscles tensing as if bracing for a blow, but she held fast her grip. Softly she asked, "Why have you not come to me, brother?"

He scoffed, the sound harsh and grating in the empty armory. Jerking his hand away, he snapped to his feet, his chainmail clinking as he moved to put distance between them.

Remaining where she sat, Gwen persisted, her eye following him like an archer taking aim. "You must know that Arthur and I are deeply troubled by these unfortunate magical incidents, by those harmed. We mourn for each loss, Elyan. But I know you still face demons from the darkness you've endured," she added, her voice a soothing whisper against the serrated blade of his anger.

Elyan's jaw clenched, the muscles bunching and twitching beneath his skin. "And I suppose your new allies will magic them back to hell for me?" he sneered, his voice dripping with bitter sarcasm. Her words, no matter how tenderly spoken, felt like shards of glass against his fraying nerves. The very gentleness of her tone, the compassion that once brought him solace, now chafed on his soul like salt in an open wound. He couldn't bear the balm of her understanding, not when it was tainted by what he saw as her willful blindness to the true nature of magic.

"Merlin can erase it all," he taunted, "as if the scars on my soul are nothing more than a tapestry to be unraveled and rewoven at his whim? Tell me, sister, in your haste to embrace this new world, did you spare even a moment's thought for the brother you left behind?" Glaring at her bitterly, disgust on his tongue, his words were a lash designed to flay, uncaring of the wounds they inflicted.

The hurt in her eyes sparked regret instantly, a hot flush of shame racing up his neck. But the gulf between them only widened with so much left unsaid... so many wounds untended that he cared not for her feelings, only his. The space separating them, the depth of their shared pain, became as oppressive as a funeral shroud, the silence stretching like an endless chasm. Gwen slowly stood up, searched his eyes, confusion flickering across her face. He spun away, his cloak billowing out behind him like a storm cloud.

"Elyan," Gwen breathed, her words like thorns piercing his exposed flesh, each syllable a sharp barb embedding itself deep within his being. "I have never stopped thinking of you, never stopped carrying your pain, as if it were my own." She stepped closer, her eyes shimmering with tears she was unwilling to let escape. "The scars we bear, the shadows we face... they are not a tapestry to be unraveled, but a burden to be shared. But you must understand, the path forward is not always clear. The choices I've made, the alliances I've forged... they are for the greater good of Camelot. In time, I hope you will see the wisdom in this."

Elyan scoffed, a bitter laugh escaping his lips as he turned back to her. "The greater good?" he spat, the words tasting like a mouthful of soot. "And what of my good, sister? What of the scars I bear, the nightmares that haunt me? Are they to be sacrificed on the altar of your grand vision? You speak of understanding, of feeling my pain, but in the same breath, you dismiss it. You ask me to trust in a future I cannot see, to have faith in a wisdom that has brought me nothing but suffering."

"Elyan, please..." Gwen reached for him, her hand hovering in the space between them, a bridge left uncrossed. "That's not what I meant. I only want to help—"

"I know what you meant," he snapped. "You and Arthur – everyone – expecting me to fall in line like a good little soldier. Be strong and courageous like a man should be… like you've done. How dare you, Gwen." His voice cracked, a lifetime of pain and disappointment bleeding through. He glared at her, his eyes wide, his body shaking with rage. "How! Dare! You! I will not be dismissed!"

She hitched a breath, her chin lifted, and trembling lips drew into a frown. He could see her struggle to maintain her regal bearing, but right now, he relished striking down her grace and poise. This was between brother and sister, not subject and queen. And in his eyes, his sister had betrayed him.

"Attack me if you must," Gwen replied, her voice steady, more confident than he'd expected, "but know you're not alone." She'd regained her composure, stuck out her chin, looked her eyes on him. Always the big sister, a will of iron.

Elyan clenched his jaw and diverted his gaze. He was alone – and that was how he wanted it right now. So what must he do? What more must he say for her to cease prodding?!

"Please talk to me," she persisted, her gentle voice grating on him. Elyan flinched, his nails digging into his palms as he fought the urge to lash out again. "If not me, then someone you trust. But know, brother, I will never dismiss your pain. Let me help you carry it. Let me walk beside you in this darkness, until together we find the light."

There it was – pity, glistening in her eyes like a poison he couldn't bear to swallow. His lips thinned as rage tipped over, his face contorting into a mask of fury. He looked directly at her with an intensity that seared, a look he had never directed at his sister before. "I don't need your help, Gwen," he growled, his voice low and menacing. "I don't want it." He stepped closer, his body coiled with tension, forcing her backwards withdrawal.

"Get out!" he shouted, his voice echoing in the empty armory. "Don't come back! Get! Out!" Each word was punctuated by a jabbing finger, a physical manifestation of his anger and rejection.

Gwen stared at him, her eyes wide with disbelief, her face crumpling under the cruelty of his words. Her lips trembled, and her eyes brimmed with tears she still refused to let fall, the shimmering droplets clinging to her lashes like morning dew. Reining in the urge to react, her breath caught momentarily as he stalked closer, slowly devouring the distance behind her. Backed against at table, he saw her visibly shiver before she shouldered past him, her footsteps echoing in the emptiness widening between them.

"You did this, Gwen—!" he shouted after his fleeing sister, his voice raw and ragged. "—you and Arthur! If anything, blame yourselves!" The words chased her retreating form as she slipped through the door, a final, bitter salvo in their shattered connection.

Elyan stared at the door a moment, the fury subsiding, his eyes blinking into focus. He slammed his fist into the oak table, his injured shoulder wrenching in pain as the impact reverberated through his bones, sending shockwaves of agony rippling through his arm and chest. He squeezed his eyes shut, colors bursting behind his eyelids, and bit his lower lip until the coppery taste of blood mingled with the bitterness on his tongue.

Why her? Why did it have to be her? He adored his sister, had always relied upon her compassionate and wise counsel. They'd quarreled many times, their voices rising and falling like clashing swords, had opposing opinions on many things that spurred their wrath, but nothing close to the unfurled eruptions he had unleashed upon her today.

Heavy footsteps took him back to the table and he picked up his sword, sheathed it. Gwen was the enemy now, her willingness to embrace Arthur's foolish edict a betrayal that cut deeper than any blade, forsaking all the pain and agony that magic had wrought upon him, her, and their father. At first, becoming a knight and trusted friend of Arthur had been a great honor, the silver of his armor gleaming with promise, the comforting presence of his friends at his side. But the prestige and glory had ensnared him, blinded him to the deeper wounds dormant in his soul, festering like an untreated infection.

Merlin revealing his magic and then his eventual ascension as the court sorcerer had exacerbated those wounds, the scars glaring fresh and red hot on his flesh and in his soul, pulsing with each heartbeat. He had been living in a lie, a shimmering mirage of peace and prosperity that had dissolved like mist under the harsh glare of truth. And without the watchful eye of the crown and the might of the knights to hold back the evil now spreading, magic would despoil his beloved Camelot, tainting everything he held dear.

Elyan's hand clenched around the hilt of his sword, the metal cool and unyielding against his palm, a tangible reminder of his duty and his resolve. Lord Badawi was right, and someone must speak in his stead, must take up the banner of truth and justice, no matter the cost.