Fic: Harmonia Mundi (Merlin/Arthur, R): Part 5
Part Five
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Merlin drifted, lost. Images flitted past him, dancing like leaves in an autumn wind, whirling in a confusing symphony of colour; brown, yellow, orange, and bright Camelot red. Music echoed and reverberated in a confusion of senseless noise.
Somewhere, distantly, he could feel his body moving, shifting, bouncing, falling. He tried to open his eyes but his eyelids refused to obey, and just that slightest effort was too much, sending him tumbling back into the maelstrom of sound and colour.
Images flitted past him, and sometimes they made sense.
Merlin saw a rider galloping, pushing his horse faster, faster, red cloak billowing out behind him. He saw Arthur drilling men, movements sharp, clear and precise, and Leon kneeling on the field and breathlessly gasping his message.
There was shock, and fear, and then these were covered by a blank mask. Merlin saw Arthur’s sharp eyes, heard his sharp words calling for his horse, for his knights, for his weapons. He saw the fixed, stubborn glint in Gwaine’s eyes, and the worry in Lancelot’s face.
He saw the knights ride out, heard the ringing harmony of Gwaine and Lancelot as they galloped after their prince. Leon, Percival, Elyan and Gaius stood on the courtyard steps and watched them go, faces lined with worry.
There was pain, somewhere. His head? Merlin tried to reach up and touch his face, but found that somehow, he couldn’t move his arms. Breath coming a little faster, he tried to open his eyes - but there was only darkness. The music around him was unfamiliar, strange. He couldn’t hear Arthur, or any of the knights. He couldn’t hear the dragon claw. Everything around him was foreign. Where was he?
Dizzying, burning terror swept through him like fire, overwhelming all conscious thought, and Merlin thrashed wildly. He opened his mouth and tried to scream, but no sound came out. Hands grabbed him, gripping his arm, his shoulder, tangling in his hair, they were all over him. He reached for the music, tried to twist them away from him, tried to freeze them, his own heartbeat roaring in his ears as he tried anything to make them stop.
Somewhere, he heard a cry of pain, and then voices shouting. The hands were gone. He gasped for air, gulping desperately for breath, but he had only a few seconds reprieve before they were on him again. He pushed again as hard as he could, gripping the music tight and screaming silently for it to save him.
But sleep-sodden, restrained, blind and in pain, he could not fight so many. The hands were myriad now, on his body, arms, legs, on his face, holding his nose until he opened his mouth for air and then pouring a thick, sticky liquid down his throat. Merlin choked, spluttered, and then swallowed because it was that or drown in the foul-tasting liquid.
Short seconds later Merlin went limp, muscles refusing to respond to his mind’s urgent, screaming demands. Darkness surrounded him, and the music was fading, and he was falling again into the familiar sea of whirling colour.
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Arthur was galloping through a dark forest, song fierce and hard, harmonizing with the bright stars that peeped through the leaves overhead. The breath of his horse steamed in the cold air.
Arthur was in Ealdor, dismounting and embracing Hunith. Merlin could see tears streaking his mother’s face, could hear her familiar song, could see the pain in Arthur’s eyes. He clutched at the image, tried to hold on to it, but it slipped through his desperate fingers like grains of sand.
Arthur was alone, sitting under a tree in the forest, holding his head in his hands. He looked exhausted, like he hadn’t slept in days, and his face was dark with grief and anguish. Merlin tried to reach out, to sooth away Arthur’s sorrow, to make whatever had upset him go away, but even as he stretched out a hand the image was fading, and then it was gone.
There was only darkness.
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The floor beneath his back was cold and hard, humming the low, deep song of old stone. Merlin shifted, and then winced as pain sang through him like fire. Around him, there was a low, harsh jangling of magical harmony that made his ears hurt and made it hard to hear clearly. He focused, trying to hear more. There was the unfamiliar song of an old fortress, but it seemed a long way off - distant, somehow muffled by the magic. Not quite as far away he could hear flickering torchlight, but it too was faint, hard to distinguish against the jangling background.
Keeping his eyes shut, Merlin took a slow, deep breath. His mouth felt sticky and foul-tasting, and his whole body ached with a bone-deep pain that he somehow wasn’t surprised by, even though he couldn’t remember why he might hurt. Memories danced away from him, flitting just out of reach, teasing, slipping away each time he thought he might have a grip on them, each time he thought he might have some idea of where he was or how he had come to be there.
He concentrated on breathing. In, out. In, and out. Waiting. For what, he didn’t know. Time seemed endless, but maybe that was wrong. Maybe there was no such thing as time. Maybe he had always been there, and always would be, breathing on the cold stone floor.
No, that wasn’t right. Merlin tried to rein in his wandering thoughts, but they slipped from his grasp, dancing away as he chased after them, and he followed them back into darkness.
Some unknowable time later reality made itself known again, the noise of the world drowning out the soft oblivion of unconsciousness. Merlin stirred restlessly, uncomfortable on the hard stone. Memories trickled back slowly. There were images in his mind now, pictures that he couldn’t place but knew were somehow important. Merlin could remember Arthur on a horse, but why did he look so fierce, so cold? He remembered his mother in tears, but he didn’t know why she was crying. He could see Ealdor, teeming with men bearing the arms of Camelot, but surely there had never been knights in his village?
Knights. Ealdor. The message.
Adrenaline shot through him, a bolt of ice-cold panic as he remembered Leon, the guards, and a sly creeping mist twining through the trees. But what had come after that? But all he could recall was hazy shadows, music, and fear.
Opening his eyes at last, Merlin pushed himself up and looked around. The flickering brightness of torchlight made him blink. Torches were dotted around the large, empty room, casting shadows on the bare stone walls. Graven into the floor all around him was a circle of strange symbols that rang with that harsh, jangling magical harmony. Merlin stared at them, wondering what they meant and why they were encircling him with strange, unnerving power.
But then he saw something else, and all other thoughts were washed away in the blinding rush of panic. He scrambled to get to his feet, forcing his recalcitrant limbs into obedience, muscles screaming with pain as he forced himself to stand.
Morgause lounged comfortably in an elaborate wooden chair, smirking as Merlin staggered up. “Awake at last, I see. Excellent. I was beginning to think there had been some miscalculation in the spell.”
Merlin’s mind raced, thoughts clamouring as he tried to clear the lingering fog from his thoughts, doing his best not to look like he was mere moments from collapsing. Morgause’s song was strangely distant, muffled by the harshness, easy to miss - and he had missed it. He wondered why it was so quiet, so far-away, but he knew better than to ask.
“What’s going on? Why am I here?” he demanded instead, not really expecting an answer. “What have you done to Leon and the others?”
Morgause smirked at him. “Such concern! And for men who would love to kill you. It would be touching, really, if it were not so utterly foolish.”
Merlin went very, very still. After a moment he asked cautiously, “Kill me? What are you talking about?”
Morgause laughed. “You know precisely what I’m talking about, Merlin. I admit, I feel a little foolish for not guessing earlier. But really, who would have expected it of the prince’s man? Though there is a certain kind of irony to it, I suppose. Morgana was devastated,” she added, frowning. “And I must say, your hypocrisy is stunning, it really is. Fortunately for Morgana, she has people who care about her now.”
At this her eyes flicked to behind Merlin. He reached out to try and hear what she was looking at, careful not to not take his eyes off her. There was familiar music there. It was muffled, with the same strange sense of distance as Morgause, as everything outside that ring of symbols, but Merlin knew that song. He felt his blood turn to ice as he turned to stare at the small hooded figure who stood in the doorway. “You.”
Mordred smiled, wide and cold. “Greetings, Emrys.”
For a moment, Merlin stopped breathing. Mordred had told Morgause. She knew. Morgana knew. He had to get out of there as fast as possible, had to get away, get back to Arthur and warn him that -
But what was there to warn Arthur about? Morgause was already a known danger, as was Morgana. Their new knowledge made them more dangerous still, but not in any way that Merlin could put into words - not without revealing his own secret.
He took a deep, shuddering breath as Mordred moved to stand next to Morgause, focusing on the tight clench of his fists and the small, sharp pain of his nails cutting into his palms. On the solid, reliable song of the stone beneath his feet, reassuringly close.
Morgause smirked at him. “Your prince doesn’t know, does he? What do you think he would do, Merlin, if he found out? Would it be the block, or the pyre? Or would he kill you himself, with the sword you sharpened for him?”
Merlin tried to ignore her, hating the way the words cut deep, and reached for the music. If they already knew, then he had nothing left to lose in using magic to free himself.
“You can try to use your power, if you like. It won’t work,” Morgause told him idly, waving a hand at the symbols engraved on the stone floor. “The runic circle allows no magic to leave it for as long as it is kept whole. It is a variation on an ancient working by the High Priestesses of the Old Religion. Difficult to sustain for long periods of time, but these variations to the grounding runes serve to make it absolutely impenetrable - not that I expect you to understand such intricacies. Your lack of education really is deplorable, we will have to do something about that once you agree to serve us.”
Merlin’s eyes widened. “What? I would never serve you, not ever!”
Mordred’s laughter was high and cold, and Merlin had to suppress a shiver. He reached for his magic, drawing it in around him, gathering as much as he could.
Morgause drew her lips back in a snarl. “Do you have any idea who you are? What you are supposed to do for us? No, of course you don’t, ignorant as you are.” She waved a hand towards him. “Emrys is destined to bring about a new age, a golden age. But it is evident that the magic has chosen unwisely, and the vessel is flawed. You will vow your allegiance to Morgana and myself, and we will guide and shape this new future. It will be for the best, I’m sure you will agree in time.”
Merlin shook his head, pulling his magic closer. “I will never vow allegiance to you!”
She narrowed her eyes. “Your refusal is not unexpected. Mordred, tell Morgana our guest is awake.”
Mordred closed his eyes for a moment, and Merlin knew he was speaking directly to Morgana’s mind. He drew in a deep breath and threw his gathered power at the barrier, putting as much strength behind it as he could. But it was like striking a surface of pure, polished glass, and the magic just washed over it and fell away. Merlin frowned and reached out to try and hear the magic of it, to use its song, but the strange, harsh song muffled him, confusing his mind and making it difficult to focus. Before he could get a grasp on it, Morgana had appeared in the doorway. She was holding a small, dark box. It looked incongruously like a jewellery box - like something she might have owned as the king’s ward, once upon a time.
Morgause stood, and the women exchanged a smile as Morgana walked slowly forward to stand next to her sister, careful to keep her distance from the runic boundary. At Morgause’s nod, Morgana opened the box.
Merlin heard it first. Whatever was inside that box rang with an eerie, discordant, repulsive harmony - clearly magical. As the lid opened further, he could see two shining silver bracelets, nestled in soft velvet and engraved with runes and Merlin wanted, suddenly and desperately, to keep as much distance between them and himself as possible.
The Bracelets
Morgana looked up, and her smile chilled him to the bone. “These are blood-linked, bound to the Pendragon line. The traitor Gaius created them for Uther.” She spat the name with a vehemence that should not have surprised Merlin. “He used them to ensure the deaths of the most powerful sorcerers in the land. They can only be used by those to whom they are bound.” She smirked. “Isn’t it fortunate that I am a Pendragon by blood?”
Merlin stepped back, and then again, until he was pressed against the invisible wall of power keeping him confined, fighting the fear that surged in his chest.
“Once they are spelled to you they cannot be removed without the words of command - spoken by a Pendragon,” said Morgana. “And if you believe that Arthur will remove them, you are even more a fool. It may be true that he could, if he knew the incantation - but he does not. Even if he did, to do so he would have to acknowledge that you are a sorcerer and he would have to choose to give you back your magic. Given his views on sorcery, I think that is rather unlikely, don’t you?”
Holding one hand a few inches above the gleaming, chiming metal, she stretched her fingers wide as she began to chant. Merlin strained to catch the words.
“Ásæle Emrys æt ealdhláfordcynn Pendragon, ásæle drýcræft, eafoð,ond sáwol.” Her eyes glowed bright gold, and Merlin could hear the sinuous thrum of the magic taking shape, could hear the music reaching out for him.
His mind railed against the spell, fighting with every ounce of power at his command to stop it from wrapping its music around him. He tore at the notes, ripped at the sinuous harmonies, broke the song into little pieces to keep it away. But the magic was rooted beyond the circle and he couldn’t reach the source. Every part he destroyed would fall silent and then reform, louder and stronger. Morgana continued to chant, and Merlin couldn’t reach beyond the caging spell to stop her. The magic was everywhere now, surrounding him, sliding around him and caressing his skin with icy-sharp notes. For every part he silenced there were a dozen more, and Merlin wasn’t fast enough, he couldn’t keep it from entwining itself around his mind and locking tight.
The music thrummed with triumph. The silver bracelets glowed and vanished from the box, and then reappeared to click shut around his wrists. The instant the second clasp was closed, everything stopped.
Merlin could hear his heartbeat, echoing loud in his ears. He could hear the harsh panting of his own breath.
He could hear nothing else. The music was gone.
Silence.
Merlin opened his mouth and screamed. The sound reverberated against the cold, silent stone, echoing in his ears, the only thing he could hear because there was no music. He couldn’t hear the waterfall that was Morgause, or the deep pool of water that was Mordred. The torches burned silently on the walls, the flickering flames not ringing with bright sound. All sense of the music, of magic, was horribly, unbearably, gone.
Merlin’s mind was reeling, careening out of control, every fibre of his being shrieking in utter despair. The music was gone. He was dead. But was he dead? He could still hear his own voice, screaming. It was loud. Too loud. But it was sound. As long as there was sound, any kind of sound, surely he was still alive?
Morgause stood watching, and her laughter was loud and hollow to his ears.
There was pain, also. His throat was raw with screaming, and his wrists were burning with the agony of bright fire dancing on his skin.
Fire. Beautiful, bright song. Arthur.
Merlin felt a burning, soul-deep ache at the thought of fire-bright, sweet-ringing Arthur. Silent.
No.
He reached for his magic, felt it trapped in his body and raging against the confinement, and forced it out in a torrential rush. He sent it flooding against the silent power of the bracelets, against the shackles that had torn out his heart and held it, beating and bloody, just out of reach; wave after wave of power battering against the flimsy silver that kept him from the music. Magic cascaded through him, furious and unbearably silent, and Merlin gasped, falling to his knees under the force of it.
The magic crashed against the silent power of the bracelets, and rebounded. All that power flooded back into Merlin, into the frail shell that was his body. He screamed again as it swept through him, unbearably strong, washing him into dark, blissful unconsciousness.
This time, there were no dreams to keep him company.
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Arthur leaned back against the old oak tree, watching as Gwaine and Lancelot started unsaddling the horses and setting up camp and trying not to think about how wrong it felt not to have Merlin there. Merlin was always there when Arthur went on a journey. Even when he wasn’t supposed to be, he would turn up like a bad penny, smiling that dopey smile and ignoring any and all hints that maybe he should go back home.
If Merlin was there now, he would be whinging. About the lateness of the hour, about the difficulty of finding dry firewood (though he would always, always be able to light the fire. Sometimes Arthur thought Merlin could light a fire in a blizzard), Merlin would find something to gripe about, and then Arthur could order him to stop complaining, and they would bicker comfortably while the camp was set and the dinner started.
Instead, there was just Gwaine and Lancelot silently laying the fire, putting up the tents, and stockpiling logs for the night, casting him the occasional furtive glance.
Arthur knew he should get up and lend a hand, but he was tired, dammit. Tired, and angry, and frustrated. And he was the prince; if he wanted to rest then it was his royal right to do so, and the other two could just deal with it.
With a sigh, he heaved himself to his feet and moved to steady the tent Gwaine was putting up.
Maybe if he kept busy, he could forget about how there had been absolutely no sign of Merlin, not anywhere. How Leon had come riding in, almost falling off his horse in his haste, with a strange tale of Merlin disappearing into the night without a trace. Arthur silently blessed the man for coming himself - leaving Camelot under Leon for a short time was a much easier prospect than leaving the city to be run by one of his father’s men. Especially with Elyan and Percival to support him. Arthur would have left Gwaine and Lancelot as well and just gone himself, propriety be damned, but they had flatly refused to stay behind.
Arthur carefully did not think about the lingering guilt he felt about Gwaine’s injury, and how it had perhaps led him to acquiesce a little too easily to the knight’s demands.
Nonetheless, they had made swift progress towards Ealdor where Leon had ordered the squad to meet them, securing the village until more support could arrive. On arriving, however, Hunith had greeted them with warmth and confusion. She was glad to see Arthur, of course, and asked after Merlin, and knew nothing at all about raiding bandits or indeed any attackers at all. She also had no knowledge of the messenger sent to warn Camelot of Ealdor’s plight, and had not seen or heard from Merlin recently at all.
Leon said he had searched, had told them that the squad had hunted for several hours once it was realised that Merlin was indeed missing. Arthur had had him describe the area extensively, and after taking their leave of Hunith and the village, he had taken Gwaine and Lancelot to the place Merlin had last been seen. From there, a faint trail of the passage had been found heading north, and they were now following it.
Arthur was careful not to consider who, exactly, would know the reaction elicited by any threat to Ealdor. Or what she could possibly want with Merlin.
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He was asleep, because he had to be.
He was sleeping, and dreaming, and it was a nightmare. Because if it wasn’t, then - no. Merlin refused to believe that he was not asleep. The cell was cold, and dark, and silent because this was a nightmare.
He curled tighter into himself, rocking gently as he hummed. Humming was a strange tuneless music, and it was nothing like enough, not even close to what it should be, to what it was when he was awake - but still infinitely better than silence.
Merlin had learned, in however long he had been dreaming this dream, that screaming was not a good way of producing sound. It took up too much strength, and had left his throat so sore he’d been forced to spend a long period of time with only whatever noise he could make with his hands, or feet, or with the cold, silent stone of his cell.
Humming, on the other hand, he found he could keep up almost indefinitely. So he hummed, a tuneless, wordless buzz of constant sound that he could focus on - and not have to think about the echoing, deathly silence.
His fingers hurt, and sometimes he noticed the blood seeping from raw wounds where he had torn at his own flesh, trying to get the strange silver bracelets off his wrists. But it was easier if he ignored them, because they might make him remember - something. And he must not remember, though he didn’t remember why.
Merlin hummed, and hoped he would wake up soon.
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“It is likely that Morgana took Merlin,” said Arthur, looking between Lancelot and Gwaine. Even though he did wish they hadn’t insisted on coming, he was glad of their presence. Loyal men, both, and he trusted them with his life. Still, Merlin’s absence was a palpable thing between them.
“I don’t know who else would think to use Ealdor in such a fashion,” he continued. “She knows where it is and what it means to Merlin, and she would know what kind of reaction he would have to that message. Taking him in the forest would have been easy enough, especially if magic was involved.”
Lancelot gave a small start at that, and Arthur glanced over to him. But Lancelot stayed silent, so Arthur continued, “I cannot see any reason for Morgana to take Merlin unless it is to draw me out. She is no doubt expecting me to bring a large group of soldiers, to follow this trail and lay siege to wherever she is holding him, to try to capture her and whoever is with her, while also seeking to retrieve him.”
Gwaine nodded. “Seems logical. We had the men with us in Ealdor, why did you not bring them along?”
“Because stealth will be the greater weapon,” Arthur told him. “I sent a message back to Camelot, calling for the army. They are to muster and follow us, though they will be several days behind. We will follow the trail to Morgana’s hideout. By the time the army arrives, we will have been able to infiltrate and retrieve Merlin so he cannot be used as a hostage. This way, we will also be able to scout out their fortifications and defences before the army arrives, which will give us an advantage.”
Lancelot leaned forward. “I can see only one problem with this plan, sire. What of Morgause and her magic? How are we to fight that without any sorcery of our own?”
Arthur frowned. “We have done well enough without using sorcery in the past. There should be no problem. They may have magic, we have defeated them before and will do so again.”
Lancelot looked troubled at this, didn’t seem to have any further arguments. “Yes, sire.”
“Good!” Arthur said. “Now get some rest. I will take first watch. We will need all of our wits in the morning.”
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Merlin knows it is only a dream, knows that he is only sleeping and not really locked in this strange silent cell, because sometimes he sees Morgana.
She comes and goes, flitting in and out of his reality like the sun on a cloudy day, silently watching him as he rocks and hums and wishes he could wake up. Sometimes, though - sometimes she talks.
He doesn’t listen. She’s only a dream.
Sometimes, Merlin thinks about what he would tell her, if she was real. Like - I’m sorry. Like - I should have told you. Like - I’m sorry I have to hate you now. Like - killing you killed me too.
Like - I always loved the eagle in your song, soaring free and bold and strong. But then you flew away from us.
These are the things he thinks of telling her. But he doesn’t. After all, she’s only a dream.
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After a while, Merlin stopped dreaming of Morgana. He dreamt of Morgause instead, and that was worse.
The first time, she just stood and watched him, eyes cold and curious as he rocked and hummed.
The next, she brought Mordred, and Merlin was left writhing helplessly as their combined magicks twined over his skin and through his mind, his own power locked beneath the silver shackles and raging against the confinement like a wild beast in a cage. The sensation of enraged fire locked inside him as foreign, silent, sinuous power curled through his flesh made him shudder uncontrollably, tears stinging his eyes and agony biting his already-painful wrists.
The time after that, she spoke, and tore all his illusions to shreds.
“Morgana has told me you do not listen, do not hear, and do not respond when she speaks,” Morgause said, her voice casual.
Merlin paid her no attention, mind focused on his humming. She was a dream, and she would fade like Morgana had, if he could just ignore her for long enough.
Morgause frowned. “I will not accept this behaviour.” Stretching out a hand her eyes flared gold, and suddenly the humming stopped.
Merlin stopped rocking, hands flying to his throat as he stared at her, wide-eyed. Opening his mouth, he tried to speak, tried to form some kind of noise - but there was nothing. He could not make any sound at all. Silently, he screamed.
Morgause smirked at him. “That’s better. Now, do I have your full attention?”
Merlin gaped soundlessly, clawing desperately at his ears, his throat, his face, heedless of the pain of his nails gouging at his own flesh.
Morgause watched coldly. “It amazes me, really. That the magic chose you, of all people, to be the vessel for such power. And that it was so easy to destroy the vessel entirely.” She waved a hand, and Merlin was hauled to his feet, arms locked in place by silent power that made his skin crawl, mind shuddering away from the impossible dichotomy of silent magic.
She stepped around him, gaze analytical. “You see, Mordred, it is the same as happened to my own teacher. Those who try to hear the music go mad, but taking it away from Emrys has the same effect. Curious, is it not?”
“It should have been me,” said Mordred. He was standing in the doorway, and Merlin hadn’t heard him, hadn’t known he was there without the music to tell him, how could he know anything without the sound to confirm it? How could you be sure a thing existed if you couldn’t hear it? Eyes couldn’t be trusted like the music could. But the music was gone, it was gone, there was no life left in the world. Death was everywhere. Morgause was silent, she was dead, she and Mordred too, they were both dead and he was dead as well because he couldn’t even hear his own voice.
Merlin closed his eyes and wished desperately that he would wake up.
Morgause slapped him, hard, and his eyes flew open again as he gasped silently at the unexpected burn of pain.
“You will pay attention, Emrys. I am your mistress and you will do as I command.”
Merlin shook his head, confused. That wasn’t right, he knew it wasn’t. This was a strange dream, if he could feel pain. Normally, pain was supposed to wake you up, wasn’t it? Or maybe that had been a dream, too.
“You are not dreaming, Merlin,” Morgause said, and Merlin went still.
She was lying. She had to be lying, he was dreaming that she was lying, because she was evil and his mind was playing tricks on him.
“You are not dreaming. You are awake, and you belong to me.”
No. No, it wasn’t true.
“You are awake, and you now serve me. Say it.”
And the magic that had stolen his voice was gone, and Merlin could hear his own harsh panting once again.
“Never,” he managed to gasp, and she struck him again.
“Then you will never hear the music again,” she said softly, and stepped back as Merlin screamed, low and hoarse and agonized.
Morgause turned to Mordred. “It is all a matter of finding the right leverage,” she told him, stepping back further. “Pain is often effective, but the fear of pain is a stronger motivator. This is an unusual case, and you see how the music becomes useful to us.”
“First he must be broken of this delusion that he is dreaming,” said Mordred. “Surely we can do nothing until he is fully aware of his situation.”
“Perhaps,” Morgause mused. “Or perhaps we can use it to our advantage. If he is convinced he is only dreaming, would he swear a binding oath in the belief it would not hold when he awoke? Or would he tell us secrets to make us leave him in peace, believing he is only telling a phantom and a thought? You see how this could be useful to us.”
“Indeed,” Mordred agreed, nodding. “I had not thought of that.”
Merlin thrashed in his bindings, mind reeling, thoughts spinning out of control as he tried to make sense of it all. Was it a dream? Was he awake? Could he risk not believing that there might be consequences?
“Are you enjoying the silence, Emrys?” Mordred asked. “Are you enjoying finally being like everyone else?” His face darkened. “I should have been the one. It should never have been you. It should have been me!”
“No,” Merlin managed to gasp, and was distantly appalled at the wreck that was his own voice.
“He’s right,” Morgause told him. “It should never have been given to you. You are unworthy.” Her face twisted into a snarl. “What are you, little nothing boy, compared to the mastery of those who have gone before you? No, you are unfit. A tragic waste of what should have been a tremendous gift, but we will make do with what we have. Arrangements will be made. If you do not swear your powers to my service, you will never use them again.”
“No,” Merlin said again, and then again. “No, no, no, no nononononono,” repeating it until the words ran together in meaningless blur of sound, precious sound, sharp against his too-sensitive ears. Until he forgot what he was saying, why he was saying it, that it ever had a meaning or a purpose, and still the words continued to trip over his tongue, flowing over his lips in an unending torrent of sound, and the noise became a purpose all of its own.
Morgause slapped him again, and still the sounds flooded out, his mouth still moving silently even when her eyes flared gold and stole his voice away again, because even if he couldn’t hear it, the word was in his mind, all he could think of. The only thing left in his fragmenting mind is the meaningless, endless denial.
Eventually, she tired of trying to make him stop, and Merlin couldn’t stop a low grunt of pain when the magic finally abandoned him, letting him drop painfully to the floor. “No,” he gasped, voice cracking.
“We will leave him for a time,” she said. “He cannot hide in madness for long. Tomorrow, his voice will be gone and it will be all his own doing, and the others should have arrived by then. He will see the folly of resisting, and the last of his hopes will be gone. From there, progress should be rapid.” She smiled. “Come, we will leave him to his hopeless denials.”
The door clanged once, and then Merlin was alone with the silent darkness.
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The castle was larger than Arthur had expected, and much more defensible than he had imagined Morgana’s hideout would be. Just how she had managed to obtain a huge fortress by the sea he still had no idea, but he tried not to show how worried he was about their chances of infiltrating the place.
It had taken longer than expected to follow the almost non-existent trail. Merlin had been a prisoner in that fortress for far too long now, though the army was probably only four or five days behind them.
But somehow, it turned out that Gwaine had been there before - briefly in service to some petty lord or another - and knew the layout. “Tintagel used to belong to the Priestesses of the Old Religion, but it’s been abandoned since the Great Purge,” he told them as they picked their way carefully down the cliff. “We only stayed a few days, but the men were jumping at shadows the entire time.”
“And you weren’t?” asked Arthur skeptically, slightly breathless from the climb.
“Priestesses or ghosts, I’ve never met a lady I couldn’t charm,” Gwaine claimed, grinning. “Now, if we follow the beach around, the low tide will let us close enough to climb the north tower. That’s the one with the largest windows, and we should be able to slip in easily enough.”
The corridors were strangely empty as they crept through the dark castle, searching. The dungeon was deep in the bowels of the fortress, and it was unguarded. Only one door was locked.
The solid wood gave readily enough under the weight of three strong men, and Arthur peered cautiously into the dim cell, recoiling slightly at the stench. Inside, there was a strange humming noise coming from one of the corners. “Merlin? Merlin, are you in here?”
There was a scuffling noise, and a whimper. The humming stopped. Arthur raised the torch, and saw a figure curled against the far wall, head buried in long, thin arms, rocking from side to side.
“Merlin?” Arthur was at his side in an instant, clasping his shoulder gently. “We’re here to get you out, you idiot. Come on, we have to go!”
Merlin looked up, and Arthur drew in a startled breath. Merlin’s eyes were sunken, wild, and so very blue.
“Arthur?” Merlin’s voice was hoarse. Arthur didn’t want to think about why that might be.
“Yes, it’s me. Can you walk, Merlin?”
“Arthur…” Merlin smiled, reaching out one hand to touch Arthur’s face gently. “You’re a good dream.” Then his face crumpled. “You … Arthur. You shouldn’t be here. Why are you here? ”
Arthur blinked. “Of course I should. Come on, we need to get you out, quickly.”
“Arthur… no, no, NO.” Merlin jerked away from Arthur, wide-eyed and shaking. “You shouldn’t be here! No!”
“Merlin, what is going on? What’s wrong?”
“You - you shouldn’t be here, in the nightmare. You’re a good dream. Why are you here? Oh god, I can’t hear you. I can’t hear you!”
Arthur frowned. “Merlin, what’s wrong? What do you mean, you can’t hear me?”
But Merlin ignored the questions. “You shouldn’t be here! I can’t hear you. I CAN’T HEAR YOU!”
He screamed then, raw and hoarse and full of so much pain that Arthur jumped in surprise. Merlin tore himself away from Arthur’s grip, scrabbling backward until he was jammed into the corner of the cell, hands clinging to the cold stone walls, sobbing brokenly. Arthur stared at him in confusion and concern.
Gwaine stepped forward. “Let me try, sire.”
Arthur nodded, and Gwaine moved over to kneel next to Merlin, reaching out to lay a cautious hand on his arm. “Merlin? It’s me. It’s Gwaine, Merlin, can you hear me?”
Merlin squinted up at him. “Gwaine…..”
“Yes. Yes, I’m here, Merlin. Try to focus on me, okay? We’re going to get you out of here.”
Merlin stared at Gwaine with wide, scared eyes. “They killed the bird.”
“What?” Gwaine blinked in confusion.
Tears came to Merlin’s eyes as he repeated. “The bird. I can’t hear you. They killed the bird. They killed it!” He was sobbing harder now, shoulders shaking, cheeks wet with tears as he repeated, “They killed it.”
Gwaine looked back to Arthur, confused and upset. “I don’t understand. What have they done to him?”
Arthur’s face was dark. “Whatever it is, they will pay for it.”
Lancelot moved a little closer, but kept space between himself and Merlin. “Look, sire. His hands.”
Arthur leaned forward. Merlin had wrapped his arms around his head again, and was sobbing quietly to himself, humming between each gasping, ragged breath. Arthur squinted in the dim light, trying to see, and then his eyes went wide. Merlin’s arms were covered in red, swollen wounds, and the ends of his fingers were bloody. And clasped around his wrists, bright against the raw flesh, were two shining, silver bracelets. He gasped. “Are those…. They can’t be.”
A voice from behind answered him. “Yes, Prince Arthur. Those are exactly what you think they are.”
Arthur whirled. Morgause was standing in the doorway, a calm smile on her face. “You honestly thought it would be that easy to get in and out again without detection? Poor naive boys, I suppose you never even considered that this might be a trap.”
Arthur had his sword in hand and pointed at her before his mind could process what she had said. Involuntarily, he glanced back over to Merlin, then turned to face her again. He knew better than to turn his back on Morgause, but somehow he couldn’t stop his eyes being drawn to the huddle of Merlin - of sorcerer - curled in the corner of the cell.
Surely it couldn’t be true. She was lying, was playing mind games - just like the first time they met. Merlin couldn’t have magic, the idea was ludicrous.
At Morgause’s voice, Merlin looked up. “Arthur…” he whispered, reaching out one hand as though he could stop Morgause with the power of his will alone.
Though, Arthur supposed, maybe Merlin could - if he were a sorcerer. But he couldn’t be. He just couldn’t.
“You’re lying!” he snapped, and Morgause laughed.
“I’m not lying. Merlin is a sorcerer, and has been using magic for much, much longer than you have known him. He can never stop, not for you, or for anyone. He is the one who has been lying to you ever since you first met.”
Arthur felt like ice had been poured through his bones. His mind reeled with incomprehension, but he couldn’t help remembering his father - a long time ago - showing him those two bracelets, nestled in a box lined with soft red velvet.
“These are one of our most powerful tools against the sorcerers, my son,” Uther had told him. “They will tie a wizard to us, and to us alone. Only a Pendragon may use them - only you and me. When they are fitted, the sorcerer cannot use his power at all, not until you release him. This is how we were able to purge magic from our lands.”
But surely if Merlin was a sorcerer, Arthur reasoned, he wouldn’t have been captured at all. He would have been able to do something, something magic, to keep himself safe.
Unbidden, memories of miraculous escapes and unexpected victories sprang to Arthur’s mind. He remembered all the times he should, by any logic, have been killed - there were more than he cared to think of. He remembered the strange, cryptic comments Merlin had made once in a very great while, when he had seemed to know more than he ought.
But no, Morgause was lying. Had to be lying. Merlin couldn’t be able to do magic, the idea was absurd.
Before Arthur could make any sense of it, Morgause had stretched out her hand, saying something in a strange tongue. Her eyes glowed brilliantly gold, and Arthur’s sword was suddenly wrenched from his grasp. From the startled exclamations behind him, Gwaine and Lancelot had lost their weapons as well.
He had a few seconds to go for his dagger, but then magic was wrapping around his arms, the air turning solid as steel, forcing his wrists to cross and locking them in front of him. He struggled against it, but there was not even the slightest give in Morgause’s power. His arms were frozen in place, immovable, though his fingers clenched and unclenched as he raged against the magic.
Panic bubbled in the pit of his stomach, but Arthur forced it down. They would find a way out of this, he told himself. Of course they would.
When the three knights were secured, Morgause dropped her hand and stepped back, looking over her shoulder. “Bring them to the inner courtyard, all four of them. I will send for the others, and have them meet us there.”
A familiar-looking man stepped around her and into the cell, a pleased smile on his face. “Prince Arthur! Such a pleasure to see you again.”
Arthur glared at him. “Alvarr. I wish I could say the same.”
Alvarr laughed and shoved at Arthur’s shoulder, hard. “Smart mouth. Move, boy, you heard her.” He leaned close. “Don’t keep the ladies waiting, prince. It isn’t polite.”
Arthur jerked out of Alvarr’s grip and snarled back, “Keep your filthy sorcerer’s hands to yourself. And I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised to see you toadying to Morgause - are you her new pet, now Cenred is gone? I hope you have better luck than he did.”
Alvarr just laughed. “Move, little princeling.”
Arthur moved, glancing over his shoulder to see Lancelot and Gwaine follow. Several armed, blank-faced men fell in around them, eyes sharp for any attempts to escape.
Merlin, however, needed to be hauled to his feet and half-carried as he shook and moaned and sobbed. The hoarse, pitiful cries made Arthur want to kill things - Alvarr and Morgause, for preference.
But Merlin was a sorcerer. Arthur shouldn’t feel anything but hatred for a magic-using traitor who had clearly worked his way into Camelot’s confidences for his own devious ends.
On the other hand, the thought of Merlin having ‘devious ends’ was clearly so ludicrous, Arthur was forced to conclude Morgause must be lying. Besides, magic deprivation shouldn’t have reduced Merlin to such a state, even if he was a warlock. There had to be more to it.
Arthur felt like he was staring at a child’s puzzle with half the pieces missing. His thoughts were turning in circles, unable to decide if Morgause was lying - and if so, why? None of it made any sense.
Before he could come to anything remotely resembling a conclusion, they were being pushed through a high archway into a courtyard that echoed with the roar of the pounding sea.
Arthur looked around, assessing. It was not a large space, framed on all sides with high stone walls. Opposite them was a second arch, matching the one through which they had come - but this one seemed to lead into darkness. Arthur squinted at it, trying to work out what could be on the other side, and then suddenly he realised. That was the reason why the sea was so loud - there was nothing beyond the high curving stones except air, and the ocean. The arch was the marker, and the warning, for the sheer cliff that fell away to nothingness only inches from the castle edge.
Sitting in the centre of the courtyard, though, were more immediate concerns. Morgana and the young druid boy - Mordred, that was his name - were perched on the edge of a tall fountain, and the musical singing of water over carved stone was drowned by the roar of the sea below. They both looked up when Morgause swept through the arch, followed by the three magically-restrained knights, several men-at-arms, and Alvarr, who was half-dragging Merlin behind him.
“Arthur!” Morgana smiled, greeting him as though they had met crossing the courtyard at Camelot. “What a delightful surprise!” Her smile turned to a smirk. “Except, of course, for how predictable you are. Did you really think we weren’t expecting you?”
Arthur just glared. “Predictable or not, at least I am no traitor.” Anger and sadness warred for supremacy as he stared at her, and he couldn’t keep the bewilderment from his voice as he asked, “Why, Morgana? What did we ever do to make you hate us so much? What did I do to make you want me dead?”
“Why? You ask me why?” Her voice was like a whiplash. “I have magic, Arthur. Do you really think Uther wouldn’t have had me burned, if he knew? Or dragged screaming to the block for the headsman’s axe?” She narrowed her eyes. “He has killed so many innocents, one more would make no difference. Even if it was me.”
Arthur shook his head. “No. No, he would never. He loved you!”
“And he would have regretted the necessity of my death!” Morgana spat. “He would have mourned when I was gone, but he would have killed me nonetheless.” She shook her head. “No, Arthur. Uther is a murderer, and he deserves to die. Camelot will be ruled with justice again when he is dead and I am Queen.”
Arthur’s voice was low and shaking now. “And I suppose you will regret and mourn the necessity of my death?”
She looked away, and Morgause answered instead. “Sacrifices must be made to secure the throne. You, Arthur Pendragon, will be a threat to Morgana’s rule as long as you are alive. You have already demonstrated that you hold the same views as your father, and as such are no better than him. Your rule would not end the oppression of our people.”
Mordred squeezed Morgana’s hand. “It is necessary,” he told her.
She nodded. “I know.” Taking a deep breath, she got to her feet and reached for the sword that had been lying, unnoticed, by her side. “I will do it.”
Arthur struggled against the binding magic, but it was still mercilessly tight. Behind him he could hear Lancelot and Gwaine fighting the spells that held them, but Morgause was already holding out her hand, eyes glowing as she restrained them.
“No! Stop!”
Arthur almost looked over at the sound of Merlin’s feeble, breaking voice, but kept his eyes on the blade in Morgana’s hand. At Merlin’s words, she paused, glancing at her sister.
Morgause arched an eyebrow. “Finally he speaks!”
Merlin tried to say something else, but his voice cracked and failed. He coughed and tried again. “If… if you release him, if you swear not to kill him, I will take your oath. I will give my magic to you.”
Morgana laughed. “Oh, Merlin. Arthur must die. He cannot live to raise an army against me again.”
Mordred spoke then, high voice distant. “First we will kill him, and send his head to his father as proof of his death. His body will be given to the sea. Then you will swear your magic to me. I have seen it.”
Merlin shook his head. “If you kill him, I will die before I ever serve you!”
“You cannot. The bindings will not permit it. You now live and die at the behest of the Pendragon bloodline,” Morgana smiled. “And in a few days, that will be me alone. Uther will not last long when he learns that his precious son is dead. Camelot will fall a second time, and I will take the throne and bring magic back to the land. And you, Emrys, will serve me and fulfil the prophecies. Together, we will bring about the time of peace, as is foretold.”
“NO!” Merlin struggled out of Alvarr’s grip with an unexpected strength, dashing forward towards Morgana. “I won’t let you kill him!”
But Morgause was there, eyes shining golden, and Merlin was flying backwards to slam into the unforgiving stone of the wall. He crumpled to the ground with a breathless cry of pain, but within seconds he was moving again, trying to crawl towards Arthur.
Mordred laughed, and the sound was piping and strange.
Arthur looked down at his bound arms, then up at Morgana. An idea flashed in his mind, and before he knew quite what he was doing he had flung himself towards Merlin, diving forward and rolling painfully over the hard ground, arms still fixed, stretching out his still-obedient fingers and reaching for the bracelets that kept Merlin bound.
And Merlin was there, shoving his wrists into Arthur’s seeking hands. The cold metal stung his fingers with tingling power as he gripped them. He didn’t know the words to make the magic obey his will, but he wrapped his fingers around the bracelets and with every drop of the strength he could muster, Arthur commanded the magic to release Merlin.
There was a soft chinking sound as the bracelets fell to the ground.
~ ♪ ~ ♫ ~ ♪ ~ ♫ ~ ♪ ~ ♫ ~ ♪ ~
Merlin was drowning in music. Waves of sound battered against him, immense noise a palpable weight crashing over his skin and surging through his mind. He’d thought the music overwhelming before, but nothing could possibly have prepared him for this.
He revelled in it. The music was back, it was there, he could feel it dancing through him, a mighty flood of sound and glory that swept everything else away. He could hear the symphony of the ocean, the chorus of the sky and stars and clouds, the resonating brightness of Arthur and the songs of other people too. He couldn’t see, couldn’t feel, but what was sight? What was touch? Insignificant, unreliable, unnecessary. There was nothing but the music. He needed nothing but the music.
Distantly, Merlin was aware that there was something he should probably be paying attention to, some urgent matter that he should deal with, but the world was being washed away by the overwhelming torrent of sound and he was happy to let it go. He would stay in the music forever, and he would be content.
“Merlin.”
That was Arthur’s voice, Merlin realised with a jolt. Somehow, the sound of Arthur’s voice had found him, floating in the vastness of the music, and was pulling him back towards the world.
Merlin fought. He didn’t like the world, the world was full of pain, and evil, and silence, and Merlin would rather die than spend another second in silence.
But Arthur’s voice came again, loud and demanding, cutting through the music like it was no more substantial than the air. The sound of it gripped Merlin and refused to let him go, forcing him back into the world, adamantly refusing to relinquish its hold.
The world swam back into view.
Merlin gasped, shaking, feeling like he had just been plunged into ice-cold water. Arthur was leaning over him, and his song was ringing loud in Merlin’s ears. There was something wrong with it, though, a twining harmony of magic tainting the bright fire-song. Merlin reached out a thought and stopped the ugly music.
Somewhere, he could hear Gwaine and Lancelot, and they were tainted too, so he stopped the ugly song for them as well. But there was something missing, a note that they usually had was absent and it shouldn’t be. He added swords to their music, and smiled as the cool metal resonated a lovely harmony with their songs. That was better.
Arthur was moving away from him now, shouting something as he waved the sword Merlin had given him. Merlin knew he’d been able to understand words, once. Or maybe that had been a dream? No, that wasn’t right. But the sounds Arthur was making were strange and sharp, ringing in his ears and utterly incomprehensible; like a language he’d heard just once, a long time ago.
Morgause was saying something now, flinging out a curling, sinuous harmony that snaked towards Merlin. Merlin didn’t like how it sounded, so he made that song stop.
Somewhere close by, someone went silent. Merlin shuddered. It was not one of his people, he knew, but the reminder of silence still made his mind recoil. Looking over, he saw Alvarr crumpling to the ground. Gwaine was standing over him, his sword stained with blood. Nearby, Lancelot was holding back several other men, sword a humming blur as he moved. Merlin frowned, and sent sleep singing to the men fighting Lancelot until they collapsed, muted and unconscious.
Mordred was yelling and Morgana was shrieking. Merlin had really had enough of them, and of the world. He wanted to go back and hide in the music, let it keep him safe, insulated, away from people who shouted and screamed and stopped. But he knew he mustn’t do that until he had made sure Morgause and Morgana and Mordred couldn’t hurt Arthur. Even if all he wanted was to throw himself back into the world-song, he had to make sure they were not going to hurt anyone first.
And then something in his mind went click, and he knew what to do.
“You wanted the music.” His voice was scratchy and hoarse to his ears, and he couldn’t remember why that might be. “You wanted it, no matter the cost, even though the power did not choose you. I will give you what you wanted.”
It only took a thought, a tendril of power reaching out of his mind into theirs, just a little push. He couldn’t explain how he knew where to touch, or how to manipulate the glittering flow of power, but it felt as though he had always known, as if the knowledge had been there all along, just waiting for him to need it.
He pushed, and then the air was full of screaming.
Merlin smiled, and let the music wash him away.
~ ♪ ~ ♫ ~ ♪ ~ ♫ ~ ♪ ~ ♫ ~ ♪ ~
Arthur clutched at the sword that had materialised from nothing, holding the blade level and pointed at Morgana. He quashed the part of his brain that was clamouring about Merlin and sorcery and magically-appearing swords - he would deal with the revelation later, when they were not fighting for their lives. At least now he was armed, Lancelot and Gwaine were dealing with the other men, and Merlin seemed to be managing any magical attacks. He swung the blade up, ready to attack, when suddenly Morgana crumpled to the ground.
Arthur stared in astonishment, eyes flicking from Morgana to Morgause to Mordred, as all three of them began to scream and clutch at their ears. He looked over to Merlin, who had slumped back onto the ground, apparently unconscious, and then back.
Mordred was clawing at his face, nails cutting deep into his skin and drawing streaks of bright blood that ran down his cheeks and dripped from his chin as he wailed in distress.
Morgana had dropped the sword, and it lay by her side as she tore at her hair and screamed. The castle rumbled around them as her eyes flashed gold, but the low sound seemed to make her scream louder. It died away after a moment, Morgana’s eyes fading back to green as she moaned, low and harsh.
Morgause had cried out once but was now gasping desperately, taking deep, heaving breaths as though she couldn’t get enough air. Her eyes were wide and unseeing.
“What… what?” Gwaine managed, sword still poised over Alvarr’s still body.
Arthur looked between the three figures, bewildered but still wary. “I have no idea.”
There was a splash, and the noise in the courtyard was abruptly lessened. Mordred had tipped backwards into the fountain. There was a long moment as the knights waited for him to surface, waited for one of the women to go to him, but no one moved. Mordred’s legs kicked once, twice, and then went limp.
Arthur stared. “Morgana, what…?”
Morgana ignored him, but Morgause looked over to where Mordred was lying still. A strange look passed over her face, and she keened once, high and loud. “Emrys! Damn you, what have you done?”
Then she was running, tripping and stumbling past Morgana, past the fountain and Mordred’s small body. With a final wordless cry, she ran through the curving stone archway and was gone.
For a moment, the courtyard was silent but for the echoing roar of the sea.
Morgana didn’t even seem to notice. She looked over to where Merlin was lying unconscious, hands tangling in her hair. “You - Emrys - I can’t … even my own voice!” she paused, gasping, hand going to her throat. “I can’t… There’s so much. Too much. How did you bear it? Make it stop. Make it stop!” She screamed again, eyes wild, and Arthur moved to stand between her and Merlin, raising his sword.
Morgana stared at him, eyes wide. “You - you sound like… How is it that you…? I don’t understand. And it won’t stop!” Clutching at her ears, she screamed again. “Oh god, I can’t bear it. I can’t. I - it - no! No more!” She reached for the dagger that hung from her belt.
Arthur raised his sword, ready for her to attack, but Morgana did not even look at him. Instead, she lifted the sharp weapon to the side of her head, and slowly inserted it into her ear.
Blood spurted down the side of her neck, and half her face went strangely slack, but she paid it no heed. Pulling the dagger out, she brought it around to the other side of her head. Blood dripped from the point, trailing a path of wetness over her dress.
Arthur started forward instinctively, but even as he started to move Morgana had already thrust it deep into her head, much deeper than on the previous side. She collapsed to the ground, eyes blank and unseeing, and there was blood, so much blood, spilling over the stones and staining them bright red.
The courtyard was still, silent but for the sound of the sea. And then there was a lower, deeper rumble from the earth beneath the castle, and dust bloomed as a crack snaked up one of the walls.
Arthur looked from the bodies of Morgana and Mordred to where Merlin was slumped, unable to put a name to the torrent of emotions that flooded through him. He pushed them away, and focused on the situation at hand. “Bring him. Leave the others.”
Lancelot moved first, sheathing his sword and hoisting Merlin over his shoulder, lifting him far too easily and moving towards the door back into the castle. Gwaine followed, ready to help if needed.
Arthur hesitated, and then snatched up the bracelets, tucking them into his belt-pouch before following his men. The castle crumbled behind them.
~ ♪ ~ ♫ ~ ♪ ~ ♫ ~ ♪ ~ ♫ ~ ♪ ~
To Part Six
~ ♪ ~ ♫ ~ ♪ ~ ♫ ~ ♪ ~ ♫ ~ ♪ ~
Merlin drifted, lost. Images flitted past him, dancing like leaves in an autumn wind, whirling in a confusing symphony of colour; brown, yellow, orange, and bright Camelot red. Music echoed and reverberated in a confusion of senseless noise.
Somewhere, distantly, he could feel his body moving, shifting, bouncing, falling. He tried to open his eyes but his eyelids refused to obey, and just that slightest effort was too much, sending him tumbling back into the maelstrom of sound and colour.
Images flitted past him, and sometimes they made sense.
Merlin saw a rider galloping, pushing his horse faster, faster, red cloak billowing out behind him. He saw Arthur drilling men, movements sharp, clear and precise, and Leon kneeling on the field and breathlessly gasping his message.
There was shock, and fear, and then these were covered by a blank mask. Merlin saw Arthur’s sharp eyes, heard his sharp words calling for his horse, for his knights, for his weapons. He saw the fixed, stubborn glint in Gwaine’s eyes, and the worry in Lancelot’s face.
He saw the knights ride out, heard the ringing harmony of Gwaine and Lancelot as they galloped after their prince. Leon, Percival, Elyan and Gaius stood on the courtyard steps and watched them go, faces lined with worry.
There was pain, somewhere. His head? Merlin tried to reach up and touch his face, but found that somehow, he couldn’t move his arms. Breath coming a little faster, he tried to open his eyes - but there was only darkness. The music around him was unfamiliar, strange. He couldn’t hear Arthur, or any of the knights. He couldn’t hear the dragon claw. Everything around him was foreign. Where was he?
Dizzying, burning terror swept through him like fire, overwhelming all conscious thought, and Merlin thrashed wildly. He opened his mouth and tried to scream, but no sound came out. Hands grabbed him, gripping his arm, his shoulder, tangling in his hair, they were all over him. He reached for the music, tried to twist them away from him, tried to freeze them, his own heartbeat roaring in his ears as he tried anything to make them stop.
Somewhere, he heard a cry of pain, and then voices shouting. The hands were gone. He gasped for air, gulping desperately for breath, but he had only a few seconds reprieve before they were on him again. He pushed again as hard as he could, gripping the music tight and screaming silently for it to save him.
But sleep-sodden, restrained, blind and in pain, he could not fight so many. The hands were myriad now, on his body, arms, legs, on his face, holding his nose until he opened his mouth for air and then pouring a thick, sticky liquid down his throat. Merlin choked, spluttered, and then swallowed because it was that or drown in the foul-tasting liquid.
Short seconds later Merlin went limp, muscles refusing to respond to his mind’s urgent, screaming demands. Darkness surrounded him, and the music was fading, and he was falling again into the familiar sea of whirling colour.
~ ♪ ~ ♫ ~ ♪ ~ ♫ ~ ♪ ~ ♫ ~ ♪ ~
Arthur was galloping through a dark forest, song fierce and hard, harmonizing with the bright stars that peeped through the leaves overhead. The breath of his horse steamed in the cold air.
Arthur was in Ealdor, dismounting and embracing Hunith. Merlin could see tears streaking his mother’s face, could hear her familiar song, could see the pain in Arthur’s eyes. He clutched at the image, tried to hold on to it, but it slipped through his desperate fingers like grains of sand.
Arthur was alone, sitting under a tree in the forest, holding his head in his hands. He looked exhausted, like he hadn’t slept in days, and his face was dark with grief and anguish. Merlin tried to reach out, to sooth away Arthur’s sorrow, to make whatever had upset him go away, but even as he stretched out a hand the image was fading, and then it was gone.
There was only darkness.
~ ♪ ~ ♫ ~ ♪ ~ ♫ ~ ♪ ~ ♫ ~ ♪ ~
The floor beneath his back was cold and hard, humming the low, deep song of old stone. Merlin shifted, and then winced as pain sang through him like fire. Around him, there was a low, harsh jangling of magical harmony that made his ears hurt and made it hard to hear clearly. He focused, trying to hear more. There was the unfamiliar song of an old fortress, but it seemed a long way off - distant, somehow muffled by the magic. Not quite as far away he could hear flickering torchlight, but it too was faint, hard to distinguish against the jangling background.
Keeping his eyes shut, Merlin took a slow, deep breath. His mouth felt sticky and foul-tasting, and his whole body ached with a bone-deep pain that he somehow wasn’t surprised by, even though he couldn’t remember why he might hurt. Memories danced away from him, flitting just out of reach, teasing, slipping away each time he thought he might have a grip on them, each time he thought he might have some idea of where he was or how he had come to be there.
He concentrated on breathing. In, out. In, and out. Waiting. For what, he didn’t know. Time seemed endless, but maybe that was wrong. Maybe there was no such thing as time. Maybe he had always been there, and always would be, breathing on the cold stone floor.
No, that wasn’t right. Merlin tried to rein in his wandering thoughts, but they slipped from his grasp, dancing away as he chased after them, and he followed them back into darkness.
Some unknowable time later reality made itself known again, the noise of the world drowning out the soft oblivion of unconsciousness. Merlin stirred restlessly, uncomfortable on the hard stone. Memories trickled back slowly. There were images in his mind now, pictures that he couldn’t place but knew were somehow important. Merlin could remember Arthur on a horse, but why did he look so fierce, so cold? He remembered his mother in tears, but he didn’t know why she was crying. He could see Ealdor, teeming with men bearing the arms of Camelot, but surely there had never been knights in his village?
Knights. Ealdor. The message.
Adrenaline shot through him, a bolt of ice-cold panic as he remembered Leon, the guards, and a sly creeping mist twining through the trees. But what had come after that? But all he could recall was hazy shadows, music, and fear.
Opening his eyes at last, Merlin pushed himself up and looked around. The flickering brightness of torchlight made him blink. Torches were dotted around the large, empty room, casting shadows on the bare stone walls. Graven into the floor all around him was a circle of strange symbols that rang with that harsh, jangling magical harmony. Merlin stared at them, wondering what they meant and why they were encircling him with strange, unnerving power.
But then he saw something else, and all other thoughts were washed away in the blinding rush of panic. He scrambled to get to his feet, forcing his recalcitrant limbs into obedience, muscles screaming with pain as he forced himself to stand.
Morgause lounged comfortably in an elaborate wooden chair, smirking as Merlin staggered up. “Awake at last, I see. Excellent. I was beginning to think there had been some miscalculation in the spell.”
Merlin’s mind raced, thoughts clamouring as he tried to clear the lingering fog from his thoughts, doing his best not to look like he was mere moments from collapsing. Morgause’s song was strangely distant, muffled by the harshness, easy to miss - and he had missed it. He wondered why it was so quiet, so far-away, but he knew better than to ask.
“What’s going on? Why am I here?” he demanded instead, not really expecting an answer. “What have you done to Leon and the others?”
Morgause smirked at him. “Such concern! And for men who would love to kill you. It would be touching, really, if it were not so utterly foolish.”
Merlin went very, very still. After a moment he asked cautiously, “Kill me? What are you talking about?”
Morgause laughed. “You know precisely what I’m talking about, Merlin. I admit, I feel a little foolish for not guessing earlier. But really, who would have expected it of the prince’s man? Though there is a certain kind of irony to it, I suppose. Morgana was devastated,” she added, frowning. “And I must say, your hypocrisy is stunning, it really is. Fortunately for Morgana, she has people who care about her now.”
At this her eyes flicked to behind Merlin. He reached out to try and hear what she was looking at, careful not to not take his eyes off her. There was familiar music there. It was muffled, with the same strange sense of distance as Morgause, as everything outside that ring of symbols, but Merlin knew that song. He felt his blood turn to ice as he turned to stare at the small hooded figure who stood in the doorway. “You.”
Mordred smiled, wide and cold. “Greetings, Emrys.”
For a moment, Merlin stopped breathing. Mordred had told Morgause. She knew. Morgana knew. He had to get out of there as fast as possible, had to get away, get back to Arthur and warn him that -
But what was there to warn Arthur about? Morgause was already a known danger, as was Morgana. Their new knowledge made them more dangerous still, but not in any way that Merlin could put into words - not without revealing his own secret.
He took a deep, shuddering breath as Mordred moved to stand next to Morgause, focusing on the tight clench of his fists and the small, sharp pain of his nails cutting into his palms. On the solid, reliable song of the stone beneath his feet, reassuringly close.
Morgause smirked at him. “Your prince doesn’t know, does he? What do you think he would do, Merlin, if he found out? Would it be the block, or the pyre? Or would he kill you himself, with the sword you sharpened for him?”
Merlin tried to ignore her, hating the way the words cut deep, and reached for the music. If they already knew, then he had nothing left to lose in using magic to free himself.
“You can try to use your power, if you like. It won’t work,” Morgause told him idly, waving a hand at the symbols engraved on the stone floor. “The runic circle allows no magic to leave it for as long as it is kept whole. It is a variation on an ancient working by the High Priestesses of the Old Religion. Difficult to sustain for long periods of time, but these variations to the grounding runes serve to make it absolutely impenetrable - not that I expect you to understand such intricacies. Your lack of education really is deplorable, we will have to do something about that once you agree to serve us.”
Merlin’s eyes widened. “What? I would never serve you, not ever!”
Mordred’s laughter was high and cold, and Merlin had to suppress a shiver. He reached for his magic, drawing it in around him, gathering as much as he could.
Morgause drew her lips back in a snarl. “Do you have any idea who you are? What you are supposed to do for us? No, of course you don’t, ignorant as you are.” She waved a hand towards him. “Emrys is destined to bring about a new age, a golden age. But it is evident that the magic has chosen unwisely, and the vessel is flawed. You will vow your allegiance to Morgana and myself, and we will guide and shape this new future. It will be for the best, I’m sure you will agree in time.”
Merlin shook his head, pulling his magic closer. “I will never vow allegiance to you!”
She narrowed her eyes. “Your refusal is not unexpected. Mordred, tell Morgana our guest is awake.”
Mordred closed his eyes for a moment, and Merlin knew he was speaking directly to Morgana’s mind. He drew in a deep breath and threw his gathered power at the barrier, putting as much strength behind it as he could. But it was like striking a surface of pure, polished glass, and the magic just washed over it and fell away. Merlin frowned and reached out to try and hear the magic of it, to use its song, but the strange, harsh song muffled him, confusing his mind and making it difficult to focus. Before he could get a grasp on it, Morgana had appeared in the doorway. She was holding a small, dark box. It looked incongruously like a jewellery box - like something she might have owned as the king’s ward, once upon a time.
Morgause stood, and the women exchanged a smile as Morgana walked slowly forward to stand next to her sister, careful to keep her distance from the runic boundary. At Morgause’s nod, Morgana opened the box.
Merlin heard it first. Whatever was inside that box rang with an eerie, discordant, repulsive harmony - clearly magical. As the lid opened further, he could see two shining silver bracelets, nestled in soft velvet and engraved with runes and Merlin wanted, suddenly and desperately, to keep as much distance between them and himself as possible.
The Bracelets
Morgana looked up, and her smile chilled him to the bone. “These are blood-linked, bound to the Pendragon line. The traitor Gaius created them for Uther.” She spat the name with a vehemence that should not have surprised Merlin. “He used them to ensure the deaths of the most powerful sorcerers in the land. They can only be used by those to whom they are bound.” She smirked. “Isn’t it fortunate that I am a Pendragon by blood?”
Merlin stepped back, and then again, until he was pressed against the invisible wall of power keeping him confined, fighting the fear that surged in his chest.
“Once they are spelled to you they cannot be removed without the words of command - spoken by a Pendragon,” said Morgana. “And if you believe that Arthur will remove them, you are even more a fool. It may be true that he could, if he knew the incantation - but he does not. Even if he did, to do so he would have to acknowledge that you are a sorcerer and he would have to choose to give you back your magic. Given his views on sorcery, I think that is rather unlikely, don’t you?”
Holding one hand a few inches above the gleaming, chiming metal, she stretched her fingers wide as she began to chant. Merlin strained to catch the words.
“Ásæle Emrys æt ealdhláfordcynn Pendragon, ásæle drýcræft, eafoð,ond sáwol.” Her eyes glowed bright gold, and Merlin could hear the sinuous thrum of the magic taking shape, could hear the music reaching out for him.
His mind railed against the spell, fighting with every ounce of power at his command to stop it from wrapping its music around him. He tore at the notes, ripped at the sinuous harmonies, broke the song into little pieces to keep it away. But the magic was rooted beyond the circle and he couldn’t reach the source. Every part he destroyed would fall silent and then reform, louder and stronger. Morgana continued to chant, and Merlin couldn’t reach beyond the caging spell to stop her. The magic was everywhere now, surrounding him, sliding around him and caressing his skin with icy-sharp notes. For every part he silenced there were a dozen more, and Merlin wasn’t fast enough, he couldn’t keep it from entwining itself around his mind and locking tight.
The music thrummed with triumph. The silver bracelets glowed and vanished from the box, and then reappeared to click shut around his wrists. The instant the second clasp was closed, everything stopped.
Merlin could hear his heartbeat, echoing loud in his ears. He could hear the harsh panting of his own breath.
He could hear nothing else. The music was gone.
Silence.
Merlin opened his mouth and screamed. The sound reverberated against the cold, silent stone, echoing in his ears, the only thing he could hear because there was no music. He couldn’t hear the waterfall that was Morgause, or the deep pool of water that was Mordred. The torches burned silently on the walls, the flickering flames not ringing with bright sound. All sense of the music, of magic, was horribly, unbearably, gone.
Merlin’s mind was reeling, careening out of control, every fibre of his being shrieking in utter despair. The music was gone. He was dead. But was he dead? He could still hear his own voice, screaming. It was loud. Too loud. But it was sound. As long as there was sound, any kind of sound, surely he was still alive?
Morgause stood watching, and her laughter was loud and hollow to his ears.
There was pain, also. His throat was raw with screaming, and his wrists were burning with the agony of bright fire dancing on his skin.
Fire. Beautiful, bright song. Arthur.
Merlin felt a burning, soul-deep ache at the thought of fire-bright, sweet-ringing Arthur. Silent.
No.
He reached for his magic, felt it trapped in his body and raging against the confinement, and forced it out in a torrential rush. He sent it flooding against the silent power of the bracelets, against the shackles that had torn out his heart and held it, beating and bloody, just out of reach; wave after wave of power battering against the flimsy silver that kept him from the music. Magic cascaded through him, furious and unbearably silent, and Merlin gasped, falling to his knees under the force of it.
The magic crashed against the silent power of the bracelets, and rebounded. All that power flooded back into Merlin, into the frail shell that was his body. He screamed again as it swept through him, unbearably strong, washing him into dark, blissful unconsciousness.
This time, there were no dreams to keep him company.
~ ♪ ~ ♫ ~ ♪ ~ ♫ ~ ♪ ~ ♫ ~ ♪ ~
Arthur leaned back against the old oak tree, watching as Gwaine and Lancelot started unsaddling the horses and setting up camp and trying not to think about how wrong it felt not to have Merlin there. Merlin was always there when Arthur went on a journey. Even when he wasn’t supposed to be, he would turn up like a bad penny, smiling that dopey smile and ignoring any and all hints that maybe he should go back home.
If Merlin was there now, he would be whinging. About the lateness of the hour, about the difficulty of finding dry firewood (though he would always, always be able to light the fire. Sometimes Arthur thought Merlin could light a fire in a blizzard), Merlin would find something to gripe about, and then Arthur could order him to stop complaining, and they would bicker comfortably while the camp was set and the dinner started.
Instead, there was just Gwaine and Lancelot silently laying the fire, putting up the tents, and stockpiling logs for the night, casting him the occasional furtive glance.
Arthur knew he should get up and lend a hand, but he was tired, dammit. Tired, and angry, and frustrated. And he was the prince; if he wanted to rest then it was his royal right to do so, and the other two could just deal with it.
With a sigh, he heaved himself to his feet and moved to steady the tent Gwaine was putting up.
Maybe if he kept busy, he could forget about how there had been absolutely no sign of Merlin, not anywhere. How Leon had come riding in, almost falling off his horse in his haste, with a strange tale of Merlin disappearing into the night without a trace. Arthur silently blessed the man for coming himself - leaving Camelot under Leon for a short time was a much easier prospect than leaving the city to be run by one of his father’s men. Especially with Elyan and Percival to support him. Arthur would have left Gwaine and Lancelot as well and just gone himself, propriety be damned, but they had flatly refused to stay behind.
Arthur carefully did not think about the lingering guilt he felt about Gwaine’s injury, and how it had perhaps led him to acquiesce a little too easily to the knight’s demands.
Nonetheless, they had made swift progress towards Ealdor where Leon had ordered the squad to meet them, securing the village until more support could arrive. On arriving, however, Hunith had greeted them with warmth and confusion. She was glad to see Arthur, of course, and asked after Merlin, and knew nothing at all about raiding bandits or indeed any attackers at all. She also had no knowledge of the messenger sent to warn Camelot of Ealdor’s plight, and had not seen or heard from Merlin recently at all.
Leon said he had searched, had told them that the squad had hunted for several hours once it was realised that Merlin was indeed missing. Arthur had had him describe the area extensively, and after taking their leave of Hunith and the village, he had taken Gwaine and Lancelot to the place Merlin had last been seen. From there, a faint trail of the passage had been found heading north, and they were now following it.
Arthur was careful not to consider who, exactly, would know the reaction elicited by any threat to Ealdor. Or what she could possibly want with Merlin.
~ ♪ ~ ♫ ~ ♪ ~ ♫ ~ ♪ ~ ♫ ~ ♪ ~
He was asleep, because he had to be.
He was sleeping, and dreaming, and it was a nightmare. Because if it wasn’t, then - no. Merlin refused to believe that he was not asleep. The cell was cold, and dark, and silent because this was a nightmare.
He curled tighter into himself, rocking gently as he hummed. Humming was a strange tuneless music, and it was nothing like enough, not even close to what it should be, to what it was when he was awake - but still infinitely better than silence.
Merlin had learned, in however long he had been dreaming this dream, that screaming was not a good way of producing sound. It took up too much strength, and had left his throat so sore he’d been forced to spend a long period of time with only whatever noise he could make with his hands, or feet, or with the cold, silent stone of his cell.
Humming, on the other hand, he found he could keep up almost indefinitely. So he hummed, a tuneless, wordless buzz of constant sound that he could focus on - and not have to think about the echoing, deathly silence.
His fingers hurt, and sometimes he noticed the blood seeping from raw wounds where he had torn at his own flesh, trying to get the strange silver bracelets off his wrists. But it was easier if he ignored them, because they might make him remember - something. And he must not remember, though he didn’t remember why.
Merlin hummed, and hoped he would wake up soon.
~ ♪ ~ ♫ ~ ♪ ~ ♫ ~ ♪ ~ ♫ ~ ♪ ~
“It is likely that Morgana took Merlin,” said Arthur, looking between Lancelot and Gwaine. Even though he did wish they hadn’t insisted on coming, he was glad of their presence. Loyal men, both, and he trusted them with his life. Still, Merlin’s absence was a palpable thing between them.
“I don’t know who else would think to use Ealdor in such a fashion,” he continued. “She knows where it is and what it means to Merlin, and she would know what kind of reaction he would have to that message. Taking him in the forest would have been easy enough, especially if magic was involved.”
Lancelot gave a small start at that, and Arthur glanced over to him. But Lancelot stayed silent, so Arthur continued, “I cannot see any reason for Morgana to take Merlin unless it is to draw me out. She is no doubt expecting me to bring a large group of soldiers, to follow this trail and lay siege to wherever she is holding him, to try to capture her and whoever is with her, while also seeking to retrieve him.”
Gwaine nodded. “Seems logical. We had the men with us in Ealdor, why did you not bring them along?”
“Because stealth will be the greater weapon,” Arthur told him. “I sent a message back to Camelot, calling for the army. They are to muster and follow us, though they will be several days behind. We will follow the trail to Morgana’s hideout. By the time the army arrives, we will have been able to infiltrate and retrieve Merlin so he cannot be used as a hostage. This way, we will also be able to scout out their fortifications and defences before the army arrives, which will give us an advantage.”
Lancelot leaned forward. “I can see only one problem with this plan, sire. What of Morgause and her magic? How are we to fight that without any sorcery of our own?”
Arthur frowned. “We have done well enough without using sorcery in the past. There should be no problem. They may have magic, we have defeated them before and will do so again.”
Lancelot looked troubled at this, didn’t seem to have any further arguments. “Yes, sire.”
“Good!” Arthur said. “Now get some rest. I will take first watch. We will need all of our wits in the morning.”
~ ♪ ~ ♫ ~ ♪ ~ ♫ ~ ♪ ~ ♫ ~ ♪ ~
Merlin knows it is only a dream, knows that he is only sleeping and not really locked in this strange silent cell, because sometimes he sees Morgana.
She comes and goes, flitting in and out of his reality like the sun on a cloudy day, silently watching him as he rocks and hums and wishes he could wake up. Sometimes, though - sometimes she talks.
He doesn’t listen. She’s only a dream.
Sometimes, Merlin thinks about what he would tell her, if she was real. Like - I’m sorry. Like - I should have told you. Like - I’m sorry I have to hate you now. Like - killing you killed me too.
Like - I always loved the eagle in your song, soaring free and bold and strong. But then you flew away from us.
These are the things he thinks of telling her. But he doesn’t. After all, she’s only a dream.
~ ♪ ~ ♫ ~ ♪ ~ ♫ ~ ♪ ~ ♫ ~ ♪ ~
After a while, Merlin stopped dreaming of Morgana. He dreamt of Morgause instead, and that was worse.
The first time, she just stood and watched him, eyes cold and curious as he rocked and hummed.
The next, she brought Mordred, and Merlin was left writhing helplessly as their combined magicks twined over his skin and through his mind, his own power locked beneath the silver shackles and raging against the confinement like a wild beast in a cage. The sensation of enraged fire locked inside him as foreign, silent, sinuous power curled through his flesh made him shudder uncontrollably, tears stinging his eyes and agony biting his already-painful wrists.
The time after that, she spoke, and tore all his illusions to shreds.
“Morgana has told me you do not listen, do not hear, and do not respond when she speaks,” Morgause said, her voice casual.
Merlin paid her no attention, mind focused on his humming. She was a dream, and she would fade like Morgana had, if he could just ignore her for long enough.
Morgause frowned. “I will not accept this behaviour.” Stretching out a hand her eyes flared gold, and suddenly the humming stopped.
Merlin stopped rocking, hands flying to his throat as he stared at her, wide-eyed. Opening his mouth, he tried to speak, tried to form some kind of noise - but there was nothing. He could not make any sound at all. Silently, he screamed.
Morgause smirked at him. “That’s better. Now, do I have your full attention?”
Merlin gaped soundlessly, clawing desperately at his ears, his throat, his face, heedless of the pain of his nails gouging at his own flesh.
Morgause watched coldly. “It amazes me, really. That the magic chose you, of all people, to be the vessel for such power. And that it was so easy to destroy the vessel entirely.” She waved a hand, and Merlin was hauled to his feet, arms locked in place by silent power that made his skin crawl, mind shuddering away from the impossible dichotomy of silent magic.
She stepped around him, gaze analytical. “You see, Mordred, it is the same as happened to my own teacher. Those who try to hear the music go mad, but taking it away from Emrys has the same effect. Curious, is it not?”
“It should have been me,” said Mordred. He was standing in the doorway, and Merlin hadn’t heard him, hadn’t known he was there without the music to tell him, how could he know anything without the sound to confirm it? How could you be sure a thing existed if you couldn’t hear it? Eyes couldn’t be trusted like the music could. But the music was gone, it was gone, there was no life left in the world. Death was everywhere. Morgause was silent, she was dead, she and Mordred too, they were both dead and he was dead as well because he couldn’t even hear his own voice.
Merlin closed his eyes and wished desperately that he would wake up.
Morgause slapped him, hard, and his eyes flew open again as he gasped silently at the unexpected burn of pain.
“You will pay attention, Emrys. I am your mistress and you will do as I command.”
Merlin shook his head, confused. That wasn’t right, he knew it wasn’t. This was a strange dream, if he could feel pain. Normally, pain was supposed to wake you up, wasn’t it? Or maybe that had been a dream, too.
“You are not dreaming, Merlin,” Morgause said, and Merlin went still.
She was lying. She had to be lying, he was dreaming that she was lying, because she was evil and his mind was playing tricks on him.
“You are not dreaming. You are awake, and you belong to me.”
No. No, it wasn’t true.
“You are awake, and you now serve me. Say it.”
And the magic that had stolen his voice was gone, and Merlin could hear his own harsh panting once again.
“Never,” he managed to gasp, and she struck him again.
“Then you will never hear the music again,” she said softly, and stepped back as Merlin screamed, low and hoarse and agonized.
Morgause turned to Mordred. “It is all a matter of finding the right leverage,” she told him, stepping back further. “Pain is often effective, but the fear of pain is a stronger motivator. This is an unusual case, and you see how the music becomes useful to us.”
“First he must be broken of this delusion that he is dreaming,” said Mordred. “Surely we can do nothing until he is fully aware of his situation.”
“Perhaps,” Morgause mused. “Or perhaps we can use it to our advantage. If he is convinced he is only dreaming, would he swear a binding oath in the belief it would not hold when he awoke? Or would he tell us secrets to make us leave him in peace, believing he is only telling a phantom and a thought? You see how this could be useful to us.”
“Indeed,” Mordred agreed, nodding. “I had not thought of that.”
Merlin thrashed in his bindings, mind reeling, thoughts spinning out of control as he tried to make sense of it all. Was it a dream? Was he awake? Could he risk not believing that there might be consequences?
“Are you enjoying the silence, Emrys?” Mordred asked. “Are you enjoying finally being like everyone else?” His face darkened. “I should have been the one. It should never have been you. It should have been me!”
“No,” Merlin managed to gasp, and was distantly appalled at the wreck that was his own voice.
“He’s right,” Morgause told him. “It should never have been given to you. You are unworthy.” Her face twisted into a snarl. “What are you, little nothing boy, compared to the mastery of those who have gone before you? No, you are unfit. A tragic waste of what should have been a tremendous gift, but we will make do with what we have. Arrangements will be made. If you do not swear your powers to my service, you will never use them again.”
“No,” Merlin said again, and then again. “No, no, no, no nononononono,” repeating it until the words ran together in meaningless blur of sound, precious sound, sharp against his too-sensitive ears. Until he forgot what he was saying, why he was saying it, that it ever had a meaning or a purpose, and still the words continued to trip over his tongue, flowing over his lips in an unending torrent of sound, and the noise became a purpose all of its own.
Morgause slapped him again, and still the sounds flooded out, his mouth still moving silently even when her eyes flared gold and stole his voice away again, because even if he couldn’t hear it, the word was in his mind, all he could think of. The only thing left in his fragmenting mind is the meaningless, endless denial.
Eventually, she tired of trying to make him stop, and Merlin couldn’t stop a low grunt of pain when the magic finally abandoned him, letting him drop painfully to the floor. “No,” he gasped, voice cracking.
“We will leave him for a time,” she said. “He cannot hide in madness for long. Tomorrow, his voice will be gone and it will be all his own doing, and the others should have arrived by then. He will see the folly of resisting, and the last of his hopes will be gone. From there, progress should be rapid.” She smiled. “Come, we will leave him to his hopeless denials.”
The door clanged once, and then Merlin was alone with the silent darkness.
~ ♪ ~ ♫ ~ ♪ ~ ♫ ~ ♪ ~ ♫ ~ ♪ ~
The castle was larger than Arthur had expected, and much more defensible than he had imagined Morgana’s hideout would be. Just how she had managed to obtain a huge fortress by the sea he still had no idea, but he tried not to show how worried he was about their chances of infiltrating the place.
It had taken longer than expected to follow the almost non-existent trail. Merlin had been a prisoner in that fortress for far too long now, though the army was probably only four or five days behind them.
But somehow, it turned out that Gwaine had been there before - briefly in service to some petty lord or another - and knew the layout. “Tintagel used to belong to the Priestesses of the Old Religion, but it’s been abandoned since the Great Purge,” he told them as they picked their way carefully down the cliff. “We only stayed a few days, but the men were jumping at shadows the entire time.”
“And you weren’t?” asked Arthur skeptically, slightly breathless from the climb.
“Priestesses or ghosts, I’ve never met a lady I couldn’t charm,” Gwaine claimed, grinning. “Now, if we follow the beach around, the low tide will let us close enough to climb the north tower. That’s the one with the largest windows, and we should be able to slip in easily enough.”
The corridors were strangely empty as they crept through the dark castle, searching. The dungeon was deep in the bowels of the fortress, and it was unguarded. Only one door was locked.
The solid wood gave readily enough under the weight of three strong men, and Arthur peered cautiously into the dim cell, recoiling slightly at the stench. Inside, there was a strange humming noise coming from one of the corners. “Merlin? Merlin, are you in here?”
There was a scuffling noise, and a whimper. The humming stopped. Arthur raised the torch, and saw a figure curled against the far wall, head buried in long, thin arms, rocking from side to side.
“Merlin?” Arthur was at his side in an instant, clasping his shoulder gently. “We’re here to get you out, you idiot. Come on, we have to go!”
Merlin looked up, and Arthur drew in a startled breath. Merlin’s eyes were sunken, wild, and so very blue.
“Arthur?” Merlin’s voice was hoarse. Arthur didn’t want to think about why that might be.
“Yes, it’s me. Can you walk, Merlin?”
“Arthur…” Merlin smiled, reaching out one hand to touch Arthur’s face gently. “You’re a good dream.” Then his face crumpled. “You … Arthur. You shouldn’t be here. Why are you here? ”
Arthur blinked. “Of course I should. Come on, we need to get you out, quickly.”
“Arthur… no, no, NO.” Merlin jerked away from Arthur, wide-eyed and shaking. “You shouldn’t be here! No!”
“Merlin, what is going on? What’s wrong?”
“You - you shouldn’t be here, in the nightmare. You’re a good dream. Why are you here? Oh god, I can’t hear you. I can’t hear you!”
Arthur frowned. “Merlin, what’s wrong? What do you mean, you can’t hear me?”
But Merlin ignored the questions. “You shouldn’t be here! I can’t hear you. I CAN’T HEAR YOU!”
He screamed then, raw and hoarse and full of so much pain that Arthur jumped in surprise. Merlin tore himself away from Arthur’s grip, scrabbling backward until he was jammed into the corner of the cell, hands clinging to the cold stone walls, sobbing brokenly. Arthur stared at him in confusion and concern.
Gwaine stepped forward. “Let me try, sire.”
Arthur nodded, and Gwaine moved over to kneel next to Merlin, reaching out to lay a cautious hand on his arm. “Merlin? It’s me. It’s Gwaine, Merlin, can you hear me?”
Merlin squinted up at him. “Gwaine…..”
“Yes. Yes, I’m here, Merlin. Try to focus on me, okay? We’re going to get you out of here.”
Merlin stared at Gwaine with wide, scared eyes. “They killed the bird.”
“What?” Gwaine blinked in confusion.
Tears came to Merlin’s eyes as he repeated. “The bird. I can’t hear you. They killed the bird. They killed it!” He was sobbing harder now, shoulders shaking, cheeks wet with tears as he repeated, “They killed it.”
Gwaine looked back to Arthur, confused and upset. “I don’t understand. What have they done to him?”
Arthur’s face was dark. “Whatever it is, they will pay for it.”
Lancelot moved a little closer, but kept space between himself and Merlin. “Look, sire. His hands.”
Arthur leaned forward. Merlin had wrapped his arms around his head again, and was sobbing quietly to himself, humming between each gasping, ragged breath. Arthur squinted in the dim light, trying to see, and then his eyes went wide. Merlin’s arms were covered in red, swollen wounds, and the ends of his fingers were bloody. And clasped around his wrists, bright against the raw flesh, were two shining, silver bracelets. He gasped. “Are those…. They can’t be.”
A voice from behind answered him. “Yes, Prince Arthur. Those are exactly what you think they are.”
Arthur whirled. Morgause was standing in the doorway, a calm smile on her face. “You honestly thought it would be that easy to get in and out again without detection? Poor naive boys, I suppose you never even considered that this might be a trap.”
Arthur had his sword in hand and pointed at her before his mind could process what she had said. Involuntarily, he glanced back over to Merlin, then turned to face her again. He knew better than to turn his back on Morgause, but somehow he couldn’t stop his eyes being drawn to the huddle of Merlin - of sorcerer - curled in the corner of the cell.
Surely it couldn’t be true. She was lying, was playing mind games - just like the first time they met. Merlin couldn’t have magic, the idea was ludicrous.
At Morgause’s voice, Merlin looked up. “Arthur…” he whispered, reaching out one hand as though he could stop Morgause with the power of his will alone.
Though, Arthur supposed, maybe Merlin could - if he were a sorcerer. But he couldn’t be. He just couldn’t.
“You’re lying!” he snapped, and Morgause laughed.
“I’m not lying. Merlin is a sorcerer, and has been using magic for much, much longer than you have known him. He can never stop, not for you, or for anyone. He is the one who has been lying to you ever since you first met.”
Arthur felt like ice had been poured through his bones. His mind reeled with incomprehension, but he couldn’t help remembering his father - a long time ago - showing him those two bracelets, nestled in a box lined with soft red velvet.
“These are one of our most powerful tools against the sorcerers, my son,” Uther had told him. “They will tie a wizard to us, and to us alone. Only a Pendragon may use them - only you and me. When they are fitted, the sorcerer cannot use his power at all, not until you release him. This is how we were able to purge magic from our lands.”
But surely if Merlin was a sorcerer, Arthur reasoned, he wouldn’t have been captured at all. He would have been able to do something, something magic, to keep himself safe.
Unbidden, memories of miraculous escapes and unexpected victories sprang to Arthur’s mind. He remembered all the times he should, by any logic, have been killed - there were more than he cared to think of. He remembered the strange, cryptic comments Merlin had made once in a very great while, when he had seemed to know more than he ought.
But no, Morgause was lying. Had to be lying. Merlin couldn’t be able to do magic, the idea was absurd.
Before Arthur could make any sense of it, Morgause had stretched out her hand, saying something in a strange tongue. Her eyes glowed brilliantly gold, and Arthur’s sword was suddenly wrenched from his grasp. From the startled exclamations behind him, Gwaine and Lancelot had lost their weapons as well.
He had a few seconds to go for his dagger, but then magic was wrapping around his arms, the air turning solid as steel, forcing his wrists to cross and locking them in front of him. He struggled against it, but there was not even the slightest give in Morgause’s power. His arms were frozen in place, immovable, though his fingers clenched and unclenched as he raged against the magic.
Panic bubbled in the pit of his stomach, but Arthur forced it down. They would find a way out of this, he told himself. Of course they would.
When the three knights were secured, Morgause dropped her hand and stepped back, looking over her shoulder. “Bring them to the inner courtyard, all four of them. I will send for the others, and have them meet us there.”
A familiar-looking man stepped around her and into the cell, a pleased smile on his face. “Prince Arthur! Such a pleasure to see you again.”
Arthur glared at him. “Alvarr. I wish I could say the same.”
Alvarr laughed and shoved at Arthur’s shoulder, hard. “Smart mouth. Move, boy, you heard her.” He leaned close. “Don’t keep the ladies waiting, prince. It isn’t polite.”
Arthur jerked out of Alvarr’s grip and snarled back, “Keep your filthy sorcerer’s hands to yourself. And I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised to see you toadying to Morgause - are you her new pet, now Cenred is gone? I hope you have better luck than he did.”
Alvarr just laughed. “Move, little princeling.”
Arthur moved, glancing over his shoulder to see Lancelot and Gwaine follow. Several armed, blank-faced men fell in around them, eyes sharp for any attempts to escape.
Merlin, however, needed to be hauled to his feet and half-carried as he shook and moaned and sobbed. The hoarse, pitiful cries made Arthur want to kill things - Alvarr and Morgause, for preference.
But Merlin was a sorcerer. Arthur shouldn’t feel anything but hatred for a magic-using traitor who had clearly worked his way into Camelot’s confidences for his own devious ends.
On the other hand, the thought of Merlin having ‘devious ends’ was clearly so ludicrous, Arthur was forced to conclude Morgause must be lying. Besides, magic deprivation shouldn’t have reduced Merlin to such a state, even if he was a warlock. There had to be more to it.
Arthur felt like he was staring at a child’s puzzle with half the pieces missing. His thoughts were turning in circles, unable to decide if Morgause was lying - and if so, why? None of it made any sense.
Before he could come to anything remotely resembling a conclusion, they were being pushed through a high archway into a courtyard that echoed with the roar of the pounding sea.
Arthur looked around, assessing. It was not a large space, framed on all sides with high stone walls. Opposite them was a second arch, matching the one through which they had come - but this one seemed to lead into darkness. Arthur squinted at it, trying to work out what could be on the other side, and then suddenly he realised. That was the reason why the sea was so loud - there was nothing beyond the high curving stones except air, and the ocean. The arch was the marker, and the warning, for the sheer cliff that fell away to nothingness only inches from the castle edge.
Sitting in the centre of the courtyard, though, were more immediate concerns. Morgana and the young druid boy - Mordred, that was his name - were perched on the edge of a tall fountain, and the musical singing of water over carved stone was drowned by the roar of the sea below. They both looked up when Morgause swept through the arch, followed by the three magically-restrained knights, several men-at-arms, and Alvarr, who was half-dragging Merlin behind him.
“Arthur!” Morgana smiled, greeting him as though they had met crossing the courtyard at Camelot. “What a delightful surprise!” Her smile turned to a smirk. “Except, of course, for how predictable you are. Did you really think we weren’t expecting you?”
Arthur just glared. “Predictable or not, at least I am no traitor.” Anger and sadness warred for supremacy as he stared at her, and he couldn’t keep the bewilderment from his voice as he asked, “Why, Morgana? What did we ever do to make you hate us so much? What did I do to make you want me dead?”
“Why? You ask me why?” Her voice was like a whiplash. “I have magic, Arthur. Do you really think Uther wouldn’t have had me burned, if he knew? Or dragged screaming to the block for the headsman’s axe?” She narrowed her eyes. “He has killed so many innocents, one more would make no difference. Even if it was me.”
Arthur shook his head. “No. No, he would never. He loved you!”
“And he would have regretted the necessity of my death!” Morgana spat. “He would have mourned when I was gone, but he would have killed me nonetheless.” She shook her head. “No, Arthur. Uther is a murderer, and he deserves to die. Camelot will be ruled with justice again when he is dead and I am Queen.”
Arthur’s voice was low and shaking now. “And I suppose you will regret and mourn the necessity of my death?”
She looked away, and Morgause answered instead. “Sacrifices must be made to secure the throne. You, Arthur Pendragon, will be a threat to Morgana’s rule as long as you are alive. You have already demonstrated that you hold the same views as your father, and as such are no better than him. Your rule would not end the oppression of our people.”
Mordred squeezed Morgana’s hand. “It is necessary,” he told her.
She nodded. “I know.” Taking a deep breath, she got to her feet and reached for the sword that had been lying, unnoticed, by her side. “I will do it.”
Arthur struggled against the binding magic, but it was still mercilessly tight. Behind him he could hear Lancelot and Gwaine fighting the spells that held them, but Morgause was already holding out her hand, eyes glowing as she restrained them.
“No! Stop!”
Arthur almost looked over at the sound of Merlin’s feeble, breaking voice, but kept his eyes on the blade in Morgana’s hand. At Merlin’s words, she paused, glancing at her sister.
Morgause arched an eyebrow. “Finally he speaks!”
Merlin tried to say something else, but his voice cracked and failed. He coughed and tried again. “If… if you release him, if you swear not to kill him, I will take your oath. I will give my magic to you.”
Morgana laughed. “Oh, Merlin. Arthur must die. He cannot live to raise an army against me again.”
Mordred spoke then, high voice distant. “First we will kill him, and send his head to his father as proof of his death. His body will be given to the sea. Then you will swear your magic to me. I have seen it.”
Merlin shook his head. “If you kill him, I will die before I ever serve you!”
“You cannot. The bindings will not permit it. You now live and die at the behest of the Pendragon bloodline,” Morgana smiled. “And in a few days, that will be me alone. Uther will not last long when he learns that his precious son is dead. Camelot will fall a second time, and I will take the throne and bring magic back to the land. And you, Emrys, will serve me and fulfil the prophecies. Together, we will bring about the time of peace, as is foretold.”
“NO!” Merlin struggled out of Alvarr’s grip with an unexpected strength, dashing forward towards Morgana. “I won’t let you kill him!”
But Morgause was there, eyes shining golden, and Merlin was flying backwards to slam into the unforgiving stone of the wall. He crumpled to the ground with a breathless cry of pain, but within seconds he was moving again, trying to crawl towards Arthur.
Mordred laughed, and the sound was piping and strange.
Arthur looked down at his bound arms, then up at Morgana. An idea flashed in his mind, and before he knew quite what he was doing he had flung himself towards Merlin, diving forward and rolling painfully over the hard ground, arms still fixed, stretching out his still-obedient fingers and reaching for the bracelets that kept Merlin bound.
And Merlin was there, shoving his wrists into Arthur’s seeking hands. The cold metal stung his fingers with tingling power as he gripped them. He didn’t know the words to make the magic obey his will, but he wrapped his fingers around the bracelets and with every drop of the strength he could muster, Arthur commanded the magic to release Merlin.
There was a soft chinking sound as the bracelets fell to the ground.
~ ♪ ~ ♫ ~ ♪ ~ ♫ ~ ♪ ~ ♫ ~ ♪ ~
Merlin was drowning in music. Waves of sound battered against him, immense noise a palpable weight crashing over his skin and surging through his mind. He’d thought the music overwhelming before, but nothing could possibly have prepared him for this.
He revelled in it. The music was back, it was there, he could feel it dancing through him, a mighty flood of sound and glory that swept everything else away. He could hear the symphony of the ocean, the chorus of the sky and stars and clouds, the resonating brightness of Arthur and the songs of other people too. He couldn’t see, couldn’t feel, but what was sight? What was touch? Insignificant, unreliable, unnecessary. There was nothing but the music. He needed nothing but the music.
Distantly, Merlin was aware that there was something he should probably be paying attention to, some urgent matter that he should deal with, but the world was being washed away by the overwhelming torrent of sound and he was happy to let it go. He would stay in the music forever, and he would be content.
“Merlin.”
That was Arthur’s voice, Merlin realised with a jolt. Somehow, the sound of Arthur’s voice had found him, floating in the vastness of the music, and was pulling him back towards the world.
Merlin fought. He didn’t like the world, the world was full of pain, and evil, and silence, and Merlin would rather die than spend another second in silence.
But Arthur’s voice came again, loud and demanding, cutting through the music like it was no more substantial than the air. The sound of it gripped Merlin and refused to let him go, forcing him back into the world, adamantly refusing to relinquish its hold.
The world swam back into view.
Merlin gasped, shaking, feeling like he had just been plunged into ice-cold water. Arthur was leaning over him, and his song was ringing loud in Merlin’s ears. There was something wrong with it, though, a twining harmony of magic tainting the bright fire-song. Merlin reached out a thought and stopped the ugly music.
Somewhere, he could hear Gwaine and Lancelot, and they were tainted too, so he stopped the ugly song for them as well. But there was something missing, a note that they usually had was absent and it shouldn’t be. He added swords to their music, and smiled as the cool metal resonated a lovely harmony with their songs. That was better.
Arthur was moving away from him now, shouting something as he waved the sword Merlin had given him. Merlin knew he’d been able to understand words, once. Or maybe that had been a dream? No, that wasn’t right. But the sounds Arthur was making were strange and sharp, ringing in his ears and utterly incomprehensible; like a language he’d heard just once, a long time ago.
Morgause was saying something now, flinging out a curling, sinuous harmony that snaked towards Merlin. Merlin didn’t like how it sounded, so he made that song stop.
Somewhere close by, someone went silent. Merlin shuddered. It was not one of his people, he knew, but the reminder of silence still made his mind recoil. Looking over, he saw Alvarr crumpling to the ground. Gwaine was standing over him, his sword stained with blood. Nearby, Lancelot was holding back several other men, sword a humming blur as he moved. Merlin frowned, and sent sleep singing to the men fighting Lancelot until they collapsed, muted and unconscious.
Mordred was yelling and Morgana was shrieking. Merlin had really had enough of them, and of the world. He wanted to go back and hide in the music, let it keep him safe, insulated, away from people who shouted and screamed and stopped. But he knew he mustn’t do that until he had made sure Morgause and Morgana and Mordred couldn’t hurt Arthur. Even if all he wanted was to throw himself back into the world-song, he had to make sure they were not going to hurt anyone first.
And then something in his mind went click, and he knew what to do.
“You wanted the music.” His voice was scratchy and hoarse to his ears, and he couldn’t remember why that might be. “You wanted it, no matter the cost, even though the power did not choose you. I will give you what you wanted.”
It only took a thought, a tendril of power reaching out of his mind into theirs, just a little push. He couldn’t explain how he knew where to touch, or how to manipulate the glittering flow of power, but it felt as though he had always known, as if the knowledge had been there all along, just waiting for him to need it.
He pushed, and then the air was full of screaming.
Merlin smiled, and let the music wash him away.
~ ♪ ~ ♫ ~ ♪ ~ ♫ ~ ♪ ~ ♫ ~ ♪ ~
Arthur clutched at the sword that had materialised from nothing, holding the blade level and pointed at Morgana. He quashed the part of his brain that was clamouring about Merlin and sorcery and magically-appearing swords - he would deal with the revelation later, when they were not fighting for their lives. At least now he was armed, Lancelot and Gwaine were dealing with the other men, and Merlin seemed to be managing any magical attacks. He swung the blade up, ready to attack, when suddenly Morgana crumpled to the ground.
Arthur stared in astonishment, eyes flicking from Morgana to Morgause to Mordred, as all three of them began to scream and clutch at their ears. He looked over to Merlin, who had slumped back onto the ground, apparently unconscious, and then back.
Mordred was clawing at his face, nails cutting deep into his skin and drawing streaks of bright blood that ran down his cheeks and dripped from his chin as he wailed in distress.
Morgana had dropped the sword, and it lay by her side as she tore at her hair and screamed. The castle rumbled around them as her eyes flashed gold, but the low sound seemed to make her scream louder. It died away after a moment, Morgana’s eyes fading back to green as she moaned, low and harsh.
Morgause had cried out once but was now gasping desperately, taking deep, heaving breaths as though she couldn’t get enough air. Her eyes were wide and unseeing.
“What… what?” Gwaine managed, sword still poised over Alvarr’s still body.
Arthur looked between the three figures, bewildered but still wary. “I have no idea.”
There was a splash, and the noise in the courtyard was abruptly lessened. Mordred had tipped backwards into the fountain. There was a long moment as the knights waited for him to surface, waited for one of the women to go to him, but no one moved. Mordred’s legs kicked once, twice, and then went limp.
Arthur stared. “Morgana, what…?”
Morgana ignored him, but Morgause looked over to where Mordred was lying still. A strange look passed over her face, and she keened once, high and loud. “Emrys! Damn you, what have you done?”
Then she was running, tripping and stumbling past Morgana, past the fountain and Mordred’s small body. With a final wordless cry, she ran through the curving stone archway and was gone.
For a moment, the courtyard was silent but for the echoing roar of the sea.
Morgana didn’t even seem to notice. She looked over to where Merlin was lying unconscious, hands tangling in her hair. “You - Emrys - I can’t … even my own voice!” she paused, gasping, hand going to her throat. “I can’t… There’s so much. Too much. How did you bear it? Make it stop. Make it stop!” She screamed again, eyes wild, and Arthur moved to stand between her and Merlin, raising his sword.
Morgana stared at him, eyes wide. “You - you sound like… How is it that you…? I don’t understand. And it won’t stop!” Clutching at her ears, she screamed again. “Oh god, I can’t bear it. I can’t. I - it - no! No more!” She reached for the dagger that hung from her belt.
Arthur raised his sword, ready for her to attack, but Morgana did not even look at him. Instead, she lifted the sharp weapon to the side of her head, and slowly inserted it into her ear.
Blood spurted down the side of her neck, and half her face went strangely slack, but she paid it no heed. Pulling the dagger out, she brought it around to the other side of her head. Blood dripped from the point, trailing a path of wetness over her dress.
Arthur started forward instinctively, but even as he started to move Morgana had already thrust it deep into her head, much deeper than on the previous side. She collapsed to the ground, eyes blank and unseeing, and there was blood, so much blood, spilling over the stones and staining them bright red.
The courtyard was still, silent but for the sound of the sea. And then there was a lower, deeper rumble from the earth beneath the castle, and dust bloomed as a crack snaked up one of the walls.
Arthur looked from the bodies of Morgana and Mordred to where Merlin was slumped, unable to put a name to the torrent of emotions that flooded through him. He pushed them away, and focused on the situation at hand. “Bring him. Leave the others.”
Lancelot moved first, sheathing his sword and hoisting Merlin over his shoulder, lifting him far too easily and moving towards the door back into the castle. Gwaine followed, ready to help if needed.
Arthur hesitated, and then snatched up the bracelets, tucking them into his belt-pouch before following his men. The castle crumbled behind them.
~ ♪ ~ ♫ ~ ♪ ~ ♫ ~ ♪ ~ ♫ ~ ♪ ~
To Part Six