Storm Descending (Torchwood/Merlin) - Part III (Complete)
“Oh, this is lovely,” Merlin mutters, sprawled next to Arthur in the bushes. “Your cousin from the back woods of nowhere suddenly shows up saying he’s cursed to only marry one woman, and that woman just happens to be the daughter of a murderous giant. So of course the king’s immediate reaction is to send us on a quest to meet the giant and get Culhwch his bride. Sometimes, I wonder if he even likes you.” Catching the look Arthur shoots him, he hastily adds, “Sire.”
Arthur rolls his eyes-he’s very good at that, Merlin’s noticed, though it seems unfair that Merlin is the only one ever on the receiving end-and shoves Merlin’s head down into the dirt.
“Be. Quiet. Merlin,” he hisses.
Undeterred, Merlin wipes some mud off his face and mutters, “I'm not the one who put us on this stupid quest to kill a great murderous boar that can only be found by someone who hasn't been seen or heard of in centuries. What if this great hunter’s not real at all, and Ysbadadden is just sending us on a wild goose chase so that he never has to marry off his daughter?”
Another eye roll, this time accompanied by an exasperated sigh, and Arthur shoves Merlin’s head back down. “The talking blackbird was fairly certain Mabon was real,” he points out, in that certain long-suffering tone he only ever takes with Merlin. It makes Merlin feel very special indeed. “As was the talking stag-”
“I'm always telling you we shouldn't hunt! Did you see the way it kept looking at you? It could tell!”
“-and the talking owl, and the talking eagle, and the giant talking salmon,” Arthur continues, not acknowledging the interruption. “And since the salmon actually brought us here, and I can clearly hear somebody singing something very sad from inside the castle, I'm going to give the oldest animal in the world the benefit of a doubt and assume it’s actually Mabon ap Modron in there. And if you would shut up, I could hear when Leon and the others attack the front gate and distract the guards.”
“Because six knights of Camelot against an entire garrison is great odds,” Merlin huffs, but when Arthur slides out of the bushes with a disparaging shake of his head and starts towards the overgrown tunnel that the Salmon of Llyn Llyw had told them about, he follows close behind. It’s a fight to make it into the tunnel through the brambles and ivy that choke the mouth of it, but he only loses a bit of skin getting through. Arthur, of course, has his sword and no regard whatsoever for the people who don't walk around waving big sharp pointy sticks at everything, so he’s already much further down the passage, hissing for Merlin to hurry up.
Sometimes, Merlin has to wonder why he even likes the royal prat, let alone loves him.
*.~.*.~.*
Thankfully, Leon’s distraction is a good one, so there are no soldiers in the halls as they creep through-not that Arthur would ever admit to anything as undignified as creeping, Merlin is sure. Therefore, Merlin feels fairly safe, once they're climbing the tower that holds Mabon ap Modron’s cell, in voicing his doubts again.
“How old is Mabon?” he asks, and then has the extreme pleasure of watching Arthur's veins bulge a little.
“Merlin!” the prince hisses, rounding on him. “We are sneaking! That means we have to be quiet. Or do you want the guards to find us in the middle of their castle, on the stairs, with no conceivable way out except to sprout wings and fly?”
“It’s a practical question!” Merlin defends, raising his arms to ward off Arthur and the inevitable headlock. “If he’s a decrepit old man, I already know who’s going to get stuck carting him around while you act all princely and hack at people.”
And there, again, is the prince’s signature eye roll, though if Merlin identified Arthur to anyone else as “the guy who rolls his eyes so often they should be in danger of falling out,” he gets the feeling no one would know what-or who-he was talking about. (And that’s actually not a bad thing, when Merlin is in the mood to complain about prats.)
“Merlin,” Arthur says wearily, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Just climb.”
Since that vein is looking sort of dangerous, Merlin climbs.
When they finally reach a door at the top of the stairs, it’s clear that this is the source of the weary, mournful lament they've been following since Caer Loyw came into sight. The door itself is locked tight, bound shut with a heavy padlock. But six hard kicks from Arthur's boot splinters the wood around the hinges, and another two knocks it down completely. Arthur steps through the opening, sword at the ready, and Merlin follows a little more cautiously.
The room is startlingly bare, containing only a cot along one wall and a chair and table along another. There is a window, though, even if it is tightly barred, and on the wide ledge sits a man in a simple brown tunic and leggings. He’s half-turned to look at them, and his face is calm but slightly wary, his hair as black as Merlin’s own and his eyes a shade of blue Merlin has never seen outside of a summer sky. That sharp gaze sweeps over Arthur, flits to Merlin, and then returns to the prince as the man slowly rises to his feet.
“Sir Knight,” he says, and his voice is measured, even, for all that his body is tense and ready. “To what do I owe this visit?”
“Prince Knight,” Arthur corrects mildly. “I'm Prince Arthur of Camelot, and if you're Mabon ap Modron, you're the answer to quite a few of my problems.”
The man smiles, faint but very much amused, and bows his head. “Then, sire, I'm most pleased to be of service, for Mabon ap Modron I am,” he says. “Are you here to free me, or kill me? If the latter, I assure you it won't be as easy as you might expect.”
Merlin and Arthur trade glances, and Merlin can feel his eyebrows creeping up his forehead. It’s on the tip of his tongue to say something that will likely have him in the stocks the second they reach a town respectable enough to have one. Arthur, however, just looks back at Mabon and shakes his head a little, sliding his sword away.
“No,” he says dryly. “We went to all the trouble to rescue you; I don't think we’ll kill you just yet. My kinsman Culhwch needs your aid in hunting Twrch Trwyth.”
Mabon’s eyes narrow. “I know that name,” he murmurs. “An evil man, cursed to become a murderous boar, as big as a draft horse and fiercer than a lion. You do not pick your enemies lightly, Arthur son of Uther.”
“You know of me?” Arthur demands, and his eyes are narrowing in return. Merlin agrees with the sentiment; Mabon has supposedly been a prisoner since he was three nights old, stolen away from his mother’s side. That he knows so much of the outside world-and that he’s a finely muscled man, and not some frail and sallow weakling-is rather…suspicious.
But Mabon just chuckles at their consternation, and gestures to where the first light of morning is creeping through the barred window. “Peace!” he says reassuringly. “The birds often visit me up here, when the winds are fair, and they tell me of the outside world. A gyrfalcon first brought me your name, Prince Arthur, and the merlins have since kept a record of your deeds. The beasts of this world like you, for what it’s worth, and favor you over your father.”
It’s a long shot at this point, but Merlin crosses his fingers behind his back in the vain hope that Mabon won't mention anything to do with Emrys. If he does, Arthur's mood is bound to be just lovely tonight, and everyone seems to forget that, when he’s in a mood, Merlin is his favorite target.
Really, he’s such a right prat that sometimes Merlin doesn't know how he hasn't mortally offended some sorcerer or sorceress and been cursed to be an earthworm for all eternity.
Arthur gives a tight nod, glancing out the window before turning back to the gaping doorway. “We should leave,” he says, a touch brusquely. “My men are creating a distraction at the gates, but it won't last long. Come on.”
He makes to step over the shattered door and leave, but before he can, Mabon takes three long strides across the room and catches his elbow.
“Wait,” the hunter says. He looks at Arthur, who stands tense and guarded, for a long moment before nodding just slightly to himself. Then, without fanfare and with great grace, he sinks to one knee and bows his head.
“My life is yours, Arthur of Camelot,” he says. “Prince or King, knight or knave or banished noble, I swear to you my sword, my bow, my spear and my arm, until the day our fates are done.”
There is power in those words. Merlin can feel it, a bone-deep throb and a shimmering burn and a breathy whisper somewhere deep inside of him. He catches his breath, takes a half-step back, and knows that Mabon notices. Blue eyes flicker to him on their way up to Arthur's face, but they don't linger, and Merlin is glad for it.
In the legends, Mabon is very old and very wise. This man looks young and calm and a little unassuming, but Merlin suspects he’d do well to remember the tales, and be wary of using his magic as freely as he normally might.
Leather sighs over steel as Arthur draws his sword from the scabbard and raises it over Mabon’s head. It catches the newly risen sun as it descends, tapping one shoulder and then the other. “Mabon ap Modron,” Arthur says formally, “I accept your pledge, and answer it with my own. Never will I turn my back on you. You are my subject and, if you wish it, my knight.”
Mabon looks up at Arthur and smiles, and Merlin suddenly thinks he can feel a bit of the same force that is present when Kilgharrah speaks of fates and coins and destiny. “My king,” the hunter says, and that too is an oath that Merlin can all but taste.
*.~.*.~.*They're six days into their return ride, Ysbadadden dead and Culhwch and Olwen happily wed, when Mabon pulls Merlin aside as they make their nightly camp. Merlin lets him-there's really no way he could not, if he wants to keep his cover-and doesn't protest when the hunter leads him around an outcropping of rocks. They're out of sight and hearing of the rest of the camp here, but Merlin’s fairly certain that if Mabon had wanted to kill him, he could have let Twrch Trwyth do it, rather than stepping in the way of the boar and earning a gouged shoulder in the process.
“Yes?” he asks, when it looks as though Mabon needs help to get started. “Can I help you with something?”
The line of Mabon’s spine could be used as a plumb level, and that just makes it straighter. Merlin watched with surprise and a little consternation as Mabon turns to face him, chin raised as though in anticipation of a blow.
That's nothing compared to his surprise when Mabon goes down on one knee before him, just as he did with Arthur.
Admittedly, for a brief moment all Merlin can think is that Mabon must have lost something in the dirt, and has brought Merlin out to help him look. But then Mabon turns his face up to Merlin, and says softly, “I've given my oath to the Once and Future King. Would you accept it as well, Emrys? Two halves of destiny, and I offer you both my unending devotion, and the regard of my mother.”
Merlin, unlike Arthur, knows the source of Mabon’s name-the Divine Son of the Divine Mother, and in the Old Religion, no one would dare claim relation to Matrona, the goddess of water and mother deity, unless it was true. Gaius will no doubt know a whole ream of things about Mabon and Modron that Merlin can't quite bring himself to consider, especially when the son of a goddess is on his knees before him swearing fealty.
Usually only Arthur has this problem, and he at least has been trained to deal with it.
“I…accept,” Merlin offers after an awkward pause. “Thank you, Mabon ap Modron.”
Mabon looks at him with a slightly arched eyebrow as he rises to his feet, but tactfully doesn't say anything about Merlin’s obvious lack of experience with this kind of thing. Instead, he brushes off his knees and gives Merlin a smile. “How about some food?” he suggests. “The hawks tell me there are rabbits around here.”
Merlin thinks back to the Stag of Redynvre, and winces.
*.~.*.~.*
Merlin opens his eyes to the sound of traffic and pedestrians and Cardiff in the morning, and buries his face in the pillow with a smile.
A strong arm, ropy with muscle, slides over his shoulder and curls around his side, pulling him back against an equally strong chest. Not a bodybuilder’s strength, but a swordsman’s, even in a time when there are few-if any-true swordsmen left.
“Mm. What are you thinking of?” Arthur asks, voice sleep-rough and heavy. Merlin decides promptly that he loves this voice, too, just as he’s loved all the others so far since their fates shifted, just a bit, into this.
“Mabon,” he answers, dropping his head onto Arthur's bare shoulder. “And the first time we met.”
Arthur makes an indistinct but dissatisfied noise. “You're really thinking of another man when you're in bed with me?” he demands. “For the first time in how many centuries?”
Merlin rolls his eyes. “Yes, yes, forgive me, sire,” he mutters. “I'm greatly at fault and hurl myself upon your mercy.”
“You should,” Arthur informs him, ignoring the sarcasm completely. There's a pause, and then he says more seriously, “Do you think it’s about that time, then? Do we need to find the others?”
There's a stain on the ceiling of Arthur's apartment. Merlin squints at it as he considers the question. “Well,” he says at length, “if we’re going to be hunting that again, I think it would probably be for the best. Mabon is the only one able to find it.”
“And kill it,” Arthur adds, and it’s clear from his tone that that fact still miffs him, just as it did a thousand years ago. Feeling a laugh bubbling up, Merlin rolls over and muffles it in Arthur's chest.
It wouldn't do for the Once and Future King to see his sorcerer laughing at him. Not this early in the morning, at least.
*.~.*.~.*This time, at least, the view is better. Instead of an endless grey sea, there is a forest outside of Ianto’s window, and the birds amuse themselves by bringing him bits of leaves or flowers. Ianto thanks each one, accepts the gifts and listens to the news of the outside world that they bring him. It’s very much like it was before, except for the change in location, and Ianto tries not to be wearied by that fact.
Every morning, a silvery peregrine falcon brings him a stone from the river winding below the tower.
Ianto has fifteen stones already, piled neatly on the window ledge.
Admittedly, fifteen is a far cry from the hundreds of thousands of days that he endured before, but it’s still an unbearable amount, especially when Ianto has become accustomed to a life that holds more than the four walls he can see now. He misses Jack, and the rest of Torchwood-even Owen, loath as he is to admit it.
But most of all, Ianto hates that he must wait now, wait for others to fulfill fate and come to his rescue. Being helpless is truly abhorrent.
*.~.*.~.*Fifteen stones become twenty, and nothing has changed.
*.~.*.~.*
When there are twenty-five stones piled up in neat rows, Ianto rages against his invisible captors for an entire night.
*.~.*.~.*
When twenty-five grow into thirty, he sits still and silent by the window, and does not speak even to the birds that flutter worriedly beyond the bars.
*.~.*.~.*
At forty, it takes everything Ianto has not to despair.
*.~.*.~.*It has just gone morning, weak sun barely breaking through the lowering clouds that threaten rain, and Ianto can see the blue and tawny shape of the peregrine falcon carrying him the forty-third stone, when something happens.
First, there is a strange hush, as though someone has dropped a thick cotton blanket over everything. Ianto can't see more than the bit of forest outside of his window, but even so, he can feel the bone-deep vibrations racing through the air, driving up a huge group of falcons from the trees. They whirl around Ianto’s tower, screeching and shrilling, and Ianto rises from his seat with his head cocked and a name upon his lips.
“Arthur.”
There is a ripple in the air, like the concussion right after a blast, and the door shatters into a thousand splinters that rain harmlessly down at Ianto’s feet. Ianto raises his eyes to the tall, broad man standing in the doorway, and he smiles, because Arthur Pendragon is certainly just the same as he remembered. Perhaps he wears Kevlar now rather than mail, but Excalibur is shining in his hand and there is a golden light about his brow, like a ghostly crown come to rest in his hair. Behind him, at his right hand, Merlin is smiling in return, and he’s different than he was a thousand years ago, but it’s a good difference. This Merlin knows himself to be the embodiment of magic, the lord of the Old Religion, and it shows in every inch of his bearing.
Ianto drops to one knee before the pair of them and murmurs, “My king, Emrys. You came for me.”
Arthur strides across the small room and offers Ianto a hand, pulling him to his feet with ease. “I promised, didn't I? And besides, we’re not the only ones. Made some friends in this time, have you, Mabon?” He grins, wide and easy and every inch a king, and pulls Ianto forward into a hard, fierce hug.
Jack, Ianto realizes, feeling something tighten in his chest, and returns the embrace. “You always told me I spent to much time alone,” he manages to counter. “I was just following your advice, sire.”
Arthur releases him, and Merlin steps forward to take his place, smiling wide enough to take in his ears-and, as ever, he’s got ear to spare. “Mabon,” he says cheerfully as he pulls back, slapping Ianto’s shoulder. “You've no idea how much easier it is to rescue you when I can use magic. It makes me regret not telling the great prat the first chance I had.” With the ease of long practice, he rocks away from the head slap Arthur directs at him, and then ducks out the doorway. “Come on, boars to kill. And we only just beat those people of yours into the castle, so we might want to leave as soon as possible.”
Footsteps clatter away down the stairs, and Arthur looks at Ianto and shakes his head despairingly. “A thousand years,” he mutters. “A thousand years, and he still can't understand that I'm the king, not him. It’s enough to drive a sane man to tears.”
But he follows his sorcerer anyway, and Ianto follows him.
The knights are waiting by the front gates of the castle, mounted on horses and carrying the weapons Ianto remembers. Seeing his look, Gwaine laughs, and tosses Arthur the reins of his white mare. “Percival owns a stable,” he explains, jerking his head at the big knight, who offers Ianto a quick nod in greeting. “And Elyan is his blacksmith when he’s not busy being his-eyah!”
Elyan casually steps away from where Gwaine is flailing to redo the girth on his rapidly slipping saddle, and offers Ianto an easy smile. “Mabon. It’s good to see you again.”
“And you,” Ianto returns, chuckling. People always look at Percival as the dangerous one of the pair, but in truth, Elyan is the sly and cunning one, and far more dangerous for it. Behind the others, Leon raises a hand, and Lancelot guides his bay to the front to offer Ianto a hand.
“Thank you,” he says softly, meeting Ianto’s eyes with such sincerity that it’s hard to look at him. “Because of your words, Gwen and I are happy now, together, and…” He trails off, but his glance at Merlin and Arthur says more than enough.
“Savor it,” Ianto returns, gripping his hand. “Cherish it. It’s a precious thing, what you have.”
“Mount up!” Arthur calls, and it’s the voice he uses on the battlefield, sending a thrill of remembered adrenaline down Ianto’s spine. “We’re hunting Twrch Trwyth today! Let’s run him to ground!”
There is no cheer, but a low growl of agreement from six throats.
Merlin urges his horse to Ianto’s side, and hands over a package wrapped in plain brown cloth. But the moment Ianto takes hold of it, he knows.
The wrapping falls away to reveal an unstrung bow, a full quiver, a sheathed two-handed claymore, and a long spear carved with runes. Ianto takes a breath, and it’s as though his lungs suddenly work again after ages of being half-paralyzed. He strings the bow, slings the quiver over his shoulder, wraps the sword belt around his waist, and hefts the spear, and it’s the first time he's felt whole in a thousand years.
When he looks up, the other knights are watching him. He gives them a fierce smile, raises his head to the breeze, and takes a deep breath.
The air sings.
The earth murmurs.
Far away, Twrch Trwyth feels it and bolts out of the trees.
Another breath, and Ianto leans low to the ground, feeling it hum under his bare feet. The birds are clamoring in the distance, raucous joy, and the beasts of the land are adding their voices to the din.
It’s all there in Ianto’s senses, vivid and so very, very beautiful, and it’s his. He’s himself again.
From the edge of the castle’s grounds, a cry rises, and Ianto lifts his head to see Jack come barreling over the rise, the rest of Torchwood just behind him. But right now, with the blood singing in Ianto’s veins and a hunt before him, he has to turn away. His first oath was to King Arthur, and his second was to Emrys, and they both need him now. Twrch Trwyth must be stopped, for Torchwood as well as Arthur, and Ianto is the only one who can do so.
“Ride!” Arthur cries, lifting his hand, and Ianto leaps forward into a run, the horses behind him and the earth whispering Twrch Trwyth’s path beside his ear. His spear is a sure and comforting weight in his grasp, long missed and even longer remembered, and the falcons fly before him as a deadly herald of his course.
Mabon ap Modron hunts again.
*.~.*.~.*They drive Twrch Trwyth into the sea in Cornwall, as they did once before, and then part ways, at least momentarily. Arthur Pendragon might be reborn, and his knights might walk the land once more, but until there is need of them, they all have little purpose. It’s not yet time for King Arthur to reclaim his throne; that waits for a time when all hope has been lost, and the land cannot survive without it.
For now, they separate, to keep watch and wait until there is another enemy only Arthur and Merlin and their knights can defeat.
(Ianto is certain that he is not alone in the hope that it will be soon.
He also finds it rather telling that Arthur and Merlin ride of, quite literally, into the sunset together. Gwaine and he have a good laugh about it, at least.)
He lets himself back into the Hub, half-surprised that his access codes haven’t been changed in the forty-five days he’s been gone, and then heads up the stairs to Jack's office, where a light is still shining.
It’s not a surprise to see that Jack is waiting for him, paperwork abandoned for the moment and pen put to the side. What is surprising is the relief on the Captain’s face as he rises from his chair, hand reaching out automatically. Ianto takes that hand, lets Jack pull him close and bury his nose in Ianto’s hair, and at long last Ianto allows himself to relax.
“Are you going to tell me what that was all about?” Jack asks at length, but truthfully, he doesn't sound as though he really cares.
Ianto closes his eyes and tips his head to rest against Jack's, smiling. “That depends,” he says. “How well do you know your Arthurian legends?"
End Part III
(Fin)
For those interested, there are extended notes on characters, my thought processes, and the actual legends here.
Arthur rolls his eyes-he’s very good at that, Merlin’s noticed, though it seems unfair that Merlin is the only one ever on the receiving end-and shoves Merlin’s head down into the dirt.
“Be. Quiet. Merlin,” he hisses.
Undeterred, Merlin wipes some mud off his face and mutters, “I'm not the one who put us on this stupid quest to kill a great murderous boar that can only be found by someone who hasn't been seen or heard of in centuries. What if this great hunter’s not real at all, and Ysbadadden is just sending us on a wild goose chase so that he never has to marry off his daughter?”
Another eye roll, this time accompanied by an exasperated sigh, and Arthur shoves Merlin’s head back down. “The talking blackbird was fairly certain Mabon was real,” he points out, in that certain long-suffering tone he only ever takes with Merlin. It makes Merlin feel very special indeed. “As was the talking stag-”
“I'm always telling you we shouldn't hunt! Did you see the way it kept looking at you? It could tell!”
“-and the talking owl, and the talking eagle, and the giant talking salmon,” Arthur continues, not acknowledging the interruption. “And since the salmon actually brought us here, and I can clearly hear somebody singing something very sad from inside the castle, I'm going to give the oldest animal in the world the benefit of a doubt and assume it’s actually Mabon ap Modron in there. And if you would shut up, I could hear when Leon and the others attack the front gate and distract the guards.”
“Because six knights of Camelot against an entire garrison is great odds,” Merlin huffs, but when Arthur slides out of the bushes with a disparaging shake of his head and starts towards the overgrown tunnel that the Salmon of Llyn Llyw had told them about, he follows close behind. It’s a fight to make it into the tunnel through the brambles and ivy that choke the mouth of it, but he only loses a bit of skin getting through. Arthur, of course, has his sword and no regard whatsoever for the people who don't walk around waving big sharp pointy sticks at everything, so he’s already much further down the passage, hissing for Merlin to hurry up.
Sometimes, Merlin has to wonder why he even likes the royal prat, let alone loves him.
*.~.*.~.*
Thankfully, Leon’s distraction is a good one, so there are no soldiers in the halls as they creep through-not that Arthur would ever admit to anything as undignified as creeping, Merlin is sure. Therefore, Merlin feels fairly safe, once they're climbing the tower that holds Mabon ap Modron’s cell, in voicing his doubts again.
“How old is Mabon?” he asks, and then has the extreme pleasure of watching Arthur's veins bulge a little.
“Merlin!” the prince hisses, rounding on him. “We are sneaking! That means we have to be quiet. Or do you want the guards to find us in the middle of their castle, on the stairs, with no conceivable way out except to sprout wings and fly?”
“It’s a practical question!” Merlin defends, raising his arms to ward off Arthur and the inevitable headlock. “If he’s a decrepit old man, I already know who’s going to get stuck carting him around while you act all princely and hack at people.”
And there, again, is the prince’s signature eye roll, though if Merlin identified Arthur to anyone else as “the guy who rolls his eyes so often they should be in danger of falling out,” he gets the feeling no one would know what-or who-he was talking about. (And that’s actually not a bad thing, when Merlin is in the mood to complain about prats.)
“Merlin,” Arthur says wearily, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Just climb.”
Since that vein is looking sort of dangerous, Merlin climbs.
When they finally reach a door at the top of the stairs, it’s clear that this is the source of the weary, mournful lament they've been following since Caer Loyw came into sight. The door itself is locked tight, bound shut with a heavy padlock. But six hard kicks from Arthur's boot splinters the wood around the hinges, and another two knocks it down completely. Arthur steps through the opening, sword at the ready, and Merlin follows a little more cautiously.
The room is startlingly bare, containing only a cot along one wall and a chair and table along another. There is a window, though, even if it is tightly barred, and on the wide ledge sits a man in a simple brown tunic and leggings. He’s half-turned to look at them, and his face is calm but slightly wary, his hair as black as Merlin’s own and his eyes a shade of blue Merlin has never seen outside of a summer sky. That sharp gaze sweeps over Arthur, flits to Merlin, and then returns to the prince as the man slowly rises to his feet.
“Sir Knight,” he says, and his voice is measured, even, for all that his body is tense and ready. “To what do I owe this visit?”
“Prince Knight,” Arthur corrects mildly. “I'm Prince Arthur of Camelot, and if you're Mabon ap Modron, you're the answer to quite a few of my problems.”
The man smiles, faint but very much amused, and bows his head. “Then, sire, I'm most pleased to be of service, for Mabon ap Modron I am,” he says. “Are you here to free me, or kill me? If the latter, I assure you it won't be as easy as you might expect.”
Merlin and Arthur trade glances, and Merlin can feel his eyebrows creeping up his forehead. It’s on the tip of his tongue to say something that will likely have him in the stocks the second they reach a town respectable enough to have one. Arthur, however, just looks back at Mabon and shakes his head a little, sliding his sword away.
“No,” he says dryly. “We went to all the trouble to rescue you; I don't think we’ll kill you just yet. My kinsman Culhwch needs your aid in hunting Twrch Trwyth.”
Mabon’s eyes narrow. “I know that name,” he murmurs. “An evil man, cursed to become a murderous boar, as big as a draft horse and fiercer than a lion. You do not pick your enemies lightly, Arthur son of Uther.”
“You know of me?” Arthur demands, and his eyes are narrowing in return. Merlin agrees with the sentiment; Mabon has supposedly been a prisoner since he was three nights old, stolen away from his mother’s side. That he knows so much of the outside world-and that he’s a finely muscled man, and not some frail and sallow weakling-is rather…suspicious.
But Mabon just chuckles at their consternation, and gestures to where the first light of morning is creeping through the barred window. “Peace!” he says reassuringly. “The birds often visit me up here, when the winds are fair, and they tell me of the outside world. A gyrfalcon first brought me your name, Prince Arthur, and the merlins have since kept a record of your deeds. The beasts of this world like you, for what it’s worth, and favor you over your father.”
It’s a long shot at this point, but Merlin crosses his fingers behind his back in the vain hope that Mabon won't mention anything to do with Emrys. If he does, Arthur's mood is bound to be just lovely tonight, and everyone seems to forget that, when he’s in a mood, Merlin is his favorite target.
Really, he’s such a right prat that sometimes Merlin doesn't know how he hasn't mortally offended some sorcerer or sorceress and been cursed to be an earthworm for all eternity.
Arthur gives a tight nod, glancing out the window before turning back to the gaping doorway. “We should leave,” he says, a touch brusquely. “My men are creating a distraction at the gates, but it won't last long. Come on.”
He makes to step over the shattered door and leave, but before he can, Mabon takes three long strides across the room and catches his elbow.
“Wait,” the hunter says. He looks at Arthur, who stands tense and guarded, for a long moment before nodding just slightly to himself. Then, without fanfare and with great grace, he sinks to one knee and bows his head.
“My life is yours, Arthur of Camelot,” he says. “Prince or King, knight or knave or banished noble, I swear to you my sword, my bow, my spear and my arm, until the day our fates are done.”
There is power in those words. Merlin can feel it, a bone-deep throb and a shimmering burn and a breathy whisper somewhere deep inside of him. He catches his breath, takes a half-step back, and knows that Mabon notices. Blue eyes flicker to him on their way up to Arthur's face, but they don't linger, and Merlin is glad for it.
In the legends, Mabon is very old and very wise. This man looks young and calm and a little unassuming, but Merlin suspects he’d do well to remember the tales, and be wary of using his magic as freely as he normally might.
Leather sighs over steel as Arthur draws his sword from the scabbard and raises it over Mabon’s head. It catches the newly risen sun as it descends, tapping one shoulder and then the other. “Mabon ap Modron,” Arthur says formally, “I accept your pledge, and answer it with my own. Never will I turn my back on you. You are my subject and, if you wish it, my knight.”
Mabon looks up at Arthur and smiles, and Merlin suddenly thinks he can feel a bit of the same force that is present when Kilgharrah speaks of fates and coins and destiny. “My king,” the hunter says, and that too is an oath that Merlin can all but taste.
*.~.*.~.*They're six days into their return ride, Ysbadadden dead and Culhwch and Olwen happily wed, when Mabon pulls Merlin aside as they make their nightly camp. Merlin lets him-there's really no way he could not, if he wants to keep his cover-and doesn't protest when the hunter leads him around an outcropping of rocks. They're out of sight and hearing of the rest of the camp here, but Merlin’s fairly certain that if Mabon had wanted to kill him, he could have let Twrch Trwyth do it, rather than stepping in the way of the boar and earning a gouged shoulder in the process.
“Yes?” he asks, when it looks as though Mabon needs help to get started. “Can I help you with something?”
The line of Mabon’s spine could be used as a plumb level, and that just makes it straighter. Merlin watched with surprise and a little consternation as Mabon turns to face him, chin raised as though in anticipation of a blow.
That's nothing compared to his surprise when Mabon goes down on one knee before him, just as he did with Arthur.
Admittedly, for a brief moment all Merlin can think is that Mabon must have lost something in the dirt, and has brought Merlin out to help him look. But then Mabon turns his face up to Merlin, and says softly, “I've given my oath to the Once and Future King. Would you accept it as well, Emrys? Two halves of destiny, and I offer you both my unending devotion, and the regard of my mother.”
Merlin, unlike Arthur, knows the source of Mabon’s name-the Divine Son of the Divine Mother, and in the Old Religion, no one would dare claim relation to Matrona, the goddess of water and mother deity, unless it was true. Gaius will no doubt know a whole ream of things about Mabon and Modron that Merlin can't quite bring himself to consider, especially when the son of a goddess is on his knees before him swearing fealty.
Usually only Arthur has this problem, and he at least has been trained to deal with it.
“I…accept,” Merlin offers after an awkward pause. “Thank you, Mabon ap Modron.”
Mabon looks at him with a slightly arched eyebrow as he rises to his feet, but tactfully doesn't say anything about Merlin’s obvious lack of experience with this kind of thing. Instead, he brushes off his knees and gives Merlin a smile. “How about some food?” he suggests. “The hawks tell me there are rabbits around here.”
Merlin thinks back to the Stag of Redynvre, and winces.
*.~.*.~.*
Merlin opens his eyes to the sound of traffic and pedestrians and Cardiff in the morning, and buries his face in the pillow with a smile.
A strong arm, ropy with muscle, slides over his shoulder and curls around his side, pulling him back against an equally strong chest. Not a bodybuilder’s strength, but a swordsman’s, even in a time when there are few-if any-true swordsmen left.
“Mm. What are you thinking of?” Arthur asks, voice sleep-rough and heavy. Merlin decides promptly that he loves this voice, too, just as he’s loved all the others so far since their fates shifted, just a bit, into this.
“Mabon,” he answers, dropping his head onto Arthur's bare shoulder. “And the first time we met.”
Arthur makes an indistinct but dissatisfied noise. “You're really thinking of another man when you're in bed with me?” he demands. “For the first time in how many centuries?”
Merlin rolls his eyes. “Yes, yes, forgive me, sire,” he mutters. “I'm greatly at fault and hurl myself upon your mercy.”
“You should,” Arthur informs him, ignoring the sarcasm completely. There's a pause, and then he says more seriously, “Do you think it’s about that time, then? Do we need to find the others?”
There's a stain on the ceiling of Arthur's apartment. Merlin squints at it as he considers the question. “Well,” he says at length, “if we’re going to be hunting that again, I think it would probably be for the best. Mabon is the only one able to find it.”
“And kill it,” Arthur adds, and it’s clear from his tone that that fact still miffs him, just as it did a thousand years ago. Feeling a laugh bubbling up, Merlin rolls over and muffles it in Arthur's chest.
It wouldn't do for the Once and Future King to see his sorcerer laughing at him. Not this early in the morning, at least.
*.~.*.~.*This time, at least, the view is better. Instead of an endless grey sea, there is a forest outside of Ianto’s window, and the birds amuse themselves by bringing him bits of leaves or flowers. Ianto thanks each one, accepts the gifts and listens to the news of the outside world that they bring him. It’s very much like it was before, except for the change in location, and Ianto tries not to be wearied by that fact.
Every morning, a silvery peregrine falcon brings him a stone from the river winding below the tower.
Ianto has fifteen stones already, piled neatly on the window ledge.
Admittedly, fifteen is a far cry from the hundreds of thousands of days that he endured before, but it’s still an unbearable amount, especially when Ianto has become accustomed to a life that holds more than the four walls he can see now. He misses Jack, and the rest of Torchwood-even Owen, loath as he is to admit it.
But most of all, Ianto hates that he must wait now, wait for others to fulfill fate and come to his rescue. Being helpless is truly abhorrent.
*.~.*.~.*Fifteen stones become twenty, and nothing has changed.
*.~.*.~.*
When there are twenty-five stones piled up in neat rows, Ianto rages against his invisible captors for an entire night.
*.~.*.~.*
When twenty-five grow into thirty, he sits still and silent by the window, and does not speak even to the birds that flutter worriedly beyond the bars.
*.~.*.~.*
At forty, it takes everything Ianto has not to despair.
*.~.*.~.*It has just gone morning, weak sun barely breaking through the lowering clouds that threaten rain, and Ianto can see the blue and tawny shape of the peregrine falcon carrying him the forty-third stone, when something happens.
First, there is a strange hush, as though someone has dropped a thick cotton blanket over everything. Ianto can't see more than the bit of forest outside of his window, but even so, he can feel the bone-deep vibrations racing through the air, driving up a huge group of falcons from the trees. They whirl around Ianto’s tower, screeching and shrilling, and Ianto rises from his seat with his head cocked and a name upon his lips.
“Arthur.”
There is a ripple in the air, like the concussion right after a blast, and the door shatters into a thousand splinters that rain harmlessly down at Ianto’s feet. Ianto raises his eyes to the tall, broad man standing in the doorway, and he smiles, because Arthur Pendragon is certainly just the same as he remembered. Perhaps he wears Kevlar now rather than mail, but Excalibur is shining in his hand and there is a golden light about his brow, like a ghostly crown come to rest in his hair. Behind him, at his right hand, Merlin is smiling in return, and he’s different than he was a thousand years ago, but it’s a good difference. This Merlin knows himself to be the embodiment of magic, the lord of the Old Religion, and it shows in every inch of his bearing.
Ianto drops to one knee before the pair of them and murmurs, “My king, Emrys. You came for me.”
Arthur strides across the small room and offers Ianto a hand, pulling him to his feet with ease. “I promised, didn't I? And besides, we’re not the only ones. Made some friends in this time, have you, Mabon?” He grins, wide and easy and every inch a king, and pulls Ianto forward into a hard, fierce hug.
Jack, Ianto realizes, feeling something tighten in his chest, and returns the embrace. “You always told me I spent to much time alone,” he manages to counter. “I was just following your advice, sire.”
Arthur releases him, and Merlin steps forward to take his place, smiling wide enough to take in his ears-and, as ever, he’s got ear to spare. “Mabon,” he says cheerfully as he pulls back, slapping Ianto’s shoulder. “You've no idea how much easier it is to rescue you when I can use magic. It makes me regret not telling the great prat the first chance I had.” With the ease of long practice, he rocks away from the head slap Arthur directs at him, and then ducks out the doorway. “Come on, boars to kill. And we only just beat those people of yours into the castle, so we might want to leave as soon as possible.”
Footsteps clatter away down the stairs, and Arthur looks at Ianto and shakes his head despairingly. “A thousand years,” he mutters. “A thousand years, and he still can't understand that I'm the king, not him. It’s enough to drive a sane man to tears.”
But he follows his sorcerer anyway, and Ianto follows him.
The knights are waiting by the front gates of the castle, mounted on horses and carrying the weapons Ianto remembers. Seeing his look, Gwaine laughs, and tosses Arthur the reins of his white mare. “Percival owns a stable,” he explains, jerking his head at the big knight, who offers Ianto a quick nod in greeting. “And Elyan is his blacksmith when he’s not busy being his-eyah!”
Elyan casually steps away from where Gwaine is flailing to redo the girth on his rapidly slipping saddle, and offers Ianto an easy smile. “Mabon. It’s good to see you again.”
“And you,” Ianto returns, chuckling. People always look at Percival as the dangerous one of the pair, but in truth, Elyan is the sly and cunning one, and far more dangerous for it. Behind the others, Leon raises a hand, and Lancelot guides his bay to the front to offer Ianto a hand.
“Thank you,” he says softly, meeting Ianto’s eyes with such sincerity that it’s hard to look at him. “Because of your words, Gwen and I are happy now, together, and…” He trails off, but his glance at Merlin and Arthur says more than enough.
“Savor it,” Ianto returns, gripping his hand. “Cherish it. It’s a precious thing, what you have.”
“Mount up!” Arthur calls, and it’s the voice he uses on the battlefield, sending a thrill of remembered adrenaline down Ianto’s spine. “We’re hunting Twrch Trwyth today! Let’s run him to ground!”
There is no cheer, but a low growl of agreement from six throats.
Merlin urges his horse to Ianto’s side, and hands over a package wrapped in plain brown cloth. But the moment Ianto takes hold of it, he knows.
The wrapping falls away to reveal an unstrung bow, a full quiver, a sheathed two-handed claymore, and a long spear carved with runes. Ianto takes a breath, and it’s as though his lungs suddenly work again after ages of being half-paralyzed. He strings the bow, slings the quiver over his shoulder, wraps the sword belt around his waist, and hefts the spear, and it’s the first time he's felt whole in a thousand years.
When he looks up, the other knights are watching him. He gives them a fierce smile, raises his head to the breeze, and takes a deep breath.
The air sings.
The earth murmurs.
Far away, Twrch Trwyth feels it and bolts out of the trees.
Another breath, and Ianto leans low to the ground, feeling it hum under his bare feet. The birds are clamoring in the distance, raucous joy, and the beasts of the land are adding their voices to the din.
It’s all there in Ianto’s senses, vivid and so very, very beautiful, and it’s his. He’s himself again.
From the edge of the castle’s grounds, a cry rises, and Ianto lifts his head to see Jack come barreling over the rise, the rest of Torchwood just behind him. But right now, with the blood singing in Ianto’s veins and a hunt before him, he has to turn away. His first oath was to King Arthur, and his second was to Emrys, and they both need him now. Twrch Trwyth must be stopped, for Torchwood as well as Arthur, and Ianto is the only one who can do so.
“Ride!” Arthur cries, lifting his hand, and Ianto leaps forward into a run, the horses behind him and the earth whispering Twrch Trwyth’s path beside his ear. His spear is a sure and comforting weight in his grasp, long missed and even longer remembered, and the falcons fly before him as a deadly herald of his course.
Mabon ap Modron hunts again.
*.~.*.~.*They drive Twrch Trwyth into the sea in Cornwall, as they did once before, and then part ways, at least momentarily. Arthur Pendragon might be reborn, and his knights might walk the land once more, but until there is need of them, they all have little purpose. It’s not yet time for King Arthur to reclaim his throne; that waits for a time when all hope has been lost, and the land cannot survive without it.
For now, they separate, to keep watch and wait until there is another enemy only Arthur and Merlin and their knights can defeat.
(Ianto is certain that he is not alone in the hope that it will be soon.
He also finds it rather telling that Arthur and Merlin ride of, quite literally, into the sunset together. Gwaine and he have a good laugh about it, at least.)
He lets himself back into the Hub, half-surprised that his access codes haven’t been changed in the forty-five days he’s been gone, and then heads up the stairs to Jack's office, where a light is still shining.
It’s not a surprise to see that Jack is waiting for him, paperwork abandoned for the moment and pen put to the side. What is surprising is the relief on the Captain’s face as he rises from his chair, hand reaching out automatically. Ianto takes that hand, lets Jack pull him close and bury his nose in Ianto’s hair, and at long last Ianto allows himself to relax.
“Are you going to tell me what that was all about?” Jack asks at length, but truthfully, he doesn't sound as though he really cares.
Ianto closes his eyes and tips his head to rest against Jack's, smiling. “That depends,” he says. “How well do you know your Arthurian legends?"
End Part III
(Fin)
For those interested, there are extended notes on characters, my thought processes, and the actual legends here.