Fic: Masked Part III (g)
What comes out of him next isn’t a plan. It’s simple reflex and instinct. Gaius, Kilgharrah, and Will would all agree that it is a patent Merlin-you’re-supposed-to-think-before-speaking move.
“In exchange for Arthur Pendragon’s life, I offer my own. If you can take it.”
Whatever Nimueh expected, that clearly isn’t it. “You propose a challenge?”
He nods. “If you kill me, Arthur gets to live. And if I kill you, he gets to live.”
“A battle,” she says. “The old magics will be pleased. I accept your offering, Emrys.” She stands, stepping down from her throne. “But this agreement extends to all within this arena. Whoever dies will be sacrificed in the name of your King.”
He opens his mouth to shout, to protest, because that isn’t what he meant, isn’t what he wanted, but a sizzling ball of magic bursts from the magic towards his companions--it hits Bastet, sending her screeching to the ground, and then they are set upon at all sides, Rogues emerging from the shadows beyond the light. Here is Snakecharmer, snakes slithering over his arms; here is Chimera, fire at his palms, the flickering casting the scarred half of his face into stark relief; here is the Steel Siren, pulling a sword from a sheath at her belt; here are a handful of others, crackling with magic, and they are surrounded, outnumbered.
Bastet climbs to her feet, snarling, and from the corner of his eye he sees her shift a little more fully towards her bastet form, fingernails lengthening into sharp claws; she and Sentinel and the Fisher King move to put their backs to each other, and Arc wings down from the sky, shifting into his dragon form, and then their enemies converge upon them.
It is chaos then--magic and fire and mayhem, and Merlin sees it in fragments: Sentinel jumping back from a snake that strikes at him; Chimera circling Fisher in flames and Fisher pushing back with ice and wind; Siren swinging her blade at Bastet, who ducks and rakes back with her claws; Arc roaring as he lunges at three men surrounding him.
Merlin steps through it all and stands in front of Nimueh, ready.
It’s not too late, Emrys. You and I could still be friends, she whispers in his mind.
Never, he thinks back, and strikes.
She meets the blow with a wave of her hand, dismissing it. “You’ll have to do far better than that Warlock,” she says, and sends a fire-burst of power at him, one that sizzles ominously as he dodges it--it strikes somewhere behind him, exploding, the force of it sending them reeling. She strikes again and again and he loses track of everything that goes on behind him, intent on his own battle. They finally sync, magic meeting in mid-air, and he struggles to hold onto it as she pushes forward, as her power boils closer and closer to him, his own weakening, giving out, and he loses it. The force of her magic strikes him hard in the chest and he flies backwards, twisting in the air, pain spiking through his chest and spreading through his limbs; he crashes to the ground, gasping for breath, swirls of dark and light dancing through his vision. He forces himself up, one hand clutching his chest, covering the place where magic has burned through his suit, leaving red blistering skin in its place.
Somehow, Paladin and the Rose Duchess have arrived, and Merlin silently thanks Will, because with their addition the tide is turning against the Rogues.
But it hasn’t turned enough, because Chimera gets an opening, and Merlin sees before it happens but can’t stop it, doesn’t even have time to shout, because the fire is washing over the Sentinel, hitting him square in the back, and he convulses, screams, falls. Paladin rushes to his side, but Merlin knows, can feel the change in the magic, the blood-thirsty pleasure of it, of a sacrifice fulfilled.
Nimueh laughs, long and wild and the magic curls around her, he sees it, bending to her will.
No, he thinks, isn’t sure if he says it aloud, if he screams it, or if it is only in his mind, because Nimueh is not the only one who can manipulate magic, not the only one who can master it. Maybe he is Emrys, maybe he is the one to bring balance to magic, maybe none of it matters at all. Kilgharrah taught him to expel magic from himself, to control it, to maintain a balance inside of himself, and he has already disregarded that, already let it twist and turn inside of him, let it burn inside of him as Arc said.
Now, he lets it rage. Now, he reaches out, makes the physical motion with his hands and mimics it with his spirit, with the part of himself that is made of magic--he takes hold of the currents around him, of the ones swirling around Nimueh, of the ones that bleed deep into the earth where Avalon fell.
And he brings it into himself.
He expects it to fight, expects it to struggle against him, but he isn’t asking for control from it, he’s asking for chaos instead, and it rushes in eagerly. He thinks he screams but he isn’t sure--it feels like molten metal pouring through him, filling him, lifting him straight into the air.
When he opens his eyes, everyone is staring at him. Paladin is clutching Sentinel’s limp body, Rose beside him, holding his wrist; Fisher is supporting Bastet; Chimera and Siren have drifted close together, while the rest of the Rogues are either unconscious or have fled; and then there is Enchantress, her head turned up towards him, her lips parted, something torn between hatred and rapture in her expression.
Yes, she whispers to him, this is what you are meant to be Emrys.
“No,” he replies. “It’s not.”
And he opens the skies upon her. Lightning is nothing like flame, nothing like wind or water, nothing like earth--it is chaos, purer even than the magic boiling under his skin, and when he unleashes it upon her, it takes everything he has to control it, to bend it down on her and only her.
She screams. Screams with rage and with fear and pain, tries to bring her magic up to protect her, but there is no protection from lightning, and she is no longer mistress of death.
Merlin senses it when the magic shifts again, knows when her scream cuts off, when Sentinel comes gasping awake in Paladin’s arms. A sacrifice has been offered, a sacrifice has been taken. Merlin tries to let go, to release the magic, to cut off the lightning, but he finds that he can’t. He is trapped inside his own body, a vessel for the roaring chaos of the magic, his will buried beneath it. He can hear Kilgharrah’s voice saying “you will be a shell, a puppet of wild magic” and he understands what the dragon meant now. He is still suspended in the air, caught there, and he curls in on himself, digging his nails into his palm, hoping the pain will jolt him out of it.
You’re burning yourself through, Merlin, he hears Arc’s voice say. You have to break it.
I can’t, he whispers back, and for a moment isn’t sure the dragon hears him. But then he feels Arc’s presence more fully in his mind, the dragon slipping into his consciousness, and Merlin opens himself to his friend.
This is going to hurt, Arc warns, and Merlin has no idea what he does but he’s right about the pain. There is a storm inside of him, the magic being forced out through his skin, and he knows nothing but the agony of it, every cell in his body screaming from it, and worse, he sees the images from the crystal whirling through his mind again fire and lightning and the earth, the earth is breaking, and it will be his doing, and Arthur is still dying.
And then everything, everything, goes dark.
END PART III
Epilogue