27. Part 1: Earthquake/Extreme Weather

("Who Owns Magic" from Revelations)

By first light, everyone is on his feet. Breakfast eaten, and the horses nearly ready.

And then they hear a horse that is not one of theirs whinny, and everyone's sword is out. Arthur spins, searching the morning-mist.

We're surrounded, Merlin informs him, feeling responsible somehow (prime ambush territory?). A dull throb begins behind both of his ears – not pain, just pressure – to realize that their battle with Morgana is here and now, not later and at Ismere.

But Leon declares, We can't stay here.

Merlin looks past him and the mist parts to reveal a woman on a horse. She is darkness, hair and fur cloak, except for her face, which is white-pale.

Run! Arthur bellows, and Merlin doesn't ever remember hearing him sound like that.

Like he's scared.

Merlin can't have Arthur scared. So he runs, like he's told, but he runs right for the woman and her horse.

He hears the clash of weaponry sound behind him as he struggles up the hill, but has no fear for Arthur fighting ordinary warriors. The woman's face lights up to see Merlin – her eyes light up as she gestures toward him.

Merlin lets her magic wash over him, dissipating into the mist surrounding the camp. He breathes hard from sprinting up the hill; the thumping in his head is more determined now. He shoves magic back at her because that seems fair, and her horse rears, screaming, before turning to bolt. She manages to swing down from the saddle and faces Merlin like the horse was a distraction she is glad is gone.

Morgana, Merlin says. It's not really a guess, though it's not really recognition either, after that... old head injury that never really healed correctly.

I heard about you, she says, pale lips grimacing gleefully. All about you. Your magic. The torture – I'm sorry I missed that. If I'd known that idiot in Cenred's territory was holding you captive, I would have visited.

Arthur doesn't want you dead, Merlin says, because that's true even if Arthur doesn't know it himself, and more relevant than the Owner, who is dead. You must leave Camelot alone. Go far away.

She throws her head back to laugh. Camelot is mine, and you must die! She screams something else that Merlin recognizes for magic.

He has no idea what it's supposed to do or how to defend against it, but he sweeps it past him, spinning and gathering it to slingshot right back at her. Morgana crouches, shielding herself til her own spell is past – and then she's not smirking anymore, but glaring.

She gestures, beginning another spell – and Merlin finds he has no interest in playing this game. Arthur is fighting for his life and Percival and Gwaine are captive in the fortress of Ismere.

He stalks toward Morgana, each step causing the top layer of the earth to ripple away from his feet like a child stomping in a puddle. Three steps, and some of the smaller trees are tipping away from dislodged roots. Morgana staggers back – still furious, but no longer chanting. Planning something bigger, no doubt.

Merlin gathers all the air. Between them, between the trees – above the trees – between the mountains… above the mountains.

The moisture clings together, the clouds rolling upward to escape the agony of coercion, the corners of the world crackling with tension. He shoves it all at Morgana, a shrieking gale split by lightning that makes her skitter back, only stopping when she hits the trunk of a tree.

She pushes away from it, leaning forward. Squinting against the scything bits of leaf and twig and pebble newly airborne, shouting wildly in her panic.

He recognizes that spell. And considers, he might reach into it and grasp her, rake invisible fingers through her spirit and magic, tearing them apart – tearing her apart.

He considers that he might let her get away with it. He might let her get away.

But, just to be sure, he flicks the spell. Not to Ismere and the rest of her troops. Not anywhere within a thousand leagues – and the magic required to transport her further than that will drain her for… a year, maybe, he thinks.

Her eyes widen to realize what he's done – but she has no time to scream before she's whirled away, charcoal scraps of her traveling spell curling up behind her like the dead legs of a beetle. Then – gone.

Merlin releases his hold on the magic of the world.

And all the air rushes back at him, back to its place – between, above – and he is tossed back on the ground as the world growls in irritation at him and he gasps for breath. Sorry. Sorry.

He blinks to see two warriors standing above him. Both wearing red and the Pendragon gold standard. Upside-down in his vision, but… Leon. And Arthur.

Ow, Merlin says.

Arthur snorts, swinging away to look back toward their camp, their killing ground. Leon reaches down to haul Merlin staggering to his feet.

Where'd she go? Leon asks.

Far far away, Merlin tells them. Because his geography isn't certain, beyond the Five Kingdoms.

To Ismere, Arthur guesses.

Merlin finds his balance and turns to see that the battle is won – Morgana's Saxons down or surrendered, with only a few of Arthur's troop as casualties.

No, he says.

Arthur looks at him a moment, then nods to take his word for it.

Without her, do you think the other Saxons will fight for Ismere? Leon asks.

I suppose we'll find out, Arthur tells them.

27. Part 2: Earthquake/Extreme Weather

("Killer and Healer" from Payment in Gold)

It was shock, Gwen decided, that allowed her to feel so calm and rational, when the world was collapsing about her ears. A series of shocks, probably, but she didn't have the time to trace back to the first…

That day, though. She and Lancelot hadn't intercepted the ambush Morgana and Morgause set for Arthur's party returning from their quest, but-

Maybe he hadn't needed the warning.

She'd watched certain sedate matches between him and Lancelot, crossing blades for pass-time and exercise. By Lancelot's intake of startled breath beside her, looking down to the clearing, he also realized how very civilized Arthur had been, to keep those bouts evenly matched. How very tame.

It was a different Arthur she saw, down the little bank off the road, past a few high-limbed trees. The word ferocious came to her mind, to see him not only defend against but defeat, two at a time – and an odd little thrill ran up her spine.

Not quite fear, but… excitement? Paired with a subtle knowledge that such fierce and deadly ability would always protect her, that he would take a breath and step back and acquiesce to her command. Not because she could force him to - as princess of Camelot she outranked Lord Arthur of Dubois - but because he chose to give her that power.

The power of love – and respect – is stronger than that of fear.

Then, in quick succession – his glare of fury to see her there, and she wasn't entirely sure of the reasons prompting it - the appearance of Morgause, sword in hand, unhesitatingly demonstrating the very worst of intentions – the reaction of Merlin, halfway between Arthur and her, as some sort of messenger, maybe, to Morgause's presence-

What was that violent phenomenon of wind?–

And Gwen was across the clearing to Arthur in a moment, sprawled unmoving and – only unconscious. She hoped the same was true for Arthur's two other men, knocked to the ground half a dozen quick paces away.

It was definitely shock on Merlin's face, as Morgause wrapped her fingers around his neck and spoke contemptuously of slavery. "You ought to have listed your name for the auction, to begin with…"

Healer and killer, Gwen couldn't help thinking.

She knew the rules of conjuration as well as any. Objects formed directly from a conjuror's hand - so the blonde woman could easily drop the young man's body a corpse with an iron blade through his neck. But they wanted him a slave, the only one whose life they'd spare, maybe. Everyone else dead – and as for Gwen herself?

"It would be my pleasure…" Morgause went on threateningly – and Gwen's attention was caught away as her twin stepped out of the deeper fringe of trees away from the road, behind Morgause.

Dressed in black as her sister and the slaves, her hair loose on her shoulders, but in the more feminine form of a dress – the impression slightly offset by the blade in her hand, half-raised in mocking menace, now that the fighting was done. That sentiment was copied in Morgana's smirk as she met Gwen's eyes, past Morgause and Merlin in her grasp.

Prone on the ground beside her, Arthur stirred, struggling groggily to right himself and absorb the situation. Without looking away from Morgana's green triumph, Gwen put her left hand down – on his, in its glove. Still gripping the hilt of his weapon.

Her dagger remained in her right hand, but the fingers of her left slid between Arthur's, slid the sword out of his hand, and she surged up from her crouch, fully intending to threaten Morgana in exchange for Morgause turning Merlin loose, negotiate further for the safe retreat of the rest of their party. Morgana's gaze intensified, and she brought her sword-point up in eager readiness.

But Morgause's eyes flared with the unusual gold of powerful conjuration, interrupting and distracting them both.

Merlin's body arched slightly up on his toes, head lifting, arms-hands-fingers spreading, every muscle taut with resistance or pain. The sound that curled from the back of his throat was like an elbow in the pit of Gwen's stomach, enough to stop her short.

And then, an unexpected reoccurrence of the wind singularity. Slamming Morgause away from Merlin - though it felt only a strong but oddly gentle gust that buffeted Gwen.

She was quite sure her entire body was airborne for a moment, floating weightlessly and not unpleasantly. Then the ground tilted under her heels and she caught her balance in a crouch, fisted weapons down to brace herself for further action, whatever was necessary against–

Morgause, pushed two paces back from Merlin, stood frozen in a shock of her own, blood on her hands as she stared down at several inches of bladed metal, right through the center of her chest. Behind her, horror had scoured Morgana's smirk from her face – she released the hilt of her weapon as her blonde twin collapsed lifelessly in the dirt. For a moment more, Morgana stared down at her sister – dead, Gwen couldn't but believe.

Merlin curled over unsteadily, eyes unfocused as he fumbled at his neck.

Beside and behind Gwen, Arthur made stifled sounds of pain as he gripped her shoulder – she shifted her weight to accommodate his – and hauled himself upright.

Then Morgana screamed. "No! No!"

And the whole clearing erupted in chaos.

Earthquake, maybe. Or the sudden wind that sometimes preceded a violent spring thunderstorm? Gwen shielded head and face with her forearm, hand still clutching her dagger, and saw Morgana's eyes. Glowing steadily gold.

Magic. Somehow. Having nothing to do with conjuration, or her hands – Morgana screamed again and again in pain and denial.

"Noooo!"

Trees creaked. Roots pulled the earth open.

Arthur fought against the forces of air pressing them down, his face a grimace of agony and desperation; Merlin dropped to his knees, head gripped between his hands and coughed – or spat, or vomited – blood.

And it was getting worse.

Only one thought came to Gwen, but she hesitated one more moment more to yell into the howling wind, "Morgana, stop!"

A large branch crashed down, bounced, and blew into a neighbor tree. Gwen could imagine the other woman's horror, unintentionally causing the death of her closest loved one, friend and partner – yet it was true that they had initiated law-breaking, and sought violence. It was a terrible price to pay, but both Twins had chosen this path.

Gwen lifted her arm, feeling the base of one edge of the blade with her thumb, bending her wrist back toward her forearm for a close-range cast, as she'd been trained – extensively and privately, before her coming-of-age – years ago, but the skill was hers to keep.

Merlin lifted his head suddenly, as if he sensed what she would do – but he looked toward Morgana, rather than Gwen.

She cast. Hoping more than trusting to her aim, in the tumult of dust and leaves and twigs scratching at her in protest as the wind yanked them past.

But the dagger flipped true, and struck sooner than Gwen was prepared for, right in Morgana's chest. Gwen was willing to believe, somehow in the exact same location as the blade through her sister's body.

Chaos spun out and died down, as Morgana dropped her head to observe the hilt. She reached to touch it – then, as if she'd changed her mind, put out her hand to catch herself as she toppled to the ground. Atop and beside and tangled with Morgause.

Gwen pushed to her feet as Merlin straightened on his haunches, wiping his mouth on the cuff of his sleeve. She took a single step forward to see that Morgana's face was turned to her sister's blank-eyed countenance, and the dying look of the black-haired Twin, before the green eyes dropped shut forever, was relief.

It made Gwen feel a little better.

27. Part 3: Earthquake/Extreme Weather

("Lother's Legacy" from Torr Badon)

Merlin dashed down the dark tunnel of Lother's tomb-tower on Nemeth's side of the border, stolen sword in hand, and slid to a stop at the doorway. Seeing the maroon-covered backs of Odin's invading force – and no one fighting – hearing a voice full of commanding authority. I will deal with your men soon enough…

He knelt, strategically removing himself from eye-height, and snatched a glimpse of the rest of the chamber. Prince Mark of Nemeth was on his back at the far end, beginning to stir under King Rodor's hands as the old man knelt over him.

Percival stretched over the stone block of the tomb, red-faced and sweating and desperate, eyes locked on – Arthur, probably, Merlin couldn't see clearly.

Four men he'd wish to protect, all separated, all in more or less immediate peril, surrounded by bared blades.

A distraction, then.

Merlin spoke, quickly and low, "Ic the bebiede thaet thu abifiast nu!" slamming his palm on the earth floor to punctuate the magic, and bruised his shoulder on the corner of the doorway as the tomb shuddered.

Men tipped off their feet, crashed into each other, worried for the sharp edges of their weaponry. Percival, anchored to the tomb, and the other three in crouching or kneeling positions, retained their balance.

And recovered faster, for it.

Percival shrugged off two holding him down, turned to slug a third with his big fist. Prince Mark pulled Rodor to his feet, spinning him aside from a soldier's lunge – pushing that attacker off-balance.

Arthur gave a wordless shout of alert and a sword floated gracefully over the stone tomb; Percival turned to catch it in response.

One more, at Arthur's back, with ax raised to cleave the king in half. Years it had been, since Merlin had – driven the sword unhesitatingly through another human being's body with his own hand.

He let the corpse's lifeless tumble take the hilt from his hand and met Arthur's glad, surprised glance.

"Merlin!"

"Hurry, this way!" he said, beckoning. The earth-tremble he'd caused would not last much longer.

Arthur was through the doorway first, Percival turning to help Rodor – already wounded – and Mark, his face and chestnut hair smeared with blood. Merlin shoved them through the doorway, covering their retreat with a simultaneous shove of magic blasting all of Odin's men to the back wall of the tomb.

Then spun to sprint after his friends.

27. Part 4: Earthquake/Extreme Weather

("A Moment in Ealdor" from The More Things Change)

"There's too many of them!" Will called over his shoulder, over Merlin's shoulder.

He lifted his head to look beyond his immediate reach, and saw that Will was right. Yes, some of the bandits had been unhorsed, and yes they had been divided – but the element of surprise was gone. And Kanen's mercenaries were tougher, were more knowledgeable about weapons than the villagers of Ealdor. The tide was turning, and even Arthur, as brilliant and fearless and tireless as he could be, would not be enough.

"Not for me, there isn't," he said shortly. Magic that doesn't seem like magic. Take away the advantages. "Ga on wuda," he spoke, "Cume thoden."

Grabbing Will's sleeve, he pulled him back against the side of a house as the magic spun outward.

One by one, the bandits' horses reared, squealing fear or rage, refusing to be calmed. One by one the riders were unhorsed by their own inattention or by an observant villager, incapacitated by the fall or a series of blows.

Wind blew shrill down the road, shrieking past the gaps of the house, and the peasants who were used to working in and reacting to unexpectedly tumultuous weather sheltered and protected themselves accordingly. The horses shrieked, galloping hard for the shelter of the forest – the particular section of the forest a good many leagues distant – or trampling the fallen bandits – but never the villagers – in their fury and panic. A handful of raiders sprinted away to all points of the compass.

Merlin released the magic with a gasp; he'd never interfered with the weather before, and for good reason.

"Helluva thing, the weather," Will commented breathlessly, his eyes wide.

"Pendragon!"

Merlin cursed at the infuriated bellow – someone had recognized Arthur. He scrambled up, followed closely by Will, and skidded into the open avenue between the rows of houses.

Kanen strode around the corner of a still-standing fence toward Arthur, who had his back to Merlin. The bandit leader, unhorsed and abandoned, tossed off his helmet and hairy mantle, spun his war-axe at his side in dexterous anticipation.

Arthur moved to meet him, giving his own sword a calming rotation at his side before settling into a balanced crouch. Kanen quickened his steps, swinging the heavy ax to strike an overhand blow from his right; Arthur dodged to the left. Using the momentum of the weight of his weapon, the bandit swung again. The prince leaped past him, swinging his sword to slice his opponent's back, spinning to face him once again.

Now Kanen had his back to Will and Merlin; who felt frozen in place. He was ready to help his friend, but didn't want to distract him in so doing. That was the awful thing about fighting alongside Arthur – letting him fight and risk injury, and not using magic to end the battle. Kanen struck at Arthur's knee, and Arthur somehow managed not only to kick his leg away from the stroke, but to swipe the haft of the ax from the raider's grip with his sword.

Fast as a striking snake, Kanen kicked Arthur back.

The prince kept his feet but gave a few stumbled paces of ground, enough to allow Kanen a pair of moments to snatch a blade from the fallen body of one of his own men. Arthur regained his balance and lunged, twisted his wrist to parry an overhead blow. Kanen swung his newly-acquired blade around; Arthur caught the first attack on his own sword, then a second and third – Merlin began to worry, to stretch out his hand – and the prince, ever the master of strategy, cleverly ducked a fourth to stab his weapon through the bandit's chest.

Kanen collapsed onto his knees, tipped sideways to sprawl dying over the legs of another fallen raider.

"Well, that was new," Arthur said, striding toward them and shoving his sword through his belt. "Weather magic, huh? Nicely done – very natural."

His mouth still felt dry, his hand shaky. "When there are no trees to drop convenient branches from…" Merlin shrugged.

But in the space of a single one of the prince's steps, Kanen lifted a crossbow with his last strength and released the trigger.

Will shouted, knocking Arthur aside – and the bolt jerked to a halt.

27. Part 5: Earthquake/Extreme Weather

("Magic's Soul" from Vortigern's Tower)

Merlin squeezed his eyes shut, focusing on the rhythm of his heart-rate, matching his breathing to slow it down. The hard firm earth beneath him, the warmth of his latent magic to embrace and comfort him. Nothing else. There was nothing else.

In his dream, Merlin perched high in a tree. He smelled the pine resin as it was released by a warming sun, and the wind blew steady in his face, ruffling his hair. He straddled the branch and lifted his arms to the sides, raised them above his head, fingers spread to let the wind blow between them. He closed his eyes and tipped his face to the sun and breathed and breathed – and when he opened his eyes, he was no longer bound to the earth by the tree, but flying.

It didn't matter how. It didn't matter that he somehow remained seated and upright and his arms didn't move but he was flying and he was free.

Merlin.

Not now, please, he pleaded. Don't I deserve peace and freedom, too?

Merlin. The voice sounded sad and amused at once. Son of Balinor.

All the light and movement went out of the air, but not the impression of the immensity of space around him. He was standing now, watching the stars come out as pinpoints of light, watching them dance and sparkle, move and rearrange. The glow increased and drew nearer, and he identified the glittering constellation as a dragon. It came closer and closer; it was enormous, and yet it was still a good distance away, powerful leathery wings beating in sure strokes. Merlin's heart leaped at the wild and dominant independence and yearned to join with it.

"Merlin!" It was another voice, much closer, and human.

He snarled at it unhappily – leave me alone! Can't I escape even for a moment! – and woke on the hard dirt floor, tangled in his cloak, sobbing with the loss of the dream.

The voice, sternly commanding, rumbled from the earth beneath him, the mount of Dinas Emrys itself roaring out, MERLIN!

He scrambled up, and it was not enough. Still his feet touched the ground that trembled with the voice, the imperious summons. He whirled and leaped up on the table, the little hut's only furnishing. The candle rocked precariously as he gripped the edge and stared at the floor as if it would erupt and release – something – to come forth.

The captive boy – Arthur – was watching him warily, his eyes a clearer blue in the dark circles of exhaustion. Merlin, he saw the older boy's lips say, Are you all right?

Merlin.

"Stop it, stop it!" he whispered, covering his ears with his hands though it did no good; the voice was in his mind. "Leave me alone, what do you want?"

Freedom – freedom! To look upon the last of my kin – loose my chains! The prophecy, Merlin – take care…

"I am the last," he said, mumbling into his knees as he crouched on the table. A sob caught painfully in his throat, and he gasped to breathe.

"Merlin?" Arthur, again. "It's all right – the earthquake is done."

He looked at the older boy blankly. Earthquake? Evidently Merlin had been the only one to hear a voice in the violence of the mid-night world-shaking.

Arthur spoke slowly, "It's over. We're fine." He paused, then said, "Did you have a nightmare?"

Oh, it was tearing him apart. That urge for free flight, to hurl himself into the sweet clear of magic-washed space warred bitterly with the knowledge that he had chosen to allow himself to be bound to the dark and to the earth forever in the morrow's sacrificial ritual. And now – now he was not sure. Never easy, the choice was no longer simple.

He felt tears slip down his face as he met Arthur's gaze, and nodded. A nightmare. His life was the nightmare. And what would be the waking of it?