Several hours into trials and tests and what have you, and Merlin is tired. Exhausted. The gate–door–thing stays stubbornly open, immovable, haunting, painful. His magic continues to sulk and avoid. The magic Morgana had wrought stays here. She stays away.
That last fact remains curious, worrying, and relieving all at once. Merlin would have felt exhausted from the range of emotions from the past several hours alone, let alone all of the physical, mental, and thaumaturgical demands and injuries of the day.
The sun will be setting soon. Past experience tells Merlin this is Bad News. Many bad things can occur in the dark. Many kinds of magic draw their power from it.
A little while ago–difficult to tell now, really, how much time has passed, Merlin's never been good at judging that sort of thing without candlemarks and an irate Arthur or frustrated Gaius outright telling him–it had occurred to him to experiment with his runes. The other ones, after all, seem to be holding steady.
He knows many by now, along with their associated requirements and incantations and even prayers. Small, hasty ones scratched in the dirt meant to encourage magical spirits to mark him as a friend, or to inscribe and ascribe meaning into a particular thing, location, into the very magical field that warps and wefts its way into the larger stuff of the world. Larger ones the size of a plate or truncheon composed of delicate animal bones and herbs meant to encourage the health and vitality of persons who call the surrounding land home, as well as ones dug a prescribed length into earth or stone meant to spring-load surprises for nefarious individuals. Intricate ones made of woven twigs and herbs and doused in various potions, then hung from branches, meant to ward off evil. Rune circles constructed of stone and rare plants and moonlight and whatever else, also meant to ward off evil or protect innocents or combat invasion.
Runes can be quite handy, he's found. Even now, even here, distantly, he can cast his magical sense out and feel the ones he's made around Nemeth, the ones crowded and overlapping in Camelot. They call back to him, these pinpricks of his own magic poured into the land, like distant stars flickering a constant pattern against a dark sky. Those are still holding up. Why not try them for offensive instead of just the defensive?
And so he began with the small ones, the ones he could scratch into the loam with a stick. These, he has learned, are mostly symbols of composite words. The barest, most ancient stems of language: roots, simple commandments sketched like a whispered prayer over the earth. Over and over he sketches words that seem appropriate, laying the symbols over one another to create new layers of meaning: serene/peace, protect/ward/guard/keep, health/vitality, holy/good/godly, cast out/fall/banish. All of the most basic components of the Old Religion, the Old Language, the magical building blocks from which Merlin and so many others drew their power.
Contrasted with the pulsating, withering power of the helledor, this practice of inscribing what he calls the Key Runes accomplishes little else but make Merlin feel slightly better. A bit more purposeful about his work here, perhaps, a little less distracted from whatever else must be going on in the background.
But the background continues, he knows, as much as he tries to purposefully put it out of mind. He can't help but think about it, really. This part of the process, the Key Runes, as he's come to call them, is rote by now. Intention, sketching, imbuement with a little of his magic, and move on to do the next. At this point, it would be nearly as rote as breathing or blinking if Merlin did not find it important to try and truly concentrate, to will into being the meaning of each rune as he writes it. It is an important step when weaving layers of protective magic, and Merlin would not neglect it here in such a strange and dire situation.
But… but the runes are simple, and he has done them many times now. There still exists some room for his mind to wander.
His worries still exist. He can feel them, breathing over his shoulder, jostling for space at the forefront of his mind. Try as he might, he cannot help but check over his shoulder with every whispered word, to close his eyes the moment he wills his magic forth as has been his practice since infancy.
Morgana is out there, somewhere, and all the leaders of Albion save Arthur and a handful of others are present in Nemeth. And a good portion of those are out here, in the Cloudwood, with Morgana. Anyone could happen across her.
Or him, for that matter.
But–he must remind himself, taking another pace in his great circle around the hellmouth and sketching another rune–he sent Princess Mithian away for the express purpose of dealing with this problem. Who better to ensure the safety of these guests than the formidable host herself? She is capable of accomplishing all the difficult bits Merlin has neither the authority nor interest to manage: command the guard, end the competition, recall the nobles, ensure the safety of the city in case Merlin's work here amounts to little more than ambition and good intentions.
He knows she will. Merlin has come to trust his instincts, and every single one of them screamed at him to send her away. Command the city. Protect its people. Be safe.
Merlin shakes his head. Glances through the corner of his eye at the screaming, rotting, infectious helledor. Consciously makes an effort to correct his own thinking: It happens a lot. Thus the checklists. And the sudden teleportation spell that I pray to whatever gods are listening–and to Sir Quackenfell–actually worked this time.
He sketches another rune. Another. Another overlapping the first to make a combination of meaning, which he concentrates on. Another. Another overlapping one. Another.
His mind begins to wander.
Again and again the scenes of the afternoon play in his head: impressions of buttery sunlight spearing through thick shadow; smears of moss and vine and swift, dark waters and rich, soft earth; the sharp, intense cry of a woman that stole his breath and his heart and compelled his feet deep into the Cloudwood.
He remembers crashing through undergrowth to see her sitting there in the glade like some kind of fallen goddess. An off-white overdress, the same rich color as fresh cream, embroidered with green leaves like the far-above canopy and thread as golden as the sunlight which waltzed between crowded leaves to pool on her skin. Those same fingers of pale gold had suffused her veil, turning it cloud-like and intangible, diaphanous in a slight breeze that seemed to only affect her.
And her. Princess Mithian of Nemeth, sitting on the ground, her expression a heart-shattering mask of bewilderment, staring blankly at a rustling bush opposite her. Cheeks flushed, a perfect, ruddy strawberry color, hair wild beneath the fluttering veil. Caught beneath pools of stunning gold and puddles of chilled shadow. Clutching at her chest. Ankle broken, breath knocked from her. Hurt.
And the first words out of her mouth, every syllable fluttering madly with the breath she had just managed to catch… the first words out of her mouth had been his name.
And he sent her away.
He could only imagine what she would say if she were here, watching him do near-to-useless work on a rune circle around the helledor. He should be–he can't imagine–charging head-first at the thing with a sword, perhaps. Or hitting it with a stick. Doing some great bit of magic to make it disappear. And instead, he circles the thing writing in the dirt. After, of course, he had wasted several hours chucking pinecones at the thing and making mental notes of the reaction.
She would probably say something droll and witty. Something like, I'm glad to see you sent me away so you could hide in the wood drawing. Or, perhaps, Are you busy at work, Lord Merlin? Or maybe even, Hello? Would you look up from whatever the hells you are doing? I'd like to have a row. Or, even, Is there something wrong with him?
Merlin shakes his head again with a bit more force to banish the thoughts. He tries to draw a more complicated rune, one which involves overlapping three other runes, which of course, have already been drawn atop the edges of others to create more complex lines of meaning.
"He looks possessed. Hold on, princess," a new voice says.
Merlin stops his sketching, because that's not right. That's Gwaine. Why would Merlin be thinking of Gwaine?
"Can you hear me, mate? Have the gargoyles got you?"
"Gargoyles?" Merlin asks the empty clearing in front of him. He peers to his left and right. Then hears a cough behind him. He whips around, one hand held up, the other to his chest.
Much to his surprise, he sees Sir Gwaine astride a horse laden with bags. Gwaine gives him a grin and a jaunty wave.
"Hallo," Gwaine says. "Sorry to interrupt. You look very busy and important."
"I… am," Merlin says lamely. He swipes sweat off his forehead. "What's going on?"
"I thought you could tell me, mate," Gwaine says, eyes wide and mock-innocent. "Seeing as how you're the one who saw Morgana toss that horrifying thing here."
Gwaine gestures to the helledor. Merlin doesn't bother looking. He knows it's there. He can feel it. He blinks at Gwaine, half of his mind still puzzling through his friend's presence here, the other half still focused on his runes.
"The princess thought you might need help," Gwaine finally says, "and a solid boxing about the ears, probably."
Gwaine studies Merlin's confused face with relish for a good, long moment. Then, he hooks a thumb over his shoulder.
Merlin's eyes flick to the right. Princess Mithian glowers at him from a horse of her own, a sleek one that paws at the ground even while it huffs from the exertion of the journey here. The gaze she has fixed on Merlin could curdle the Deep River.
"Uh," Merlin says, voice strangled.
"I'm the help," another voice intones.
Merlin freezes, then, with no small amount of dread, looks even further to his right. Sir Galahad, bearded and armored and fierce-looking, stares steadily back, one calloused hand gripping his time-tested sword.
"Just to be clear," Galahad says, glittering eyes flickering almost disinterestedly away from Merlin to focus on the helledor. "Princess Mithian is the boxing about the ears."
With great effort, Merlin forces himself to meet Mithian's gaze. When he does, he realizes what it must feel to have one's feet held to a fire.
"Princess, I understand–"
"I did as you commanded, Lord Merlin," Mithian says scathingly, riding without remorse over what he was going to say. "I recalled the nobles, organized contingency plans for an evacuation. Made sure someone was watching in case, by some miracle, you came back for help. And you didn't."
Merlin winces. "My–"
"Do not," Mithian commands.
With practiced ease, she swings a leg down from her saddle and dismounts. She flings the reins toward Gwaine, who catches them easily even while looking on in sympathy at Merlin.
"And so I made arrangements," she tells him, each word thorned and bristling, "and only by the grace of the gods am I here. I know it does meld with your plans–"
"Princess–" Merlin tries, hands held up in a placating manner.
"–holy and precious as they must be," Mithian continues, her tone deadly and honeyed as poison.
"That's not–"
"I know you would rather have me far away from where I can assist you–" Mithian continues, stalking toward him.
"Princess Mithian, please–" Merlin says, drawing himself up an admirable inch or so in height, "let me just–"
"And instead divert me! You knew I did not want to leave you alone here, and yet you sent me away!"
"Yes," Merlin says, eyes sparking, jaw hardening. "Because I knew you would do–"
"All the hard bits!"
"All the things a princess can do that a peasant–"
"Oh, that is rich, coming from you–"
"I am a peasant!"
"The most powerful bloody peasant in human bloody history!" Mithian shrieks, stalking a few steps toward him.
Merlin matches the movement. "I have my limits, Princess Mithian, and I prefer to not cross them."
"Yes, your limits," Mithian says. "Your limit is seeing a woman think and act for herself!"
"What in the gibbering bloody hells are you talking about?" Merlin asks, huffing laughter, eyes wide.
"Give me a task!" Mithian shrieks. "Make it impossible for a mere princess to do when there are two very capable and clueless monarchs milling about–"
"Mithian–" Merlin tries again, the name coming out thin and threadbare, worn down to a mere huff of frayed exasperation and disbelief.
"But I did it, and now I am here, and you will have to deal with it, and with my being here, because I am here now, and should you do anything more about it, why, I shall–I shall banish you," Mithian finishes, taking a final pace forward until they stand a breath away.
Merlin studies her face. Tests the silence drawn taut between them.
"Banish me?"
"Banish," MIthian says, tone a few miles away from the breezy one she had attempted.
Merlin studies her face. "So you did what again, while you were in the castle?"
"Organize a rescue mission of you, of course," Mithian responds imperiously.
"Right. And?" Merlin asks, raising his eyebrows.
"I… well, I put the servants on alert. To prepare for the return of their masters and an evacuation to the siege tunnels, in case…"
"And what else?" Merlin asks, voice dancing over the words.
"I arranged for food and entertainment. I had the guard alerted. I put the Druids on alert for your possible return, either before we left or–or, well, later on."
"So… a productive few hours then," Merlin ventures.
He gives her a small smile. She frowns at him. They stare at each other a moment.
"And I brought you your duck," Mithian finishes.
She grasps the opening of the sack with both hands and shoves it between them so her fists hit his chest. She feels it rise and fall beneath her knuckles for a few moments. The sensation grounds her a bit, brings her down from the heady rush of the excitement of the past six hours.
A plaintive quack sounds from the sack held between them.
Merlin looks down at it, studying it with great care. His eyes rove over the strange bulges, the half-hearted wiggling. He looks back at her, eyes wide, mouth opened in a perfect and silent oh.
Mithian takes in his expression. Casts a glance over his shoulder at the helledor–when did he stop noticing that behind him?–and looks back at him. She quirks an eyebrow.
"So. Well. That's what I've accomplished. I suppose…"
Merlin's eyebrows raise further.
"I suppose it was the right decision. I just wish you hadn't gone against my wishes."
Merlin ducks his head. "I know. And I am sorry for disregarding them. I just…"
He lapses into silence. It turns brittle and cold as they both listen to Morgana's piece of horrible magic churning and howling and burning with cold, astringent light behind the warlock. Mithian's dark eyes fall onto him, gentle, apologetic, forgiving.
"You had that to consider," Mithian says. "I understand."
They fall silent again, Merlin and Mithian both looking over Merlni's shoulder. Until, finally, Mithian breaks the silence. Finally, Gwaine coughs, startling them both back to the present. Warlock and princess both turn to look at the knight with varying shades of sheepishness and indignance. Gwaine smiles easily at both.
"That was lovely and all, but I'm very much interested in how we're all planning on dealing with that nightmare ball over there while also staying alive and intact," Gwaine says jovially.
Galahad grunts his assent.
Merlin blushes from his toes to the roots of his hair.
"Right," Mithian says, and turns to Merlin, a knowing and maliciously pleased expression decorating her face. "What are we doing about that, Lord Merlin?"
Merlin glances over his shoulder again at the orb. Almost as if in response, a chilling howls echoes from it. The warlock looks quickly back at the princess and the knights on their mounts behind her. He flashes a limp smile.
"I'm looking into it."
A/N: Hi! I am indeed alive and well, just overwhelmed with life, I guess! All good things! Just a lot going on. This is part of a larger chapter I've been working on. But I just realized how long it's been since my last installment and thought I'd just go ahead and post what I have ready rather than making y'all wait for my normal 10 -15 pages. As always, my dears, I am so sorry for the delay, and hope you enjoy this latest installment nonetheless.