26. Part 1: Concussion/Migraine

("Last Light" from Kingdom Games: Albion Games)

Arthur found Gwaine crumpled at the foot of a tree, but already starting to move as Arthur approached.

"Gwaine," Arthur called.

The knight groaned and reached groggily to the back of his head, then kept his hand there as he pushed himself up.

"Arthur?" he slurred, staggering a bit, then suddenly leaned over and vomited.

"Hey, are you all right?" Arthur said, reaching his side.

Gwaine coughed and spat, twice. "I'm lucky if all I got was a headache," he said. "What about the witch?"

He wavered on his feet, and Arthur steadied him with a hand on each shoulder. "She's dead."

"Your sword?" He nodded, and Gwaine's next question was immediate. "Merlin?"

"She stabbed him," Arthur admitted grimly, and that focused Gwaine's eyes quickly on his face. "He healed himself, but he's in bad shape. Come on," he added, jerking his head to indicate direction. "We'll get to the horses and get some hours behind us before we stop for the night."

Gwaine followed him silently, head down, fingers feeling gently at the back of his head, once or twice stumbling out of the straight line Arthur led him. Hells, what was he supposed to do with both his friends injured badly? He supposed he'd have to retrieve the horses, bring the mounts to the men.

"It'll be nice," Arthur commented. "Find a stream and wash, get a fire going – if we're lucky, a rabbit or two for a real dinner. And no reason to get up and rush off in the morning."

"It'll be a change, at least," Gwaine mumbled.

They skirted the clearing where Morgana's body lay, and found Merlin exactly where Arthur had left him. It looked like he hadn't moved a muscle, but his eyes were still open, and a faint smile curved his lips when he saw them.

"She never touched you?" he said to Gwaine, who snorted and barked a laugh.

"Didn't have to, did she?" the knight said, putting his back to a nearby tree and sliding down, cupping his hands around his face to shut out the light, cover his ears against louder noises. "Sorry, Arthur," he added. "I've got to – sit for a minute."

"I'll bring up the horses," Arthur said, and put on a teasing smile. "You two, just - make yourselves comfortable. And enjoy it while it lasts – it won't be every day that you're treated to the service of a king."

"Arthur," Merlin stopped him with the single word. "I won't leave without her. But I can't… get…"

Something very ugly stirred in Arthur's chest. "The witch stays where she fell," he said evenly. "I won't–"

A smile reached Merlin's eyes. "Sire," he said. "There's a ravine. A hundred yards northeast. Leads to an abandoned fox's den under the roots of a twisted oak – that's where I hid her. My dragon's egg."

Arthur huffed a laugh. "Now, her I'll get for you," he said. "Just rest, Merlin. I'll be back soon."

…..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

His head ached fiercely, and the sense of dizziness would not leave him, not even when he was seated, with his eyes shut. He could hear a faint resonance, like one blade had lightly struck another.

"Gwaine." That was Merlin's voice, soft and breathless as a shy breeze.

He squinted at the sorcerer, stretched out on the fallen leaves, head propped on a root of the tree that shaded him. Bad shape, Arthur had said. That didn't even begin to describe their friend. He'd take the headache any day over Merlin's condition.

"Need something, Merlin?" he said.

"Your forgiveness?" Merlin said. "I thought… I could talk to Morgana… convince her. Counted on… self-preservation… I was wrong, and then…"

"Stop it, Merlin," Gwaine warned him, trying for a little of his customary cheer. "You did what you thought was right. Morgana's dead, and we're–"

"I haven't the strength to heal you," Merlin interrupted, his voice weak, but somehow able to stop Gwaine speaking anyway. "I had to let her… hurt you. She'd think she was… winning. She'd focus on… me, and never notice… Arthur."

"Well, I was meant to be a distraction," Gwaine told him wryly, and then the devilish grin felt genuine. "Minimal and safe, I told Arthur."

Merlin's body trembled with a chuckle or a cough, Gwaine couldn't tell which.

"We're quite a pair, aren't we?" he added.

"Long as… Arthur is safe," Merlin sighed.

"He's lucky to have us," Gwaine agreed. His thoughts felt thick as morning fog before dawn. "Merlin – do you mean to tell me you let her stab you?"

It was a chuckle this time, clear and low, followed by an involuntary whine of pain. Gwaine rolled and crawled to Merlin's side.

"Hey," he said stupidly. A large patch of Merlin's shirt, the size of Gwaine's hand with his fingertips spread, dark and wet, stuck to his right side. "Arthur said you healed yourself."

A look of strain crossed Merlin's face, as though he'd tried to raise his head to look and found he couldn't, but it smoothed away so quickly Gwaine wondered if he'd imagined it in his headachy slowness.

"Must've – broken open," Merlin gasped.

"What do you mean?" Gwaine said, his fingers clumsy as he unfastened Merlin's belt, preparing to examine the wound.

"If I… can't heal your headache…" The young sorcerer laughed, or sobbed. Or both, maybe. "The blade was cursed. Powerful… magic."

"Merlin – hells."

Gwaine's breath choked in his throat, the first real fear he'd felt in a long time. Merlin was fighting a battle, still, one in which Gwaine's sword and skill would be of absolutely no use.

Blood oozed out of the two-inch gash between ribs that were much too prominent under skin too white. The purple discoloration of bruising spread as high as Gwaine could push Merlin's shirt, down almost to his hipbone, and almost as far to either side. Headache forgotten, Gwaine cursed, yanking off his own shirt, bundling the material against the wound.

Merlin groaned, his face twisting and his eyes squeezing shut. "I… sealed the skin… shut," he gasped. "Arthur told me… but… best I could do."

And the wound had continued to bleed under the skin.

"Merlin – dammit, why?" he pleaded. Any enemy, any, he would gladly take on for this boy, cheerfully, gladly – but this last enemy, he could not.

"Are we ready to ride?" Arthur's voice cut through the desperation that seemed to surround them.

He looked up to see the king stride forward, looping the reins of the two mounts over a branch, the clear white-blue of the shell visible at the top of the pouch that bumped at Arthur's hip.

"Gwaine, really?" he continued in amused exasperation. "Any excuse to take off your shirt, isn't–"

Gwaine couldn't speak. He lifted the bunched material in his hand to show Arthur the red of fresh blood. The king turned white, rushing to kneel at Merlin's side.

"He told me he healed–" Arthur said stiffly.

"Said all he could manage was to close the skin," Gwaine said. "Didn't stop the bleeding – and then it broke open. He said the blade of the knife was cursed."

Arthur swore, viciously.

Merlin murmured whimsically, "To the last drop of blood in my veins."

"Don't talk," Arthur ordered.

He shrugged out of the strap of the dragon-egg pouch, leaped up to retrieve a water-skin and a spare shirt from the saddle of one of the horses, handed the water to Gwaine and began ripping the clean white shirt for bandages. Gwaine unstoppered the water-skin and held it to Merlin's mouth for him to drink.

Merlin turned his head so he could see Arthur. "I kept my oath, your majesty."

"No, you didn't," Arthur said shortly, and Gwaine looked at him, too. "You said, to the last light of magic in your heart."

"Used so much," Merlin whispered. "It's so far away."

"Try again," Arthur ordered roughly.

Merlin's hands rose from the ground, barely an inch, shaking. His head lifted, his eyes flickered bluegoldblue, before he dropped back.

Gwaine could not see any change in the wound. He wiped blood from Merlin's side, poured a little water – and more of the thick red liquid seeped onto the white skin. He shook his head at Arthur and applied pressure again.

"We can't travel with him like this," Gwaine said.

"We can't stay here," Arthur responded tersely.

And what both of them hadn't said was, he'll die if we do.

"Please can we stay… a while," Merlin managed. "I'd rather wait here…"

Wait for what, Gwaine didn't ask. He didn't want to know what Merlin thought he was waiting for.

"Okay," Arthur said. "Okay. What would Gaius do for this, Merlin? What about cauterizing it, stop the bleeding?"

"It's too deep," Gwaine told him. "He already tried something similar – it didn't work." He gestured at the bruising visible around the staunching pad of his shirt.

"Tell me what to do for you," Arthur begged the young sorcerer. "What herbs can I get?"

"Goatweed," Merlin said after a moment. "Yarrow, wood betony."

"Okay," Arthur said. "Yarrow I know. What do the others look like?"

"Goatweed has tiny, narrow leaves… yellow-green, with transparent spots. Wood betony looks like… bluebell, with a simple, linear leaf… small round lobes along the edge."

Arthur scrambled up with more energy than he'd shown setting out on the quest for the Fisher King's trident, and dashed away.

Gwaine checked the wound, blinking the dizziness from his eyes. It seemed to him that the edges held together longer, before releasing the thin trickle of blood. He wadded his shirt so a clean part would be next to Merlin's skin, and the sorcerer groaned weakly as he pressed it again to his side.

"Please could you–"

He noticed that Merlin's hand had crept toward the dragon's egg in its pouch. He leaned forward to snag the strap and haul it close enough for Merlin to touch, but it seemed that wasn't good enough. Merlin's dirty, scratched fingers fumbled at the leather, trying to pull it downward off the egg. Finally Gwaine picked up Merlin's other hand to hold the shirt in place over the wound, and lifted the egg from the pouch himself, setting it where Merlin could both see and touch it.

The shell retained none of the dirt or blood from his hands, Gwaine observed, but remained the clear, flawless white-blue color. Merlin's eyes shone.

"Promise, Gwaine," Merlin whispered. "Be for her a…nother father."

"What does she need two for?" Gwaine said, forcing some lightness into his tone. "Hells, Merlin, you and Kilgarrah are going to spoil her, between the two of–"

"Promise," Merlin insisted.

"What makes you think a dragon's egg is going to listen to me?" Gwaine said. "Or is this the she you think I'll fall in love with to protect me from sorceresses in the future? I'm a confirmed bachelor, Merlin, and–"

"Okay, I got it," Arthur called, jogging up. "Merlin? What do I do to prepare this stuff?"

"Mash it up," Merlin said. "Poultice."

Arthur knelt beside them, taking a length of the bandage he'd torn. He hastily arranged the leaves, pressing them and rolling them together in his fingers to crush the juice and oils free, then wrapping the sticky mess together.

"Little water," Merlin instructed in a whisper. Arthur reached the poultice out, and Gwaine dribbled water on it from the skin.

"It's ready," Arthur said to him. "Now what? We just tie it over the wound?"

"No, don't tie it. Gwaine can just… hold it in place. Or, if he wants to… lie down, he can put his head… on it."

They both stared at their friend. "What do you mean?" the king demanded. "I thought this was for you?"

"Won't do me… any good." Merlin gave them his beautiful intimate smile. "It's for Gwaine's headache."

"Merlin–" Gwaine's voice broke, and he couldn't say more.

26. Part 2: Concussion/Migraine

("Long-Legged Beasts" from 3's Company)

When they reached the city and navigated the unfamiliar streets and arrived finally at the theater, Madame Noircir of the university French Club was waiting for them impatiently. She was a tough, tiny woman from the Côte d'Ivoire, black as night with just a sprinkle of tight curls over her scalp and hoop earrings that brushed her shoulders. She taught the more advanced classes; Merlin only knew her by sight and because the way she looked at him in the hallway of the language-arts building made him self-conscious about trying to learn her language.

"Vous êtes en retard," she scolded them, nodding and gesturing some private message to the driver. "Allons-y."

The only light in the theater – high balcony seats and long sloping main floor – ran the aisles at the base of the seats. Curtains closed and instrumental music played through speakers; still Merlin had the uncomfortable impression of most of the audience turning to look at them as they passed. He found himself the odd man out at the end of the row, between Gwen – who leaned over the opposite arm of her seat to hold Arthur's hand and snuggle her shoulder to his – and Madame Noircir.

The curtain went up on a home-office scene, desk-bookshelf-couch, an old man and a younger woman who might have been an employee. It was soon obvious that the play – billed as a satire – was light on action and heavy on dialogue. Merlin quickly gave himself a headache trying to follow it, and by the second act was content to congratulate himself when he recognized stray words here and there.

It was possible, he allowed, that his headache was partially due to whatever scent Madame Noircir wore. It wasn't like any perfume he'd ever smelled before, and he'd hesitate even to call it that, it was so dark and earthy. Something not unlike burnt cannabis, even. It seemed to get stronger as the play wore on, rather than otherwise.

A couple of times he glanced over at her – gleam of eyes and teeth in the dark of the theater, watching him in amused delight, rather than the stage. She probably expected that he was catching all the sarcasm and innuendo.

By the time the curtain dropped the final time, his head was pounding and he had to put a hand on the backs of the aisle seats that he passed, to keep from staggering dizzily and possibly crashing into several other people trying to shuffle their slow way from the crowded theater. Madame Noircir kept close to him and he couldn't figure – through the weary fog of his brain, and the embarrassment – whether he appreciated that, or not. He heard the others behind him, laughing and discussing the play, probably in French, though their instructor at his elbow was silent – and maybe even watchful of him.

Light and shadow swam together in the parking lot, and he was glad to crawl to the middle-bench window seat in the van and lean his face against the cool glass, sensing the moving light-and-shadow continue against the backs of his eyes as they drove out of the city.

Just need to sleep, probably. Feel better in the morning.

He was relieved that no one else seemed to notice his malaise; no one asked, annoyingly sympathetic, if he was all right, to draw the attention of everyone else. The scent of whatever clung about Madame Noircir seemed to Merlin to intensify in the smaller space, though no one else alluded to it, as far as he could tell. He turned his nose to the window, illogically seeking cool fresh air through the glass.

Out of the city, as the trip itinerary had detailed, to a farmhouse renovated into a B&B where they'd have rooms for the night. For a moment he tried to remember what Gwen had been saying about it on the trip there, but… no, it was gone.

And when the tires left the road – and the gravel shoulder–

for the air–

for a moment, he thought the floating sensation was just his head.

Because there was no screaming. Just the first over-and-down hill of a roller-coaster, one helluva -

CRUNCH!

-and a terrific jerk downward. Which was now toward the front passenger side.

A cacophony of silence.

Shattered glass sprinkled down on his face like rain.

He groped for his backpack and couldn't feel it. Couldn't feel his safety belt still holding him in place, bruises on his knees from the seat-back in front of him. He opened his mouth to call to the others and didn't have the breath to make his voice sound.

To the side… and above him… stars glittered in the dark blue of the sky.

He reached clumsy with both hands, pulled himself out the empty space of the side window. Wind roared a gentle gale through his ears. All was dark but the stars and moonlight illuminating each edge of rock and grass rising above him.

Bruising his fingers, he dragged himself free of the vehicle onto the steep slope, and flopped dizzily to his back.

Was the engine still running? He couldn't sense anyone else moving at all. Couldn't see a damn thing. Tried to call and still couldn't hear his own voice around his thundering heartbeat – had his ears been damaged in the crash? so close to the broken window…

Climb down and pull people out, drag them back – up to the road? Didn't they say, don't move people after an accident? What made him think he had the strength?

Go for help.

Merlin clawed his way toward the starlight. He felt the land begin to level out, crawling horizontal instead of vertical – he could see the road before him with its yellow-and-white painted lines, the gravel of the shoulder, faint in the moonlight.

Wheeling unsteadily about, he could not make out the van, not white paint nor tail-lights. It might have been swallowed whole by the ravine.

He didn't know where he was. Out of the city, into the countryside – how close to their destination? – the phone he used but seldom, the minutes paid for as they were used by his mother, still in his backpack, lost somewhere in the van's interior.

"Hello!" His voice echoed oddly in his head; his tongue felt thick. Desperation swelled in his chest, rising to choke his throat. Nothing hurt on him, though he felt absolutely pulped.

No one answered. Not a sound.

"Can anyone hear me?" he tried again.

Responsibility was overwhelming. Sole survivor. If you don't… no one will. No one to call for help.

If he climbed back down, he still could do nothing. But, oh… Gwen.

Words and symbols bloomed into his consciousness like lemon juice on paper held to candle flame. The Old Language… the Old Country. Deepest darkest secrets, stirring in his soul like something important, forgotten…

Merlin drew himself up, raised his hand in front of him. Hesitated at the stupid stupid mental picture of Luke Skywalker, his X-wing sunk in Dagobah's swamp.

It isn't real. Yes it is…

He might've spoken the command he felt, or he might have merely willed it. Snatches of childhood. In solitude, believing – whispering and gesturing and believing if I can just get this right it will happen–

Something clicked into place – or out of place – suddenly and violently and his hand was a fist to hold more control. He pulled – and pulled – he could raise the van from the ravine and then there would be time and light and access to check and save the others–

It isn't impossible I won't fail–

Merlin pulled at the darkness, feeling it give, grappling tenaciously at the ether surrounding the crumpled metal and helpless bodies – til he stumbled back onto his butt and shuddered in the night air crawling over sweaty skin.

A jarring thud. Cleared some sense, maybe.

Really? Trying to use magic to lift a van? While people need actual help?

In scrambling to his feet, Merlin turned to his knees first – and glimpsed a solitary light in the vast blue-black-gray-pinprick white of the world.

Yellow. Electricity. Window?

"Hey!" he shouted down into the ravine. "If anyone can hear me, I'm going for help, just hold on!"

No answer. He wasn't surprised – but horribly chilled with apprehension.

Down from the road, through grass that felt long and damp. Over a fence – wood post and wire and he was lucky there were no barbs – across the spongy uneven furrows of a field he couldn't see properly but vaguely believed to be past harvest.

Stumbling on. Making his legs keep working, like pistons, against the resistance of lethargy.

The light grew, and squared. Window, then – and gleam of white paint. Farmhouse with a deep shadowy porch, the chain of a swing and a great pot of flowers that wafted a falling-leaf scent though he couldn't see them in the night. Barn shape off to the side and he recognized the whole – hoped he recognized it – from the thumbnail picture in their field-trip paperwork.

Bed-and-breakfast. Somebody still up, waiting for the arrival of the college French club, somebody who already knew their details to facilitate the emergency call–

He tripped on the porch stair, staggered to the door. Rattled the screen ineffectually – pried it open only for it to slam spring-loaded back on his shoulder. Old-fashioned knocker, tiny and quaint. He tapped it insistently – couldn't make it louder – abandoned it to thump with his fist.

His legs were jelly and his skull felt cracked.

"Come on, come on…"

No answer. No one came.

"Come on!" he sobbed – and let the screen bang, stumbling off the porch, around to the side where he'd seen the light in the window.

It was open. Bottom sill chest-high, and the screen loose in one corner. He ripped it off the house – ripped a fingernail too by the feel – jumped and squirmed his way inside. At least he could find a phone…

It was one of the bedrooms, illuminated by a fat painted lamp with a cylindrical shade, on a table at the head of the bed. Patchwork quilt tucked over the pillows. Braided rag rug on old polished hardwood floor.

He stumbled across the room to the door – fumbled with the old brass knob, loose in its setting – finally yanked it open and–

Came to a bewildered stop.

A great two-step-down sunken living room, three fat-stuffed sofas facing a flat-screen next to a rough-brick real-fire hearth and exposed chimney. TV on, flickering the bright images and beautiful people of some rom-com.

On the sofa with their backs to him, the purple- and-black-haired French students.

On the sofa facing the TV, she with her feet tucked up and he with his arm around her - Gwen and Arthur.

In the shadows across the room, Madame Noircir and another unknown woman, heavy in bust and hips, short straight hair showing gray. They looked up at him simultaneously, without expression, eyes gleaming in flickering firelight.

Gwen twirled a curl around her finger absently; the purple-haired French girl leaned to murmur a snide comment to the boy on her right, their attention wholly on the television. The boy snickered.

Merlin's feet lurched him down the two steps, to the back of the couch where Gwen and Arthur sat. His brain wanted to remember the names of the actor and actress on the screen, making out on the dock at sunrise – sunset? – wanted to read the subtitles showing in white-block French.

But his mouth blurted, "What the hell is going on?"

Gwen looked up at him, smiling her own sweet, pure friendship through a slight frown for the oddity of his question, in that setting. "Oh, Merlin – aren't you feeling any better?"

Better than what? He felt cold, and battered, weak from exertion and – upside down.

"What – happened?" he managed.

She scooted to face him more fully over Arthur's shoulder. "You don't remember? You weren't feeling well after the play, you fell asleep in the van and when we got here, you went right to bed." She pointed to the room he'd just emerged from. "Do you feel better now?"

"There was an accident," he said out loud. And then Arthur shifted to give him a glance. He met the older boy's blue eyes, careless now of the habitual mockery. "The van… we were all in it…"

"Did you have a bad dream?" Gwen said, concerned and moving to the edge of the couch, still turned to face him over the back.

Arthur glanced at the TV – wasn't interested in the rom-com anyway – looked back at Merlin. Didn't crack a grin, didn't say anything.

Merlin said loudly, insistently, "It wasn't a–" peripherally he caught the hint of Madame Noircir and the stranger rising as one, watching him, and he flinched without quite knowing why – "dream."

The two women stepped down into the room, and Gwen rose from the couch, looking toward Madame Noircir as if for help. Did he sound crazy? Disturbed, at least. He couldn't shake the feeling that-

SOMETHING

- had happened out there in the darkness, something he was responsible to take care of, something dangerously hazy.

"If you are feeling disoriented," Madame Noircir said in her odd clip-slur accent, "perhaps you should lie down once again."

"No," he said immediately, retreating from the intensity in her eyes and her companion's. Did no one else see that? That wasn't normal.

"I can make you a cup of tea," the gray-haired woman offered.

"No!" Merlin nearly shouted.

One of the French students hissed in irritation at the disruption he was causing. Arthur was turned sideways on the couch, looking up at the rest of them as if trying to figure out what was going on, and what he should do about it.

"Come on," Gwen said to Merlin, rounding the couch and the two older women – pausing to brush the stranger's shoulder and say, "Tea would be good, thanks."

Then, as they stopped moving, she continued to follow Merlin's retreat, shepherding him back toward the bedroom. She didn't say anything further, but Merlin obeyed her intention and backed into the bedroom again, nearly tripping when his heel caught on the threshold. Gwen swung the door almost closed and faced him with a distinctly worried wrinkle over her usual calm expression and he felt instantly ten times safer. Her in here with him, them out there.

"There was an accident," he repeated obstinately, knowing and trusting that she would take him seriously. "I didn't dream it." Did I dream it? "I remember it."

"What else do you remember?" Gwen said. "Start at the beginning."

"The play," he said. "There was this strange scent – I was sitting next to Madame Noircir and there was this smell, and I had a headache. I was dizzy coming out of the theater, and in the van and – suddenly we were airborne and crunched down in a ravine or something off the road. I couldn't see or hear any of you – I couldn't reach my pack–" He broke off to look around the room; she did the same, but it wasn't there.

"Merlin, we're all fine," she said slowly, frowning a little because she cared, and it mattered to her that he was upset. "You can see that, can't you? We weren't in an accident."