A/N: Hiiiiiiii. It's been a while. I'm sorry! Life caught up to me. I know those of you who have been following this story have been waiting forever for an updated, and to y'all, I give my heartfelt apologies 3 For a while, nothing happened, and then I tried harder to get my writing to cooperate, and it lead to dead ends. Suffice to say, it took a while to get this chapter to do what I needed it to do, and then we landed here. I hope you enjoy it, the delay notwithstanding. More to come as always, my dears.
As the mist-soaked timber and shadow walls of the Cloudwood dissolve into the white-flecked granite stones of the palace, Mithian screams in frustration. A maelstrom of emotion overwhelms her and she feels adrift among all of it: the exhilaration from their kisses, the fury at Merlin for sending her away, the shame that he had seen fit to do so and that she did not–could not–prevent it from happening, the sorrow from watching his gentle features, joyous and worried and determined all at once as they fade from her eyesight. She stood and watched as that beautiful, stupid, selfless man sent her away. And now he's alone out there.
"Gods damn you, do you hear me?!" Mithian shouts, slamming her fist into the wall. It is too real and solid beneath her hand, and so she does it again, and again, feeling the pain of it only distantly. "I knew it, I knew–"
She rears back to hit the stone again, harder, almost willing her the skin on her fists to finally crack and split, to see her blood spilled on the wall. But a hand catches her own, firm and strong, and keeps it from raining another blow on the unforgiving stone.
Mithian's breath catches. She looks up, vision blurry from the hot tears welling in her eyes and spilling down her cheeks. Just barely, she makes out a face, one comprised of sharp angles and soft beard and long hair.
"Sir Gwaine?" Mithian asks. She cannot bring herself to care about the way she squeaks it out, nor about the hiccup that follows.
She blinks away a few tears and watches as his face comes into focus. His expression is drawn, grim.
"How much trouble is he in?" Gwaine asks, the words falling like lead between them.
Mithian sniffles. She draws her hand away, and Gwaine lets his grasp on her wrist fall. He takes a half step back, allowing her breathing room while staying close.
To her right, a chair shifts. Mithian looks over, eyes wide. Her gaze falls on the elder Druid Chieftain Isildir, who pushes himself to standing and walks over. He bows his head and hands her a handkerchief.
"Thank you," Mithian replies, voice thick. She wipes at her eyes first, then her running nose. Only then does it occur to her that she should probably be embarrassed. Princesses should not act like that.
But she cannot bring herself to, just as she could not feel shame at how her previous words had come out as squeaks, nor for her hiccuping. Instead of wasting energy on feeling embarrassed, she instead focuses on trying to calm down. She is of no use to anyone in such a state and Merlin–
"You both know, then," Mithian says, looking at Isildir and Gwaine from beneath tear-stained lashes. She watches the knight shift. She observes the Druid's tightening mouth.
"He sent me to you," Mithian declares. She blows her nose, then deems the handkerchief too soiled to hand back and tucks it into her kirtle. "You both know. Of course you do. I thought you might, but I–I wasn't sure."
"What happened?" Gwaine asks.
Mithian sighs. "Morgana found us. Found him, I suppose. She did some kind of magic, and then rode off. And then Merlin–Merlin sent–he sent me away."
Gwaine's breath leaves him in a heavy woosh. Isildir shakes his head, looks at the ground.
"He… is he powerful? Can he hold his own against Morgana?" Mithian asks.
Gwaine looks at Isildir, and so Mithian follows his gaze. But she notes that Gwaine does not answer, and that instead the Druid does. She had assumed Gwaine would be able to answer that question, if braggadociously, if hyperbolically.
Isildir gives her a small smile. "To say that he is powerful would be like saying the ocean is big. Accurate, but…" He spreads out his hands, palms facing upward.
This response makes Mithian dizzy. Isildir and Gwaine each take one of her arms and lead her to a table. She notices that there are cards laid out, some face-down, others lined in arrays of various suits. She interrupted a game, apparently. Again, she cannot seem to care about this. The world has turned vicious and dark, just as it had when she learned Merlin had challenged Sir Pellinor. Merlin is in danger, and there is little she can do about it. Merlin designed things so there is little she can do about it.
Anger comes to the forefront of the emotional turmoil in her. She tests out how it feels, and decides she likes it.
"He sent me away," Mithian grinds out. "Morgana made this… this thing, this orb, and Merlin marched me away. I asked him–I begged him not to, and he sent me away."
Gwaine snorts, but it comes of as empathetic and darkly humorous rather than dismissive. Isildir sighs and sits next to her.
"Such is the nature of Emrys."
"Emrys?" Mithian repeats.
Isildir nods. "It is what my people and many others call him. Or, at least, it is one of many names and titles attributed to him. Emrys would likely prefer the latter categorization, were you to ask him."
Mithian wipes at her nose with her sleeve and turns to him, working to keep her newfound anger in check. In as diplomatic a tone as she can manage, she asks, "What?"
The Druid chieftain bestows upon her a wry smile. It is not an expression she has seen on him before, solemn and ruminative as he so often is, and it immediately endears him to her despite her best efforts.
"Emrys is a name we Druids carry with us, and have done so for nigh on five centuries at the least," he explains. "Emrys is meant to be a powerful warlock. In fact, the most powerful magic user to ever walk the earth. The most powerful magic user who will ever walk the earth. And to all of our knowledge, Lord Merlin is Emrys."
Mithian sucks in a breath. Gwaine collapses into the chair next to her.
"How do you know this?" Mithian asks.
Isildir tilts his head, considering his next words. "Well, there are many reasons. Chief among these is that Emrys is foretold to be deeply connected with another figure of prophecy: the One and Future King."
Despite never having heard the title before, something about it strikes Mithian as familiar. Correct. True.
"That's Arthur, then," Gwaine says, speaking to Mithian's thoughts.
"Many think so. Lord Merlin included," Isildir tells them.
"And so Merlin…"
Isildir nods and continues, "Five and twenty years ago, there came a strange series of natural phenomena. Understand you, these things occurred at a time in which magic was not only tolerated but embraced across Albion. It was commonplace for High Priests and Priestesses to lead large flocks, to bless crops and animals, to conduct handfastings and attend births. Oracles were revered, sorcerers trusted. And then came the Fateful Night.
"Two boys were born on the same eve. I doubt even Merlin and Arthur know this, but they share a birthday: three days from the Winter Solstice. This date is auspicious in the way of the Old Religion for more reasons than one. The first is that the Winter Solstice is a holy day, dedicated to Arianrhod, the goddess of healing and the moon, as the solstice is the longest night of the year. Three is a lucky number in the Old Religion as well, as it invokes the Triple Goddess, Queen God of the Pantheon herself. And, of course, the Winter Solstice is a time of change and rebirth, the heralding of longer days and coming warmth.
"On this day, five and twenty years ago, two babes were brought into the world. One emerged into a land of silken sheets, milk, honey, and blood and observed by many attendants, including the gods and Death and Life themselves. The other emerged into a land of hard lessons and harder landscape, attended only by his mother and her friend and the whole pantheon of Gods, Death and Life themselves included. And as the babes were born, they made their first cry after being wrested from their mothers' wombs, and the world itself cried out. The dragons, still plentiful then, crowed on castle spires and mountaintops. Hearths everywhere roared and burst, casting out the dark in favor of warmth and light. Sparrows and ants and whales and pixies sung in harmony, welcoming a new age. One of those babes opened eyes of pure, sky blue. And the other opened his eyes of molten gold."
"Arthur and Merlin," Gwaine says, slumping in his chair. He sounds as stupefied as Mithian feels. She turns to him.
"You did not know…" she says slowly, glancing briefly at Isildir and back at Gwaine.
The knight shakes his head, causing his long hair to bounce. "Absolutely not. I mean, I knew he had magic for a long time but I didn't guess… I mean, obviously there's more to him than meets the eye. But he didn't actually tell me anything until we came here. Well, really, until he cast a spell on me to make me sleep through his duel–"
"So you didn't know," Mithian interjects. "Well. Fine. Does anyone else–"
"A precious few," Isildir says. "You had asked, Princess Mithian, how we know Merlin to be Emrys. That was just one of many. Emrys has not even trusted his king with this information, as I understand it. Though that decision–"
"Tortures him," Gwaine supplies. He casts Mithian a sidelong look. "That much I know well, after just a handful of conversations about it. Same with Queen Gwen. It almost physically hurts him that they don't know. Though how they haven't guessed is another–"
"Suffice to say, the circle remains few," Isildir finishes, his flair for the political showing. "And though I know your highness requires no persuasion to her excellent reasoning–"
"I will not tell anyone," Mithian huffs. "I just wanted to know who I could discuss it with. We need help. Morgana stalks the Cloudwood and the leaders of Albion are out there on a foxhunt and–"
She takes a deep breath. "We need a plan. And I need to know who I can and cannot go to with certain aspect of that plan."
"There's us," Gwaine tells her. "The Druids and I, I mean. It seems Druids can–"
"Identify Emrys. There is a significant and unique magical signature about him," Isildir explains.
"Sure," Mithian says, choosing not to examine that particular revelation. "So that is about six people in the castle so far."
"Prince Bedivere," Gwaine says. "And Ger. They both know."
"Is Prince Bedivere hunting?" Mithian asks.
"No," Gwaine answers. "He is here in the castle. Playing Abrytan in the library, I believe."
"Marvelous. Eight people," Mithian says. "That should be all I need."
"Your highness?" Gwaine asks, tone bordering on querulous. "What are you thinking?"
"Chieftain Isildir," Mithian says briskly, wiping at her eyes again. "I must ask you a favor."
The Druid inclines his silver head. "Whatever it is in my power to achieve, Princess Mithian, I would so pledge my actions unto you."
"Please have someone go to the Chief Steward–his name is Farley, Master Farley–and have him prepare evacuation plans for all guests and serving staff, local or foreign, to the siege tunnels. And from how far away can a Druid feel Merlin's magical signature?"
"At least a league amongst the most trained of us," Isildir answers promptly. At Gwaine's stare, he explains, "Emrys had us keep data. He is most fond of numbers and experimentation, our Emrys."
"Please evacuate your people to the tunnels as soon as possible with the rest of the guests. But if there is perhaps one among you who may be willing to volunteer–"
"I will station myself at the balustrades of your outer city gladly, your highness," Isildir says calmly.
He stands, turns, rummages in a small wooden box, polished so it shines brightly. But something about the wood–its gentle wear, the dull shine of it–tells Mithian it is polished mainly by the hands that hold it. Isildir draws something from the box and walks back to her. He opens his palm to show her two perfect, delicate shells, one the mirror image of the other.
"Take this, your highness. You need only speak into it and I shall hear your voice when I press my ear to this shell. The same is true in the reverse, should I need to get a message to you. Check it as often as you can."
Mithian feels tears spring to her eyes again, but this time manages to keep them at bay.
"Thank you," Mithian says. Her hand darts across the table to clasp his momentarily as she takes the shell from him. Mithian takes the shell, wraps it in the handkerchief Isildir had provided earlier, and tucks the gift into her bodice. She wipes at her eyes, brushing away the tears as they come, and says, "I have already called on your favor, Isildir, but if you would–"
"Anything for Emrys," Isildir interrupts, gentle tone belying the strength of his voice and conviction.
"Once again, I can only thank you, Chieftain Isildir," Mithian says. "As they go, please have your people instruct any staff that they see to prepare for the return of their masters. Tell them to attend to Master Farley, as he will instruct as to next steps."
Isildir gives her a deep nod. Mithian looks about the room. It seems as if they occupy one of the guest chambers, housed in cramped sitting rooms overflowing with paper.
Paper covered in Merlin's script.
"Have you wax and a sheet of paper?" Mithian asks lightly, forcing her gaze away from the paper and back toward the Druid.
Isildir stands and goes to retrieve the materials. He hands them back to Mithian, who quickly tears the parchment into several pieces. She then melts the wax over a candle burning on the table using a small wax spoon provided by Isildir. She drops this onto each torn piece of parchment, then carefully presses her sigil ring into each. She hands three of these to Isildir, telling him that one should go to Master Farley, another to his swiftest messenger, and the final for the guards at the outer gate. Each carries the weight of an edict issued by the crown. Isildir takes these, bows his head again, stands, and moves quickly toward the door. It is still swinging shut behind him when Mtihian turns to Gwaine.
"Are you a fast runner?" she asks.
"Yes," Gwaine answers promptly, "so long as a maiden's father or other male relatives are chasing me."
Despite herself and the situation, Mithian snorts. Gwaine gives her a lopsided grin.
"Not the answer you were looking for?" he asks, giving her a wink.
"Not quite, but the answer I received will do well enough. And are you good in command? Can you delegate?"
"Ask Arthur," Gwaine answers, just as prompt and near-arrogant as before. "I always find a way to effectively delegate my responsibilities."
"Very well, Sir Knight. I need you to go to the stables. Ask the ostlers to tack up Ofost*, Blæd**, and Gebregd***. Meet me at the southern gates to the inner citadel with both of them in a candlemark," Mithian instructs. "Bring a sword. And a crossbow. In fact, arm yourself to the teeth. And if you can make your way to Master Silas along the way, or if you can get a message to him, ask him to send along rations and medical kits to meet you at the gates.
"On your way, find someone to deliver a message to Sir Fred, my Head Knight. Tell him that Morgana stalks the Cloudwood. Tell him to send Sir Galahad to meet us at the gate, again armed, again with all the provisions and medical supplies he can muster in how long it will take him to meet us."
Gwaine inclines his head to the sigil-marked pieces of parchment. "I'll need a few more of those, princess, if I'm to carry out your orders to the best of my ability. Delegation is all in convincing the right people to do what you need them to do. Authority helps, even borrowed authority."
"Gods help us all," Mithian mutters, and swiftly tears the remaining parchment into two, then two again, decorating each with her seal. Her movements are brusque, chopped. "Crafts while Merlin faces whatever is out there alone."
Gwaine is uncharacteristically quiet. The princess glances up at him, and in her distraction, the wax she drips on the page becomes too large a puddle to be contained. It spills across Isildir's table. Mithian frowns at the knight.
"What?" she snaps. "I am doing as you asked."
"Princess…" Gwaine says, then gives her a strange, squinty-eyed look. "You really think Merlin sent you back here just to keep you safe?"
Mithian furrows her brow. "But… Yes. Did he not? That is the last thing he said to me before casting the spell that sent me here: that he would keep me safe. And the bloody idiot is so self-sacrificing and concerned–"
"He said something else before that, if I remember your tale correctly," Gwaine disagrees, shaking his head so his long locks fly about his charming, grizzled face. "You are Princess Mithian. He holds you in high esteem. Ask anyone. He respects your talents, and not just the womanly ones, and not just the violent ones. If he could convince himself he needed you there more than somewhere else–"
"I would be there," Mithian finishes. She slumps in her chair. Swipes a hand over her wild hair. "Am I foolish? For trying so hard to get back to him? He obviously thinks I would do better work here. And you are right. He told me to find my retainers and gather the competitors back to the castle. He wanted me here."
"Ye-es," Gwaine says, stretching the word. He stands and collects the scraps of paper littering the table, each bearing the seal of Nemeth, "But the way I see it, princess, you're doing exactly what Merlin asked you to. Just with an extra step at the end. Or an extra few steps."
Mithian is silent. She avoids meeting his eyes.
"What will you be doing, while Isildir alerts the castle, and while I gather supplies and steeds for our rescue mission?" Gwaine asks, feigning casualty, picking up the last few parchment pieces between two fingers. He hands them out to Mithian. "You have not mentioned. Surely you are not planning to idly stroll to the gates to meet me there."
She takes the decorated scraps of parchment from his hands. "No. No, I have and Idea of what I will do in the interim."
"Fantastic," Gwaine says. "I was beginning to worry there."
"I would have thought you would want me to do as Merlin said," Mithian says, giving him a half-scowl.
Gwaine flashes his signature grin in response. "Oh, please. Merlin may know what's best for the rest of us, but he's clueless when it comes to knowing what's best for him. That's what we're here for. I think. At least, that's what I'm here for."
"Believe you me, I want Merlin to survive this," Mithian says darkly. "If only so I can strangle him myself when this is all over."
Gwaine gives her a quick nod. "Very well, my lady. We have reached an accord. I will do as you say until we find Merlin, and I will stay well out of the way while you throttle him when we do. It will be entertaining, I think."
Mithian wipes her face. "You said you were a swift runner?"
"When maidens' fathers are chasing me, yes."
"Fine," Mithian responds calmly. She unsheaths her dagger and whips it up toward Gwaine's throat. He leaps backward, eyes wide.
"What the hells was that?!" Gwaine demands.
"Stay away from my daughter, you lout," Mithian shouts, catapulting herself to standing and lunging toward Gwaine, "or I will castrate you with my bare hands like an indolent bull!"
The pair stand in silence for a moment. Then, Mithian asks, knife still raised, tone perfectly pleasant, "Did that do it for you?"
"Right away, m'am," Gwaine tells her, breaking into a brilliant smile, and breaks for the door. He is through it before Mithian can even sheath her blade.
Mithian lets a breathy laugh escape her. She wipes at her face again. Then, she takes a deep breath inward and makes for the door. There are many things on her to-do list: find Prince Bedivere, convince him to do her bidding; find Lady Eloise, convince her to do her bidding; stoke anyone she passes into preparatory action; and, finally, but most importantly, find that damned duck.
For Mithian is unsure of many things right now–where she and Merlin stand, what that kiss meant, whether she should tell anyone or act of in, what is happening in the Cloudwood right now, whether she can evacuate everyone, what that orb truly means and whether Merlin and Isildir are right and whether they can stop it–but Mithian is sure of one thing.
That damned ill duck has something to do with it.
Mithian sweeps from the room. It is time to get to work.
*Ofost, meaning speed or haste–a steed belonging to the crown of Nemeth, gifted recently by Queen Annis of Caerleon;
**Blæd, meaning 1. Blast, blowing, 2. Inspiration, breath, life, spirit, glory, splendor, 3. Wealth, prosperity, riches–a steed belonging to the crown of Nemeth, gifted several years ago to Princess Mithian by Queen Annis of Caerleon.
***Gebregd, meaning quick movement, change–a steed belonging to the crown of Nemeth, gifted recently by Queen Annis of Caerleon.;
Horribly enough, Merlin has scales and checklists and orderly procedures for events exactly such as this. It has become commonplace in his life thus far for his and his friends' lives to be placed in threatening situations, often with the danger coming from something he does not understand and does not have time to attempt to understand.
In short, Merlin has oft experienced things that threaten to annihilate both him and all he holds dear. Perhaps just as frequently, these situations come with a fast-approaching expiration date.
And so Merlin has developed a set of procedures for this kind of event. Any sane person would, when presented with the impossible often enough.
Step one: identify the danger. This time, it is easy enough. The danger is Morgana and whatever magic she has wrought.
Second: identify the magnitude of the danger. This proves to be trickier. While those familiar howls come from the orb, and while the sickly light it casts turns everything it touches into a dying, ashen version of itself, the orb appears to have stabilized. It no longer grows in size. Its sphere of influence appears contained.
But these conclusions are reached only after and auditory and visual inspection of the orb, so he cannot yet properly determine how dangerous it is. Sure, it sets his skin tingling and his hair rising, but has he thought to lick it? What would it taste like? Could he throw it like a ball? How heavy is it, how malleable? What does its magical signature smell like? Feel like? Remind him of?
All good questions, but most ones that he cannot answer right now. Merlin categorizes such thoughts under Things I Could Probably Do Something About Given Time.
Categorization is another important step. It helps Achieve Understanding (Step Four, Five, or Six, depending on the Complexity and Urgency of the Situation at Hand).
Third: Make a Things That Actively Threaten Me And/Or the People I Love category, a Things I'd Rather Not Think About Just Now category, and a Currently Going Well for Me category.
Beneath Things That Actively Threaten Me And/Or the People I Love are, in order, Morgana's Hellish Orb, which while growing no larger still emits howls and throws the portions of the Cloudwood beneath its influence into vivisected, starved, barren versions of itself;, Morgana; Morgana possibly having seen him do magic, either time; and the nobles traipsing through the woods near Merlin and Morgana; the orb has seemed to have stabilized in size and influence; he is alone in the wood. Tidy enough.
Just a handful this time. It is all going rather swimmingly so far.
Next, Things I'd Rather Not Think About Just Now. Numbering in that category are: he kissed Mithian; how far away Morgana is; why Morgana left; Morgana possibly having seen him do magic, either time; the orb has stabilized in size and influence; he kissed Mithian; there are nobles traipsing through the woods near Merlin and Morgana; he kissed Mithian; he is along in the wood.
And, finally, Currently Going Well for Me: Morgana's hellish orb has stabilized in size and influence; he kissed Princess Mithian; Morgana left; he kissed Princess Mithian; he is alone in the wood.
As previously determined, things appear to be going swimmingly. Normally, he'd have far more beneath Things That Actively Threaten Me and/or the People I Love category, and innumerably more things beneath the Things I'd Rather Not Think About Just Now description.
As it stands, and despite all appearances, the checklists and scales determine this situation Probably Manageable. Not a descriptor he uses often.
After a moment of careful consideration, Merlin closes his eyes and lets his magic unspool across the wood. He imagines it as like the fog that rolls in from the bay every night in nearly a solid cloud, cloaking and suffusing the landscape. He feels the ancient trees surrounding him,, hardy and close-pressed, each a stanchion of the canopy above and the lifeforce of the forest. The rich, deep earth below him responds to his call, pressing upward against his feet, teeming with insects and worms and cold lumps of rock and iron and clay pushing up against the thick loam. He feels the fungi and ferns growing on trees and nurse logs, feels the birds nesting in high-above boughs. In his mind's eye, he sees his magic in an orb around him, its edges diaphanous. Small tendrils flick outward, touching on more: the moths flitting through the air, the midges hanging in clouds above puddles thick with soft-blooming algae and springy moss.
With a gentle push, his awareness stretches outward. It is seeing, smelling, being all at once. Should Merlin desire, he could feel what it means to be a tree of the Cloudwood, or one of the small frogs breathing in the mist on the boughs of the trees. He could know what it is like for the ground to warm beneath the rare patch of sunlight to break through the canopy, and could understand how it feels to be huckleberry and wood sorrel and ivy claiming that soil to push toward the sky.
His magic, finally, rolls toward the place of the orb's influence, and he feels something he has never felt before: his magic recoiling. Certainly it has become fidgety before–usually when watching Arthur or one of his other friends do something life-threatening–or on alert, usually when Merlin had been forced to occupy someplace cursed and/or rife with danger. It's even failed to work, as with the Dorocha, despite its eager attempts at cooperation with Merlin's wishes.
But now it lashes back at him, refusing to explore further. Merlin frowns and casts it forward again, insisting.
His magic flinches. Then, almost grudgingly, moves into the orb's influence.
And then it screams. His magic reacts like a wild thing, alive and separate from himself. It bucks from his control, flooding out and away from the orb before snapping back to him with such percussive rebound that he staggers. For a moment, shock is all he feels: pure, dumb, overwhelming shock. And then the pain floods in.
Magical pain is difficult to describe. Merlin has felt it before, when Morgana chained him and his magic when she left him for the Serkets, or when the Dorocha touched him and ushered him to the brink of death. But even those experiences leave this pain untouched.
It is spiritual, mental, overwhelming and indescribable. The pain of the encounter is unlike any he's ever experienced. It leaves him completely insensate: his vision goes blinding white, then desolately black; a roaring and ringing in his ears drowns out all sound; he cannot feel, cannot move, but even so he feels his muscles constrict violently, tensing involuntarily and without reprieve; his mind riots against him, refusing to process sensation yet awash in agony before it finally gives way to a blank, unprocessable siren of anguish; his soul writhes in his body, trapped by mortality yet rent asunder beyond recognition.
One by one, as the pain ebbs away, his senses return. First, it is his taste and feeling in his mouth and lungs. He breathes heavily, chest shaking with sobs. His throat aches, raw and cracked and threadbare, and he realizes then that he must have been screaming. But he recognizes the earthy taste of the air, and as it passes down his throat, it is cool as water and soothes where it goes.
He tests his hands and groans. In his–what, frenzy? Seizing?–he has clutched up handfuls of loam, cutting his palms on the twigs and root systems and sharp rocks peppering the soft earth until blood turns the loose, rich dirt into crimson-shadowed mud in his hands.
Merlin opens his eyes without having realized they had closed. He lies prone on the ground, cheek pressed into the earth, his body somehow managing to both curl tightly in on itself and lay at awkward angles on the forest floor.
With great effort, and not a little pathetic groaning and whimpering (after all, Arthur and the knights are not here to poke fun at him for doing so), he pulls himself off his face and onto his knees. He looks at the orb with a new kind of trepidation.
He categorizes the entire previous experience as Terrifying Things I Need to Deal With Right Away.
He notices that for however long he had been writhing on the forest floor–and just given how he feels, he must have been down there for at least an hour while a horde of horses trampled over him–the orb had stabilized. It hovers in its strange sphere of influence, now perhaps the size of Sir Quackenfell, but no longer growing larger.
So, he takes this moment to gingerly attempt to stretch out his limbs and think. This kind of magical reaction is concerning, to say the least. When touching Sir Quackenfell during a fit of Prince Bedivere's, Merlin had never felt such pain or terror. The prince himself, among his exhaustive list of symptoms, had never once mentioned feeling discomfort, much less outright agony.
One would think, then, quite naturally, that Sir Quackenfell and Bedivere allowed glimpses of this other world rather than transportation to it. Physical presence implies pain, while viewing–or scrying, perhaps, would be the more appropriate term–does not impart the same sensations.
Or the same understanding.
With this thought, Merlin resolves himself to gather more data. But he cannot bring himself to try that same thing again. That would be the action of a fool, and despite what Arthur and Mithian and Gwaine and most everyone else says, Merlin is no fool.
With great effort and not the least bit of anxiety, Merlin throws his awareness out again. His magic does not push back, but does almost ache as he demands it work again.
This time, he skirts about the edge of the orb's influence, making sure to keep a healthy distance between his magic and where the boundary visually lies. This proves rather easy to do as the boundary seems demarcated by a shift in light quality and the general desiccation of surrounding flora and fauna. Sculpting his awareness in such a way leaves a gaping blank spot in his sense, an inky void in his magical map of the world, but such is the price of not having his magic wounded before it can be of real use.
And there, moving away, are a coupled pair of energies. Morgana and her horse, moving closer toward the swift cool movement of the Deep River and deeper into the move swiftly, almost at a run, moving as swiftly as possible through the wood despite its giant trees.
Merlin classifies this observation beneath Currently Going Well for Me, pleased that the number of items under that category have moved up to a near-unprecedented three (at least), and moves forward with his search.
When he gets a league away in any given direction and does not find the signature flame-like energy of another human. Morgana moves steadily away. This is all good. This means that not only is the area devoid of silly nobles who might interfere with his work, but it also means that Morgana–uncharacteristically–left him to die without sticking around to enjoy it. She has moved elsewhere. To do what, Merlin isn't sure.
He categorizes that final thought beneath Things I'd Rather Not Think About Just Now. Not quite terrifying, but concerning nonetheless. Normally Morgana would delight in watching him perish. And after his stunt with the Serkets, surviving after she did everything to ensure the contrary but actually stick around to watch it happen, he would think that Morgana would want more proof of his demise. Still, small blessings: Morgana is gone for now and there is no one nearby.
Another small blessing: a league is far enough that Merlin can feel the last protective rune he had established in the Cloudwood. Though hastily done, interrupted as he had been by the fox hunt, he can feel it. It glows bright beneath his magical perception, cool and steady and bright as starlight.
It is working.
Runes in general are new to Merlin. They came as a natural consequence of studying the Old Religion in earnest, a luxury provided to him by virtue of his new chambers in Camelot and its associated Experiment Room. He came by more precious texts, was able to spend more time deciphering them. Most crucially, during their last diplomatic trip to Camelot, Isildir and his clan had brought with them their precious collection of magical texts. Merlin had tried to refuse the gift, of course, primarily on the grounds that were they to be discovered on his person, they would have to be destroyed as a course of the law. But Isildir had insisted, and so Merlin kept them carefully secret. And during those odd hours in his and Gaius's private Experiment Room, Merlin had studied them. The texts had broadened his notions of magic.
Gone was the specter of his youth, the ghost haunting his every move that threatened himself and those he loved with visits from nightmarish figures of bedtime stories: knights with glowing red eyes and capes the color of pyres, witches with gnarled hands and appetites for children, kings with insatiable appetites for blood and spies planted everywhere. Gone, too, was the placid, fathomable understanding of brute force and crude balance that so plagued him in his early years in Camelot. Instead, he grew to gain a scholarly appreciation of magic, one steeped in the wisdom of ancient rituals and the innovation of magicians taken before their time.
But, oh, how people have suffered for his hard-won knowledge. The graduation of his learning has so often been associated with great loss.
Images flash through his head: Freya dying, poisoning Morgana, cracking her head, languishing after the Serket's sting, nearly dying from the Doroccha's freezing and barren touch, losing Lancelot, losing Balinor, losing Will.
And then he shakes loose. Looks at the orb. Feels his magic being sucked into it.
He upgrades the orb from Terrifying Things to Address Right Away to Oh Gods, What in the Hells, Please, Please, If Anyone or Anything is Listening–
It's causing him pain. Agony. It, the thing, the magic, the gate. The Hells have latched onto him. The orb is influencing him. It has twisted not only his anatomy and physiology by torturing his body, but it has broken into his mind and manipulated his own memories against him, replaying his greatest failures and most horrible actions again and again.
My soul has been condemned to the Hells, Merlin thinks, stomach lurching, head dizzy with sudden vertigo, and I have glimpsed the eternal punishment that awaits me.
And then, with great effort, Merlin reigns his magical senses in. It is with great care that he carefully disentangles his own magic with that of Morgana's hellish orb. Only then do his thoughts attain a more even keel.
The orb is of the Hells and opens a gate there. Prince Bedivere's ailment, and Sir Quackenfell's ability to share it, is nothing more than a balistraria offering a targeting glimpse at a foreign landscape. This is the territory, not the map. This is the experience, not the impression.
Merlin gazes at the orb a little longer, eyes narrowed, heart beating a wild rhythm. Then, he looks about him and gathers what he can: rocks, twigs, branches, ferns, snails, mushrooms. After perhaps a candlemark he has collected a modest assortment of materials before him, and the orb has grown no larger.
It is time, Merlin decides, to run some tests.
He picks up a twig and flings it at the orb. He pays careful attention not just with his eyes, but with his ears and nose and skin and magic. He makes a mental note of the reaction provided my the orb and then surveys his remaining materials. He picks up a hen of the woods and takes careful aim.
Even devoid of Sir Quackenfell, gods help him, Merlin would make something useful of this experience.
Merlin gets to work.