Merlin fic: Para Bellum 2/7
Para Bellum
by Destina
Art by goss
Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7
See master post for notes and summary.
II.
For Merlin, having his own chambers had been a strange and uncomfortable transition, but having his own workshop was somewhat bizarre. Still, it had become clear over time that Merlin needed a space in which to study, and to greet magic-users from other kingdoms who insisted on behaving as though he had stepped out of the pages of prophecy. It was nothing to Merlin; he was still who had always been. But it was clearly something to those with magic, and no matter how much he tried to downplay his own existence, they would not be stopped from seeking him out.
The first time Iseldir had used the word 'pilgrimage' in relation to the steady stream of visitors, Merlin had put a stop to it. "I am no temple of the Old Religion," he had said, scowling.
In his usual quiet way, Iseldir had not even spoken; his voice had reached directly into Merlin's mind. Emrys, you are the only true temple of the Old Religion. When will you open your eyes and see the truth we have set before you?
Gaius had encouraged him, and had brought over a few of the more dangerous books he kept hidden under the floor, in the corner, concealed by barley sacks and rat droppings. Geoffrey had reluctantly coughed up one or two books he had set aside during the Great Purge, books Uther would certainly have executed him for keeping, and one particularly frightening parchment Merlin had considered burning which contained spells for raising the dead.
At the very least, having his own workshop gave him time to rise - always before Arthur, whether they slept apart, or together - and greet the day by thinking over problems. This day, he would welcome Alator back from his travels to meet with Iseldir and the nearby Druids, and he would help Gaius research the prophecy which occupied the forefront of his mind. Between the wait for Morgana's answer, and the work the patrols were doing to ask about Mordred, there wasn't much else he could contribute in a solid way.
Arthur's safety was paramount, and every scrap of information was useful.
"Good morning, Emrys."
Merlin looked up from the text he hadn't really been reading, and smiled to see the Druid ambassadors there. Eira and Kara were always on time; Liam had a terrible habit of arriving late, in spectacular, crashing ways that reminded Merlin of himself when he'd first arrived in the citadel. "Good morning."
"Is it true that a peace treaty has been extended to the Lady Morgana?" Eira pushed back the hood of her robe and sat at the table opposite Merlin, eager as always for the gossip. Kara hung back, fussing with potions on the opposite table, her back turned to Merlin.
"Where did you hear this?" Merlin asked. He set his book aside, focused now on how information traveled the citadel, and where the hubs of gossip could be found.
"It has been on the lips of every guard and knight I have spoken to," Eira said.
"The way she says it, you'd think she speaks to them all," Kara added with a shrewd look, causing Eira to blush.
"That's not how I meant it," Eira said. "Just that I heard them speaking of it in the kitchens. The grooms spoke of it also, in the stables."
"Word travels far in a short time," Merlin said. "But it is true, yes. The king has offered a truce. Provided Morgana stops trying to make war against Camelot and her allies, we will stop searching for her, and withdraw the bounty."
"Do you think that's wise?" Eira asked. Her gentle heart did her credit; the question alone showed her worry for Camelot. In some ways Eira reminded him of Morgana in the first years Merlin had known her, but without the vulnerability Morgana had suffered because of her fear. It was the difference between knowing one's power, and dreading it.
"Quite possibly it's not, but this state of enmity can't go on forever. Magic is no longer forbidden here. It was time to extend the hand of peace."
"I can't imagine why she would accept peace." Kara turned to him with a vestige of anger on her face, one which she wiped smooth as Merlin met her gaze steadily. "When she is powerful enough to have all she wants. Why should she not have it?"
Merlin gestured to the bench beside Eira. Kara hesitated, as if she would rather simply leave, but she came to sit beside Eira, her eyes blazing the question Merlin dreaded from all magic-users. "Having power does not entitle any of us to take what we wish with it," he said. "There are laws in place for a reason."
"Some might say they are unjust laws, Emrys. And you aid the king in perpetuating them." The tiny hint of venom in her voice was not new; she had been a reluctant visitor to Arthur's court, and had come largely because Iseldir had insisted. She had talents which might one day lead to her becoming a High Priestess.
"Law is what ensures magic is not used for the reasons Morgana would use it - to achieve her own aims."
"The son of a tyrant does not own the tyrant's throne."
"Careful," Merlin said, and let his magic well within him, manifesting in his eyes as he looked at her. "Lest I begin to believe this debate is not merely theoretical."
"My apologies, Emrys." Kara bowed her head, while Eira gave her a worried look, her hand furtively raised to brush a brief comforting touch against Kara's shoulder. Merlin looked from one to the other, and felt the weight of protecting Arthur on his shoulders beside the burden of being a teacher to those not much younger than himself. He had learned so many lessons the hard way, through arrogant mistakes which led to blood and tears, and much loss. How could he hope to explain what he knew to be right, to people whose own lessons had been learned through that same filter of pain and oppression?
If he had been born a Druid, he might have used his power to eradicate the entire Pendragon line. It was a thought that had haunted him ever since he first met Mordred. Now Mordred occupied his thoughts again, as he had not since the difficult day Merlin had decided to defy Kilgharrah's predictions of doom and save his life. If there was danger lurking for Arthur, Merlin was responsible for it - not a new feeling, but one he understood more keenly, now that Arthur was not simply the king he was destined to protect.
Love had complicated everything for them, and Merlin would not have it any other way, but sometimes those complications outweighed all other considerations.
"What tasks do you have for us today?" Eira asked, breaking the moment.
"Research into prophecy," Merlin said. "All you can find about the time of Arthur's reign, and what may befall him."
"What has that to do with learning to strengthen our abilities?" Kara asked impatiently.
"There are many different kinds of abilities. To be able to find answers outside of yourself is one of them."
"Come," Eira said, tugging at Kara's sleeve. With some reluctance, Kara stood, not even bothering to glance back at Merlin as she marched toward the door. Eira gave Merlin a respectful bow before hurrying after her.
When they were gone, Merlin sighed and rubbed his hands over his face. Kara was not so much younger than he was, and yet there was an anger thrumming through her like a churning flood. Nothing stood in its way, or in its wake. He made a mental note to speak to Iseldir about her, when an opportunity presented itself.
He was rising from his chair to shelve one book and take down another when the room shook, the heavy percussion of a blast outside rattling his ears as he was thrown to the floor. He sat up and shook his head to clear it.
"Merlin!" A moment later, Liam crashed through the door. His robe was disheveled, his brown hair a tousled mess, and he swiveled toward Merlin with a wild look in his eye. "Attack! The citadel is under attack!"
"Who attacks?" Merlin said, as Liam reached down to pull him to his feet.
"Don't know," Liam gasped, all Druid serenity evaporating as the floor beneath them shook and rumbled.
"Damn," Merlin muttered. "Come with me." He made for the central courtyard, Liam at his heels. If Arthur was mustering defenses, he would be there, or in the armory. He was barely ten steps out of the tower when heat and fire licked at the archway, and on the heels of the blast, cries of terror.
Whatever strategy was in play, their opponents had clearly decided that initial devastation was a sound approach. Fireballs were dropping out of the sky in every direction, exploding into great sharp lances of burning wood. Merlin pressed forward again, stepping past bits of flaming debris. He stopped to give aid to a woman who lay moaning weakly in the courtyard.
"Rest," Merlin said, smoothing his fingertips over her brow. She sighed and sank into sleep. He had no time to heal her injuries, but he could see Gaius working the edges of the courtyard, and he would do his best for her.
Several knights ran by in formation, Leon at their head, and Merlin stood to shout his name. "Where is the king?"
"Western gates," Leon shouted back, and continued on. Merlin set off the way Leon had just come, Liam still following behind.
"Emrys, should I try to find Eira and-"
"They will have to find us. I need you with me." Merlin caught sight of Arthur and the moment their eyes met, relief flooded Merlin. With Liam in tow, he met Arthur halfway.
"Catapults," Arthur said. "Debris is raining down all over the citadel and the lower town. I have enough men to defend the gates, but the lower town is defenseless. It would take more knights than I have at present to secure the town."
"I'll go," Merlin said. "Liam, you must go to the battlements and do what you can to push aside these balls of fire. Let them drop in the countryside. When Eira and Kara find you, one of them must join you there, and the other must begin healing. Do you understand?"
"Yes, Emrys," Liam said, and though his fear was written plainly across his face, he ran toward the stairs to obey.
"Is he capable of it?" Arthur asked, gesturing directions to various knights as they approached the gates.
"Yes. They'll do fine." Merlin refrained from mentioning that none of the Druids would engage directly in battle, or kill Arthur's enemies. There was a time and a place, and Arthur had more than enough to deal with.
"I suppose we have Morgana's answer," Arthur said grimly, his eyes tracking another fireball as it approached overhead. He gestured Gwaine forward. "Take Gwaine and a few of his knights with you."
"I don't need the-"
"Humor me," Arthur said, meeting Merlin's eyes, and even if Merlin had been inclined to argue, the look there would have stopped him. Arthur rested his hand on Merlin's chest for a moment, and they turned in different directions - Arthur toward the garrison forming up in front of the western gate, and Merlin toward the southern gates, and the town, where he could weave a barrier to protect the town.
"Never a dull moment," Gwaine said, flashing him a grin.
"How would you ever survive peace?" Merlin asked. They dodged more debris as they made their way through the street.
"Let's hope we get the chance to find out." Gwaine clapped him on the shoulder and took the lead, Sir Hollis falling back to cover the rear.
They pushed their way through a crowd of men, women and children streaming toward the citadel, their only hope of safety. So many times Camelot had been attacked; so many people had never managed to find their way behind the fortified walls. Even those walls could not protect them from the unleashed hell streaming down on them. Homes and shop fronts were on fire all down the path, and Merlin spared a moment to send a tiny rainstorm to wet down the worst of it. There was no time for more; the fleeing crowd was beginning to thin, which meant he was nearing the thing they had fled from.
A man fell from a hut screaming, his arms on fire; Merlin put the fire out with a whispered word, then looked up to see a fireball descending directly overhead. He raised a hand and shouted, "Gecumen gé drý wæter!" The burning debris turned to water, scattering down on the street as if buckets had been upended.
"Of course," Merlin said, mentally kicking himself. He pointed toward the clouds and said "Tídrénas," grinning as the clouds opened and a veritable deluge began to pour down on the citadel - and all the fires the attack had caused inside and around her.
"You do come in handy," Gwaine said, pulling him out of the way of two merchants sprinting for the citadel gates. They continued on down the street, and Merlin used a bit of magic here and there to rebuild a toppled wall, or weave a straw roof back together as they passed.
Embers and bits of ash floated by as Merlin cleared the smoke with a thought, and a small troop of men appeared in the distance. "Hold," Gwaine said, and the three of them stopped, watching the group approach. All wore the same clothing: dark blue and black cloth of fine quality, Druid-made, Merlin could tell by the symbols woven into the fabric. The Druid triskellion tattoo was clearly visible on the neck of the man in front, an older warrior with greying hair and beard, and a fierce look in his eye.
"This is where I come in," Gwaine said, giving Merlin a gentle but firm push behind him.
Merlin shoved at him. "I don't have need of your sword just now, Gwaine."
"Yes, but where's the fun in all that waving of hands?" Gwaine flashed him a grin as Sir Hollis stepped up to join him.
The small party of men and women - ten in total - came to a halt a few feet from Gwaine and Hollis. "Drop your weapons," Gwaine ordered, looking directly at the older knight in front.
The man in front leaned sideways, until he could see Merlin. "Is this him?" he asked, his deep voice ringing across the village path.
"Yes." From behind the group, a younger, slender man pushed forward, clad much the same as the others, but with a Druid cloak wrapped about his shoulders. Merlin was struck by his eyes, which were as green as the forest in spring.
"I said, put down your weapons," Gwaine growled.
The young man's mouth twisted up in a bitter smile. "Not today, sir knight." His eyes flashed gold, and Gwaine lifted in the air, body contorted at a painful angle. He cried out, and Merlin immediately reached for him with magic, only to find himself assaulted by burst after burst of powerful, deep-rooted magic. He lost control of Gwaine and fell to the ground on his back. Gwaine hit the street beside him with a sickening thud.
"Gwaine!" he shouted, rising to one knee and pressing a hand to Gwaine's neck, where a pulse still beat. Merlin pushed Hollis aside and safely out of the way, and then pushed out with his magic, seeking the closest target. Three of the warriors opposite him stood with joined hands, and Merlin's magic bounced off them as drops of rain from a leaf - harmless.
The young Druid's eyes flashed gold, and Merlin felt a ripping, clawing sensation down his right side. He knew without looking the injury was real, and not in his mind; warm blood trickled past his ribs. He dared not allow himself to become distracted. "Swilte," he said, under his breath, and two of the three warriors with their hands joined dropped to the ground, their necks snapped cleanly in two. Merlin pushed out again, his hands extended before him, and three more of the warriors lifted from the ground as if caught in a whirlwind, only to land hard against the stone town wall and fall, unconscious.
Hollis engaged one of the men with a blade, and as he did so, Merlin turned his attention to the older warrior, and the young Druid beside him.
He opened his mouth to speak the words which would damn them, and something cold slid around his neck, choking him. His hands flew to his neck as his air was cut off, and his magic slid away like a river eel, elusive.
When he fell to his knees, he registered the sound of footsteps beside him, and a Druid robe, before Kara moved into his field of vision. There was fear in her expression, but also triumph as she looked at him, before turning eagerly to the warriors. The young Druid crouched before Merlin, and that bitter smile returned, a cold thing that didn't reach his eyes.
His mouth never moved, but Merlin knew the touch of that mind, the moment it entered his.
Hello, Emrys.
Merlin could not speak, could not force the word across his lips, but he spoke it in his mind, even as consciousness left him.
Mordred.
**
Darkness.
Merlin squinted open his eyes, acutely aware of the vicious pounding in his head, and waited for the expected pain of light...but there was very little of it. One torch guttered low in a wall sconce, and after a moment, Merlin realized it was on the other side of iron bars. So a dungeon, then. The floor was damp, littered with straw; it smelled of old death, of men kept in darkness past their breaking point.
Carefully, Merlin pushed up on one elbow, and as he did so, white-hot pain flared through him. He flopped onto his back, gasping. His wrists ached and throbbed; so did his chest, and his throat. The cut to his side pulsed with a dull pain, and he could feel the stickiness of dried blood where his clothes cleaved to his back.
He lifted a hand to his neck and found a thin band of metal there, barely thicker than his little finger. It was the source of the deepest pain, the one that had left him breathless. This was what Kara had placed on him during the battle, then. The surface was smooth, but when he rubbed his fingertip across the metal, runes flared out at him, sunk so deep into the metal they were a part of its structure, invisible to the eye and touch.
Merlin reached out for his magic, only to find...nothing. Or no, that wasn't it, exactly; he could feel his magic there, but it was as if it were smothered somehow, muffled and unresponsive to his call.
"Your magic will do you no good here, Your Excellency."
Merlin turned his head, though he already knew the voice; the contempt with which the man said his title made things clear enough. "Lot," he said, pushing up to a sitting position, and then to his feet.
Green eyes glittered in the darkness, as Lot moved closer to the bars. He curled the fingers of one hand lazily about them and leaned a shoulder on the wall. "You will address me properly, boy."
At once a clawing, choking sensation tugged at Merlin's throat, and he coughed, words pushing themselves up onto his tongue. "Your Majesty."
"Better." Lot held his gaze for a long moment, before those greedy eyes began roaming over Merlin's body. It was not an unfamiliar examination; Merlin had felt the same disgust once before, but he had been in a position to defend himself then. Now, cold fear raised gooseflesh on his skin. "I will have the respect I've earned."
"You've earned nothing," Merlin said. "What do you want with me?"
"Now that is the question," Lot said softly. "And you will have your answer, when the time comes. In the meantime, you will sit quietly here, and you will await my return."
Merlin staggered backwards until his back hit the slimy wall, and slid to the floor, staring. His hand flew to the collar on his neck and the chain which wrapped his chest, and the pain returned the moment he touched it, even stronger than before.
"What have you done to my magic?" he whispered.
"Nothing whatsoever. But my Druid friends have kindly fashioned a little trinket which makes my will your own. So until such time as I give you leave to do magic, you will not be able to so much as conjure a drop of water in a full bucket." Lot's slow smile sent a shiver down Merlin's spine. "Soon I'll show you the price of Pendragon's insolence, boy. And when I do, my will shall be your own." He barked a laugh, eyes raking down Merlin's body again, and slipped into the shadows.
Merlin resisted the urge to claw at the collar, which seemed to grow ever tighter against his skin. The runes which had shimmered in his mind the first time he rubbed his fingertips against it were unfamiliar to him. Not for the first time, he wished he had paid more attention to Gaius' lessons, or listened more closely when Gaius spoke of Druid magic.
He winced. The Druids. It was impossible to believe they were assisting Lot - assisting Mordred against Camelot -- and yet the evidence of treachery was wrapped around him, cold against his skin. The art of making objects infused with magic had gone underground at the time of the Great Purge. Only the Druids possessed such skill with magic; the bindings he wore had either been made by them, or by one trained by them. Their sects were all over Albion, including the lands where magic had been allowed while Camelot's ban was in place. There was no way to be certain how many Druids were in league with Lot, or if they were an organized force.
Merlin would have staked his life on the idea that Iseldir and his people were not a part of it, but the evidence was clear. And there were still three other magic users inside Camelot, trusted by him once, and close to the king. Kara might not be the only one privy to details of the plot, and that meant Arthur was in great danger.
Arthur. If Alator arrived safely, surely he would help Arthur determine if they could be trusted. But in the meantime, Arthur was alone, without protection.
With a bitten-off cry, Merlin smashed his hand into the stone floor.
He turned the pieces over in his mind, trying to find some logic among the chaos. Mordred had brought him to Lot, but why? What could he have to gain by giving Merlin over to a king who had long held magic in thrall by force? Lot's treatment of the Druids had been brutal; he had tortured and killed more than one sorcerer to achieve his goals. If only he could understand how they were aligned, and why, he could try to formulate a plan. There were always opportunities, and Merlin was a master at finding the niches and cracks through which he might slip.
There was no way of telling where he was being held prisoner, or how long he'd been missing. It was unlikely he was still in Camelot, but he couldn't be certain he was in Lot's kingdom, either. In the time Merlin had spent at his court, he had learned Lot might be prone to impulsive hatred, but he was not stupid, nor a fool. If he had planned this, he would have been careful.
Arthur would figure it out, in time, and when he did, he would stop at nothing to find Merlin. As surely as Merlin knew his own name, he knew his king would not rest until Merlin was safe. Everything in Merlin loved him for it, and cried out against the idea of him searching the five kingdoms for any traces; it was not safe. A thousand scenarios ran through Merlin's mind in the blink of an eye. He could be forced to hurt Arthur while under Lot's thrall. Even kill him. And Alator had said they must beware of Mordred; for all Merlin knew, he had played right into the embrace of deadly prophecy.
Merlin's hands began to tremble.
He stretched his neck high and hooked one finger underneath the metal collar, testing its strength. It seemed to be an unbroken line, no seams or seals, no fastenings to be undone. He had felt it click into place when it was forced on him, so even this must be sorcery. For a moment, Merlin considered what Arthur might do if he learned sorcery had been Merlin's undoing - if even Merlin could be destroyed by the thing he had helped Arthur bring back.
Merlin slipped four fingers under the collar, and then four fingers of his left hand as well, on the opposite side. The fit was tight, and he coughed, then began to pull, straining to find any sign of a crack or opening.
Red-hot pain seared over his hands first, crawling up his arms like a thousand serkit stings, but he continued, gasping and panting as the pain traveled up his body. His spine seemed to be melting, liquid metal scorching down his back. With a short scream, Merlin released the collar, and the pain instantly ceased.
Spent, he sat utterly still, trying to regain the strength lost to the pain. Without magic, he could not break the bonds. Still, there might be one who could.
Merlin lifted his face toward the dank stone ceiling and shouted, "O Drakon-"
This time, the pain circled his throat, choking off the words as surely as it had forced them from him on Lot's command. Merlin bent double, twisting with the effort to breathe, no longer even attempting sounds. As his intent to summon Kilgharrah died away, the pain did, but more slowly this time, as if the magic contained in his bindings did not trust him to be good.
Merlin buried his face in his hands and reached for his magic, exerting every bit of control he possessed to fight the pain. He could almost sense his magic responding, as if it reached toward his call but could not quite find the way. Only one name ran through his mind, over and over, and he begged his magic to reach toward Camelot, if it could not find its way to him.
Arthur. Arthur. Arthur.
Not just a name, but his heart; his world, and everything worthwhile in it. He breathed through the pain, and the rising panic, clawing at his bindings as if it would do any good. Writhing, he pressed his face against the wall, agony blooming now in every inch of his body, and still he begged his magic to obey this one command.
Emrys.
The word in his mind was not a voice, but an impression; smoke, and ice, and darkness. Not Mordred; something farther away.
Emrys. You can accomplish nothing this way. Stop struggling and rest.
Tears flooded Merlin's vision, born of pain and desperation.
Rest, Emrys.
He sent one final push toward his magic, and then succumbed to the strange voice in his head, allowing darkness to wash back over him.
**
Merlin awoke choking on cold water, and for a moment expecting to see Arthur hovering over him with a bucket in hand and a disapproving scowl on his face, even though that hadn't happened in years. It took him a moment to remember where he was, and he looked up to find three of the king's guard surrounding him.
"Up," one of them said, prodding him in the thigh with the toe of his boot.
Merlin sat up, dripping water, and wiped his face with a dirty hand. The guards reached down for him, their fingers gripping his upper arms hard enough to leave instant bruises, and hauled him to his feet. "Best not to keep the king waiting," the taller of the two said, and shoved Merlin toward the door.
As he walked, Merlin made a tentative grasp toward his magic, and felt only the same sensation of wet fabric over his eyes. His stomach lurched, but he took a deep breath and kept moving, on toward the faint light coming from the stone stairs ahead. The guards prodded him ahead, and he followed one of them into a narrow spiral stairway which seemed strangely familiar.
Eventually they emerged into a stone antechamber, with armor piled along one wall, and weapons against another. Merlin barely had time to look before a hand shoved him hard in the middle of the back. "The king wants you to see your surroundings," the guard said, shoving again. Merlin turned and glared, but went through the archway and up another short flight of stairs to the battlements.
Ahead of him stretched a desolate wasteland - one he had seen before.
"The Perilous Lands," he breathed, staring at the activity below. Unlike the last time he had come to the Fisher King's castle, the courtyard was not empty of all except wyverns and sand. Now there was a small village encamped at the foundations of the castle, and between the cooking fires and tents, soldiers walked freely.
"Enough, let's go." Another tug, and he was being herded down through the castle toward the scene below.
When finally they exited the gated arch, Merlin could see Lot waiting, one hand on the hilt of his sword as he watched Merlin approach. Even though the suppressing chains inhibiting his magic, Merlin could sense the magic in the air; the land was alive with it, where before the Fisher King's lands had been stripped of all vestiges of the Old Religion. In the distance, trees grew, stunted and short, but present all the same.
The guards laid hands on Merlin's shoulders and pushed him to his knees, and he looked up balefully at Lot's satisfied smile.
"You like what you see, boy? It was easiest for me to assemble my army here, far from prying eyes." Lot gestured to the camp.
Merlin said nothing, but he took his first close look at Lot's soldiers. There were many who clad in the regular mail and cloaks of all knights, but there were others with Druid markings visible on their skin. Merlin did not recognize the specific markings, but he noted every one of the Druids wore a sword or dagger - something he had never seen before.
"Ruadan," Lot called into the group, and a man turned around - the older warrior who had come first into the fray when Merlin was taken. Ruadan glanced at Merlin, and then came forward as Lot beckoned with short, impatient gestures.
"Sire."
"Get our guest on his feet."
Ruadan gave Merlin a long, searching look, and after a moment, said, "My apologies, Emrys. I regret that it has come to this." With speed to rival any of Arthur's best knights, Ruadan drew his sword and fisted one hand in Merlin's collar, yanking him to his feet, off-balance. The edge of his blade pressed against Merlin's neck, cold, unyielding, just below the metal collar. Merlin repressed a laugh; if they cut his throat, then any purpose they may have taken him for would be defeated. It was possible Lot was quite a bit more stupid than he had thought.
"There's no need for this." Mordred's voice cut through the crowd, and the pressure of the blade at Merlin's throat eased immediately. Mordred moved forward, giving Lot only the most cursory nod as he placed a hand on Ruadan's arm. "Move away, brother."
"How do you dare countermand my orders," Lot hissed, and there was movement behind him, probably Lot's men, though Merlin couldn't see them; Ruadan's arm around his chest was like an iron bar.
"I dare because there are other ways - more effective ways. Emrys is within your control, is he not? Would you not like an opportunity to demonstrate how ably you control his power?" Mordred's eyes were like twin flints, no emotion, only bland deference.
Lot didn't answer, but Ruadan's arm eased away from Merlin, only to be replaced by Lot's sturdy body behind Merlin. Lot rucked up Merlin's tunic to slide his hand beneath, and Merlin shivered with revulsion as Lot's fingers curled around the chain binding his chest. Lot pressed his lips to Merlin's ear and whispered, "Call the dragon."
Merlin's stomach turned over as he fought the command. If he called Kilgharrah, he would put the old dragon in great danger - they could require he ask anything of his friend, even his death, and Kilgharrah would have to obey. It was not certain that even the dragon's magic could save him, or that he would be strong enough to refuse Merlin's command. Merlin could not be certain others in the group did not know the language of dragons, so if he tried subterfuge, Kilgharrah's life might be forfeit anyway.
The drugging pull of the bindings seeped into him, even as he fought for clarity, to try to find a way to resist. He pressed his lips closed, biting back the words that would deliver the oldest magic in Albion into Lot's hands.
Lot pressed close against him, pulling the chain so that it cut into the wound down Merlin's side, and said, "Call him now, or see what I will do to you here, among all these men, if you do not." His meaning was plain, and Merlin did not try to hide his disgust at the ordinary threat, one which did not even take advantage of the control Lot could exercise with the chains.
Ruadan turned away, a muscle in his jaw twitching.
A thought struck Merlin then, like a lightning bolt cutting through a dark storm. Kara had read some of the history Geoffrey had set down regarding Merlin's confessed deeds over the last eight years. She knew of the dragon Merlin brought forth into the world, and Lot had not said which dragon. As far as anyone knew for certain, Arthur had slain the old dragon years before; there was no proof he lived.
There was only one way to ensure that remained true, and to guarantee his friend would not be endangered. It was a dreadful choice, but there were no other options.
Tears pricked the corner of Merlin's eyes as he threw back his head and roared, "O Aithusa, e male so ftengometta tesd'hup'anankes!"
In the silence that descended after his last word died out, he could sense the agitation of the Druids as they murmured to themselves. It was so easy to forget that no one had summoned a dragon in a generation. He wondered how many of the older men had known his father, and how many might feel shame at having betrayed his son in such a manner. Not enough of them, it seemed.
Lot shook him viciously by the chain and whispered, "Might have been more enjoyable if you'd tried to disobey. But just goes to show you're not as powerful as some have said, are you? Now that you are mine." He released Merlin with a shove, and a hand reached to steady him - Mordred's. Merlin flinched away as if burned, and stood staring at the sky with the rest of them as Aithusa came into view, circling overhead with a plaintive cry. As she descended onto the plain, Merlin had his first good look at her, and what he saw broke his heart.
Aithusa's wings were stunted, as if she had been hurt, and never healed properly. There were marks down her back that appeared to be scars, and she stood at a distance, quivering, her eyes beseeching Merlin. He had not summoned her in many months; he did not know what had happened, and so he was responsible. She had been his to look after, and now he had handed her to the enemy.
He looked away, tears falling freely down his face as he struggled to reconcile this wounded creature with the tiny, perfect creature he'd freed from the egg.
Wyverns took flight as Aithusa approached, screeching at her and diving past as though to knock her from the sky. Their taunts sent her hurtling toward the ground too quickly, and she landed with a thump, off-balance and shivering as she beseeched Merlin's help with her sad eyes.
He lowered his head, unable to offer her false comfort.
"Bring the sword." Mordred held out his hand, palm up, and one of the Druids placed a beautifully wrought sword into his hand, the hilt wrapped with hammered gold. Mordred lifted it into the air with magic. "Instruct the dragon to burnish this sword with dragon fire."
"She won't know how," Merlin said, pulling at Lot's hold. "She's too young, and she's had no one to teach her."
"Then instruct her," Mordred said mildly. "If she cannot create weapons, then she serves no purpose, does she?" As he approached Aithusa, she shrank back, ruffling her wings in alarm.
"Be still," Merlin said to her in the dragon tongue, his attention fixed to the sword and the threat it represented. "You must breathe fire on the sword."
Aithusa made a sort of croaking noise, and Merlin frowned; it was unlike any word he'd ever heard from a dragon. Then she extended her neck, lifted her wings, and made the noise again.
"Put the sword in front of her," Merlin said, noting that Mordred seemed to have no fear of the little dragon, or her fire.
Aithusa's roar, and the flame that followed it, lasted but a few seconds. When she had finished, Mordred retrieved the blade and tested it with a gloved hand; there was no heat, an indication that magic had manifested in the dragon breath. "It is done." He handed the blade back to one of the Druids. "Bring the rest." To Merlin, he said, "She will comply, will she not?"
"Yes," Merlin answered. He tried to ignore the vicious ache in his chest, the betrayal of his kin, and reached for his magic once more, testing the chains. Perhaps because Aithusa was near, he was able to sense it more strongly, but he still could not call it to him.
"When she has finished with these weapons, she is free to go," Mordred said.
"What?" Lot shoved Merlin into the arms of a guard and stalked forward. Ruadan and two others drew their swords, putting their allegiances on full display, but Lot ignored them as he circled Mordred. "That was not our agreement. The dragon could be useful. Who knows what else it can do?"
"The dragon is a creature of magic. We required its assistance, but it is not yours to enslave."
"You had no problem with enslaving the sorcerer."
"That is a different matter. Merlin is a traitor to his kind. What you do with him once he outlives his usefulness to me is of no concern." Without even a glance at Merlin, Mordred turned his back on Lot and threaded his way into the ranks of Druid warriors flanking him.
Merlin took in the scene before him: Lot distracted, Ruadan and others with drawn swords watching either Mordred or Lot, and the guard charged with watching Merlin not touching him. He thought briefly of all the harm he could be forced to do to Camelot - to Arthur - and the only choice available to him became clear.
He lunged away from his guard and flung himself toward Ruadan, directly toward the point of his sword. Ruadan twisted sideways with a true warrior's reflexes, but he would not be able to avoid it; Merlin knew his trajectory was true. At the last moment, he closed his eyes, ignoring Aithusa's distressed wail.
Two pairs of hands grabbed him, grappling for control, and Merlin opened his eyes to see Ruadan shrinking back, carefully moving his sword away even as Merlin strove toward it. The tip of Ruadan's sword was an inch away from Merlin's torso, at best. Merlin used all his strength, fighting his way toward it, even as the crowd behind Ruadan tried to scramble back so he would have room to withdraw.
The deadly struggle seemed to go on forever, and more hands were on him, until finally their number was too great and Merlin did not have the strength to pull forward. He landed hard on the ground, gasping for breath, devastation flooding through him.
"Let me through," Lot ordered, and the guards withdrew, still standing within reach. Lot pulled him up from the ground, and when he and Merlin were eye to eye, he smiled grimly. "Oh, no, little bird, you do not fly from me today," he said softly. He nosed down Merlin's neck, laughing softly when Merlin tried to twist away, and then sank his teeth savagely into the join of Merlin's neck and shoulder. Merlin gritted his teeth, determined not to make a sound that would betray his feelings.
Lot licked back over the bite, then lifted his head to stare into Merlin's eyes. "A promise of what's to come, when the Druids have finished with you." He put a hand on Merlin's chest and stepped him back a pace. "Take him back to his cell."
Dinner for Merlin was bread, water, and a piece of cheese so hard, he considered putting it to use sawing the bars of his cell. He ate the bread, drank the water, and tried to put order to the thoughts churning around in his head. Without the ability to control his magic, he would not be able to free himself, and now he would be guarded more closely than ever.
He dozed fitfully, back against the wall, trying to ignore the vicious sting of Lot's bite, and all it represented.
When he woke, Mordred was standing outside the cell, watching him. He wore ordinary chain mail, and a sword hung at his side. He might have been any knight, from any kingdom, standing guard; he seemed so young and removed from the bloody business of killing. It was deceptive, but then again, he had always been deceptive, with his quiet way and his sincere eyes, and Merlin dreaded what Arthur would make of him if they encountered one another on the battlefield.
Merlin blinked slowly, trying to clear his head, as Mordred turned and lit the torch on the wall to his left. "You were foolish to attempt escape today."
"I wasn't trying to escape." Merlin put his hand on the damp straw and pushed himself up a bit straighter.
"No? There is more than one type of escape, Merlin." Mordred's stare was dispassionate, his eyes glittering green in his pale, young face. "But why am I explaining this to you? After all, you know what it is to turn away when others need your help."
There was no need for Mordred to elaborate. Merlin would remember that day until his last breath. He could still hear the shouts of the Druids as they fought or fled Uther's knights, and he had done nothing - except halt Mordred's escape, and try to trap him into certain death. He supposed he did deserve a measure of justice for his inaction, though it had been impossible to do otherwise.
No. Not impossible. That was a lie he told himself, a way of comforting a troubled conscience.
He sighed. "I did what I had to do, Mordred."
"So you believe. And that is the trouble, really." Mordred folded his arms, and they fell to an uneasy silence, one Merlin broke with a question.
"What I don't understand is why you have thrown in with Lot. Surely you know what kind of king he is - what he's done to the Druids, to possess their power." The time Merlin had spent in Lot's kingdom had left a long and vivid impression on him, particularly as it pertained to Mithian and her choice to remain with him. The man had nearly brought Camelot to the brink of war, all because he coveted the things other kings possessed - Merlin still could barely think of himself as one of those things, but Lot had clearly not stopped thinking of it for a moment.
"Lot had things I needed: an army, and weapons. Things I could not use magic to obtain on a larger scale. My warriors needed a place to mass, and Lot provided that as well. In return, his demand was simple: just you, nothing more. He did not even care to expand his lands through acquisition of Camelot." The cold smile returned, spreading across Mordred's face like ice. "His troops will make excellent fodder for the swords of Arthur's knights in the coming battle."
"So much for the Druids being a peaceful people."
"You know nothing about the Druids," Mordred said sharply. "What would you know of generations of persecution and death? You, who hid what you were until it was to your benefit to reveal it. You disgust me."
"I don't care what you think of me." Merlin pushed himself up slowly, using the wall to lean against. "What are you really after, Mordred? Are you in league with Morgana?"
"Hardly." Mordred's voice curled on a sneer. "Morgana has nothing to do with this. She is weak - she has been consumed by envy for a crown that was never hers. Her desire for power has been her undoing time and again. But I will admit, her single-minded obsession has been an excellent distraction. I have been able to build my forces and persuade others to my cause with little fanfare, while she has tried and failed to capture Camelot for herself."
"You seem to have it all in hand." Merlin approached the bars warily, so he could see Mordred's face better. "What do you want with me, then? Was all this about calling the dragon?"
"With you?" Mordred laughed. "When this is finished, I will give you to Lot as a plaything, and you will do his bidding for the rest of your short life." Mordred leaned closer to the bars, and his eyes blazed with fierce hate. "It is Arthur I want."
Merlin's heart began to race. "Why? He has never harmed you."
"No. He has not. And it is regrettable that he must die." Mordred paced slowly down the length of the bars, moving his gloved hand from one bar to the next as he passed. "I asked myself, what has always fueled your actions? Why have you betrayed those who use magic, time and again? Sanctioned their deaths? And the answer is so very simple. You have chosen your king whenever a choice must be made."
Merlin said nothing; there was no way to answer such an accusation, where distortions and lies were so entwined. He would always choose Arthur; that much was true, and he could not deny it. A tiny seed of panic took root in Merlin's belly. He had done this - he had made Arthur a target, just the thing he had hoped to prevent when his magic was known to all, and there was no need to hide.
He stared at Mordred, and focused on showing him nothing, no emotion to use against him as a weapon. Mordred knew far too much already, and every morsel of information he gave Merlin now might be useful, later.
"It was when I heard of your union with Arthur that I began to understand you entirely: there is nothing in this world that would destroy you more completely than the death of your king. So that is what must happen." Mordred stopped pacing and turned, angling his body toward the sound of Merlin's indrawn breath. "First, I will kill your king. Then I will dismantle his kingdom, piece by piece, until everything you have put in place has been utterly destroyed. Magic users will be free to do as they choose, without submitting to your laws, your restrictions. Camelot will be a kingdom ruled by magic, as it was in the days before Uther's tyranny."
Merlin began to understand the endgame. "And Lot?"
Mordred raised his other hand to grip the bars. "The chains I have fashioned for you are my chains. You will do Lot's bidding because it is what I wish, and when I wish for you to murder your king, you will do that, too. Once you have made Arthur suffer at your hands - once you have watched him die slowly; once your friends are dead, and all you love is gone - I will give you to Lot as payment for the bargain we struck."
No hint of emotion showed in Mordred's expression - not greed, or satisfaction, not even anger. "I doubt Lot will even stop to take you back to his own lands. He'll want to sample your charms the moment you're delivered to him. While he is occupied with you, it will be easy to dismantle his kingdom also, and when he's no longer useful, his life is forfeit. And then - finally - I will end your life."
He smiled, sending a slow chill up Merlin's spine. "I promised you long ago, Emrys, that I would never forgive you. You will see now, how I keep my promises."
on to part three
by Destina
Art by goss
Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7
See master post for notes and summary.
II.
For Merlin, having his own chambers had been a strange and uncomfortable transition, but having his own workshop was somewhat bizarre. Still, it had become clear over time that Merlin needed a space in which to study, and to greet magic-users from other kingdoms who insisted on behaving as though he had stepped out of the pages of prophecy. It was nothing to Merlin; he was still who had always been. But it was clearly something to those with magic, and no matter how much he tried to downplay his own existence, they would not be stopped from seeking him out.
The first time Iseldir had used the word 'pilgrimage' in relation to the steady stream of visitors, Merlin had put a stop to it. "I am no temple of the Old Religion," he had said, scowling.
In his usual quiet way, Iseldir had not even spoken; his voice had reached directly into Merlin's mind. Emrys, you are the only true temple of the Old Religion. When will you open your eyes and see the truth we have set before you?
Gaius had encouraged him, and had brought over a few of the more dangerous books he kept hidden under the floor, in the corner, concealed by barley sacks and rat droppings. Geoffrey had reluctantly coughed up one or two books he had set aside during the Great Purge, books Uther would certainly have executed him for keeping, and one particularly frightening parchment Merlin had considered burning which contained spells for raising the dead.
At the very least, having his own workshop gave him time to rise - always before Arthur, whether they slept apart, or together - and greet the day by thinking over problems. This day, he would welcome Alator back from his travels to meet with Iseldir and the nearby Druids, and he would help Gaius research the prophecy which occupied the forefront of his mind. Between the wait for Morgana's answer, and the work the patrols were doing to ask about Mordred, there wasn't much else he could contribute in a solid way.
Arthur's safety was paramount, and every scrap of information was useful.
"Good morning, Emrys."
Merlin looked up from the text he hadn't really been reading, and smiled to see the Druid ambassadors there. Eira and Kara were always on time; Liam had a terrible habit of arriving late, in spectacular, crashing ways that reminded Merlin of himself when he'd first arrived in the citadel. "Good morning."
"Is it true that a peace treaty has been extended to the Lady Morgana?" Eira pushed back the hood of her robe and sat at the table opposite Merlin, eager as always for the gossip. Kara hung back, fussing with potions on the opposite table, her back turned to Merlin.
"Where did you hear this?" Merlin asked. He set his book aside, focused now on how information traveled the citadel, and where the hubs of gossip could be found.
"It has been on the lips of every guard and knight I have spoken to," Eira said.
"The way she says it, you'd think she speaks to them all," Kara added with a shrewd look, causing Eira to blush.
"That's not how I meant it," Eira said. "Just that I heard them speaking of it in the kitchens. The grooms spoke of it also, in the stables."
"Word travels far in a short time," Merlin said. "But it is true, yes. The king has offered a truce. Provided Morgana stops trying to make war against Camelot and her allies, we will stop searching for her, and withdraw the bounty."
"Do you think that's wise?" Eira asked. Her gentle heart did her credit; the question alone showed her worry for Camelot. In some ways Eira reminded him of Morgana in the first years Merlin had known her, but without the vulnerability Morgana had suffered because of her fear. It was the difference between knowing one's power, and dreading it.
"Quite possibly it's not, but this state of enmity can't go on forever. Magic is no longer forbidden here. It was time to extend the hand of peace."
"I can't imagine why she would accept peace." Kara turned to him with a vestige of anger on her face, one which she wiped smooth as Merlin met her gaze steadily. "When she is powerful enough to have all she wants. Why should she not have it?"
Merlin gestured to the bench beside Eira. Kara hesitated, as if she would rather simply leave, but she came to sit beside Eira, her eyes blazing the question Merlin dreaded from all magic-users. "Having power does not entitle any of us to take what we wish with it," he said. "There are laws in place for a reason."
"Some might say they are unjust laws, Emrys. And you aid the king in perpetuating them." The tiny hint of venom in her voice was not new; she had been a reluctant visitor to Arthur's court, and had come largely because Iseldir had insisted. She had talents which might one day lead to her becoming a High Priestess.
"Law is what ensures magic is not used for the reasons Morgana would use it - to achieve her own aims."
"The son of a tyrant does not own the tyrant's throne."
"Careful," Merlin said, and let his magic well within him, manifesting in his eyes as he looked at her. "Lest I begin to believe this debate is not merely theoretical."
"My apologies, Emrys." Kara bowed her head, while Eira gave her a worried look, her hand furtively raised to brush a brief comforting touch against Kara's shoulder. Merlin looked from one to the other, and felt the weight of protecting Arthur on his shoulders beside the burden of being a teacher to those not much younger than himself. He had learned so many lessons the hard way, through arrogant mistakes which led to blood and tears, and much loss. How could he hope to explain what he knew to be right, to people whose own lessons had been learned through that same filter of pain and oppression?
If he had been born a Druid, he might have used his power to eradicate the entire Pendragon line. It was a thought that had haunted him ever since he first met Mordred. Now Mordred occupied his thoughts again, as he had not since the difficult day Merlin had decided to defy Kilgharrah's predictions of doom and save his life. If there was danger lurking for Arthur, Merlin was responsible for it - not a new feeling, but one he understood more keenly, now that Arthur was not simply the king he was destined to protect.
Love had complicated everything for them, and Merlin would not have it any other way, but sometimes those complications outweighed all other considerations.
"What tasks do you have for us today?" Eira asked, breaking the moment.
"Research into prophecy," Merlin said. "All you can find about the time of Arthur's reign, and what may befall him."
"What has that to do with learning to strengthen our abilities?" Kara asked impatiently.
"There are many different kinds of abilities. To be able to find answers outside of yourself is one of them."
"Come," Eira said, tugging at Kara's sleeve. With some reluctance, Kara stood, not even bothering to glance back at Merlin as she marched toward the door. Eira gave Merlin a respectful bow before hurrying after her.
When they were gone, Merlin sighed and rubbed his hands over his face. Kara was not so much younger than he was, and yet there was an anger thrumming through her like a churning flood. Nothing stood in its way, or in its wake. He made a mental note to speak to Iseldir about her, when an opportunity presented itself.
He was rising from his chair to shelve one book and take down another when the room shook, the heavy percussion of a blast outside rattling his ears as he was thrown to the floor. He sat up and shook his head to clear it.
"Merlin!" A moment later, Liam crashed through the door. His robe was disheveled, his brown hair a tousled mess, and he swiveled toward Merlin with a wild look in his eye. "Attack! The citadel is under attack!"
"Who attacks?" Merlin said, as Liam reached down to pull him to his feet.
"Don't know," Liam gasped, all Druid serenity evaporating as the floor beneath them shook and rumbled.
"Damn," Merlin muttered. "Come with me." He made for the central courtyard, Liam at his heels. If Arthur was mustering defenses, he would be there, or in the armory. He was barely ten steps out of the tower when heat and fire licked at the archway, and on the heels of the blast, cries of terror.
Whatever strategy was in play, their opponents had clearly decided that initial devastation was a sound approach. Fireballs were dropping out of the sky in every direction, exploding into great sharp lances of burning wood. Merlin pressed forward again, stepping past bits of flaming debris. He stopped to give aid to a woman who lay moaning weakly in the courtyard.
"Rest," Merlin said, smoothing his fingertips over her brow. She sighed and sank into sleep. He had no time to heal her injuries, but he could see Gaius working the edges of the courtyard, and he would do his best for her.
Several knights ran by in formation, Leon at their head, and Merlin stood to shout his name. "Where is the king?"
"Western gates," Leon shouted back, and continued on. Merlin set off the way Leon had just come, Liam still following behind.
"Emrys, should I try to find Eira and-"
"They will have to find us. I need you with me." Merlin caught sight of Arthur and the moment their eyes met, relief flooded Merlin. With Liam in tow, he met Arthur halfway.
"Catapults," Arthur said. "Debris is raining down all over the citadel and the lower town. I have enough men to defend the gates, but the lower town is defenseless. It would take more knights than I have at present to secure the town."
"I'll go," Merlin said. "Liam, you must go to the battlements and do what you can to push aside these balls of fire. Let them drop in the countryside. When Eira and Kara find you, one of them must join you there, and the other must begin healing. Do you understand?"
"Yes, Emrys," Liam said, and though his fear was written plainly across his face, he ran toward the stairs to obey.
"Is he capable of it?" Arthur asked, gesturing directions to various knights as they approached the gates.
"Yes. They'll do fine." Merlin refrained from mentioning that none of the Druids would engage directly in battle, or kill Arthur's enemies. There was a time and a place, and Arthur had more than enough to deal with.
"I suppose we have Morgana's answer," Arthur said grimly, his eyes tracking another fireball as it approached overhead. He gestured Gwaine forward. "Take Gwaine and a few of his knights with you."
"I don't need the-"
"Humor me," Arthur said, meeting Merlin's eyes, and even if Merlin had been inclined to argue, the look there would have stopped him. Arthur rested his hand on Merlin's chest for a moment, and they turned in different directions - Arthur toward the garrison forming up in front of the western gate, and Merlin toward the southern gates, and the town, where he could weave a barrier to protect the town.
"Never a dull moment," Gwaine said, flashing him a grin.
"How would you ever survive peace?" Merlin asked. They dodged more debris as they made their way through the street.
"Let's hope we get the chance to find out." Gwaine clapped him on the shoulder and took the lead, Sir Hollis falling back to cover the rear.
They pushed their way through a crowd of men, women and children streaming toward the citadel, their only hope of safety. So many times Camelot had been attacked; so many people had never managed to find their way behind the fortified walls. Even those walls could not protect them from the unleashed hell streaming down on them. Homes and shop fronts were on fire all down the path, and Merlin spared a moment to send a tiny rainstorm to wet down the worst of it. There was no time for more; the fleeing crowd was beginning to thin, which meant he was nearing the thing they had fled from.
A man fell from a hut screaming, his arms on fire; Merlin put the fire out with a whispered word, then looked up to see a fireball descending directly overhead. He raised a hand and shouted, "Gecumen gé drý wæter!" The burning debris turned to water, scattering down on the street as if buckets had been upended.
"Of course," Merlin said, mentally kicking himself. He pointed toward the clouds and said "Tídrénas," grinning as the clouds opened and a veritable deluge began to pour down on the citadel - and all the fires the attack had caused inside and around her.
"You do come in handy," Gwaine said, pulling him out of the way of two merchants sprinting for the citadel gates. They continued on down the street, and Merlin used a bit of magic here and there to rebuild a toppled wall, or weave a straw roof back together as they passed.
Embers and bits of ash floated by as Merlin cleared the smoke with a thought, and a small troop of men appeared in the distance. "Hold," Gwaine said, and the three of them stopped, watching the group approach. All wore the same clothing: dark blue and black cloth of fine quality, Druid-made, Merlin could tell by the symbols woven into the fabric. The Druid triskellion tattoo was clearly visible on the neck of the man in front, an older warrior with greying hair and beard, and a fierce look in his eye.
"This is where I come in," Gwaine said, giving Merlin a gentle but firm push behind him.
Merlin shoved at him. "I don't have need of your sword just now, Gwaine."
"Yes, but where's the fun in all that waving of hands?" Gwaine flashed him a grin as Sir Hollis stepped up to join him.
The small party of men and women - ten in total - came to a halt a few feet from Gwaine and Hollis. "Drop your weapons," Gwaine ordered, looking directly at the older knight in front.
The man in front leaned sideways, until he could see Merlin. "Is this him?" he asked, his deep voice ringing across the village path.
"Yes." From behind the group, a younger, slender man pushed forward, clad much the same as the others, but with a Druid cloak wrapped about his shoulders. Merlin was struck by his eyes, which were as green as the forest in spring.
"I said, put down your weapons," Gwaine growled.
The young man's mouth twisted up in a bitter smile. "Not today, sir knight." His eyes flashed gold, and Gwaine lifted in the air, body contorted at a painful angle. He cried out, and Merlin immediately reached for him with magic, only to find himself assaulted by burst after burst of powerful, deep-rooted magic. He lost control of Gwaine and fell to the ground on his back. Gwaine hit the street beside him with a sickening thud.
"Gwaine!" he shouted, rising to one knee and pressing a hand to Gwaine's neck, where a pulse still beat. Merlin pushed Hollis aside and safely out of the way, and then pushed out with his magic, seeking the closest target. Three of the warriors opposite him stood with joined hands, and Merlin's magic bounced off them as drops of rain from a leaf - harmless.
The young Druid's eyes flashed gold, and Merlin felt a ripping, clawing sensation down his right side. He knew without looking the injury was real, and not in his mind; warm blood trickled past his ribs. He dared not allow himself to become distracted. "Swilte," he said, under his breath, and two of the three warriors with their hands joined dropped to the ground, their necks snapped cleanly in two. Merlin pushed out again, his hands extended before him, and three more of the warriors lifted from the ground as if caught in a whirlwind, only to land hard against the stone town wall and fall, unconscious.
Hollis engaged one of the men with a blade, and as he did so, Merlin turned his attention to the older warrior, and the young Druid beside him.
He opened his mouth to speak the words which would damn them, and something cold slid around his neck, choking him. His hands flew to his neck as his air was cut off, and his magic slid away like a river eel, elusive.
When he fell to his knees, he registered the sound of footsteps beside him, and a Druid robe, before Kara moved into his field of vision. There was fear in her expression, but also triumph as she looked at him, before turning eagerly to the warriors. The young Druid crouched before Merlin, and that bitter smile returned, a cold thing that didn't reach his eyes.
His mouth never moved, but Merlin knew the touch of that mind, the moment it entered his.
Hello, Emrys.
Merlin could not speak, could not force the word across his lips, but he spoke it in his mind, even as consciousness left him.
Mordred.
**
Darkness.
Merlin squinted open his eyes, acutely aware of the vicious pounding in his head, and waited for the expected pain of light...but there was very little of it. One torch guttered low in a wall sconce, and after a moment, Merlin realized it was on the other side of iron bars. So a dungeon, then. The floor was damp, littered with straw; it smelled of old death, of men kept in darkness past their breaking point.
Carefully, Merlin pushed up on one elbow, and as he did so, white-hot pain flared through him. He flopped onto his back, gasping. His wrists ached and throbbed; so did his chest, and his throat. The cut to his side pulsed with a dull pain, and he could feel the stickiness of dried blood where his clothes cleaved to his back.
He lifted a hand to his neck and found a thin band of metal there, barely thicker than his little finger. It was the source of the deepest pain, the one that had left him breathless. This was what Kara had placed on him during the battle, then. The surface was smooth, but when he rubbed his fingertip across the metal, runes flared out at him, sunk so deep into the metal they were a part of its structure, invisible to the eye and touch.
Merlin reached out for his magic, only to find...nothing. Or no, that wasn't it, exactly; he could feel his magic there, but it was as if it were smothered somehow, muffled and unresponsive to his call.
"Your magic will do you no good here, Your Excellency."
Merlin turned his head, though he already knew the voice; the contempt with which the man said his title made things clear enough. "Lot," he said, pushing up to a sitting position, and then to his feet.
Green eyes glittered in the darkness, as Lot moved closer to the bars. He curled the fingers of one hand lazily about them and leaned a shoulder on the wall. "You will address me properly, boy."
At once a clawing, choking sensation tugged at Merlin's throat, and he coughed, words pushing themselves up onto his tongue. "Your Majesty."
"Better." Lot held his gaze for a long moment, before those greedy eyes began roaming over Merlin's body. It was not an unfamiliar examination; Merlin had felt the same disgust once before, but he had been in a position to defend himself then. Now, cold fear raised gooseflesh on his skin. "I will have the respect I've earned."
"You've earned nothing," Merlin said. "What do you want with me?"
"Now that is the question," Lot said softly. "And you will have your answer, when the time comes. In the meantime, you will sit quietly here, and you will await my return."
Merlin staggered backwards until his back hit the slimy wall, and slid to the floor, staring. His hand flew to the collar on his neck and the chain which wrapped his chest, and the pain returned the moment he touched it, even stronger than before.
"What have you done to my magic?" he whispered.
"Nothing whatsoever. But my Druid friends have kindly fashioned a little trinket which makes my will your own. So until such time as I give you leave to do magic, you will not be able to so much as conjure a drop of water in a full bucket." Lot's slow smile sent a shiver down Merlin's spine. "Soon I'll show you the price of Pendragon's insolence, boy. And when I do, my will shall be your own." He barked a laugh, eyes raking down Merlin's body again, and slipped into the shadows.
Merlin resisted the urge to claw at the collar, which seemed to grow ever tighter against his skin. The runes which had shimmered in his mind the first time he rubbed his fingertips against it were unfamiliar to him. Not for the first time, he wished he had paid more attention to Gaius' lessons, or listened more closely when Gaius spoke of Druid magic.
He winced. The Druids. It was impossible to believe they were assisting Lot - assisting Mordred against Camelot -- and yet the evidence of treachery was wrapped around him, cold against his skin. The art of making objects infused with magic had gone underground at the time of the Great Purge. Only the Druids possessed such skill with magic; the bindings he wore had either been made by them, or by one trained by them. Their sects were all over Albion, including the lands where magic had been allowed while Camelot's ban was in place. There was no way to be certain how many Druids were in league with Lot, or if they were an organized force.
Merlin would have staked his life on the idea that Iseldir and his people were not a part of it, but the evidence was clear. And there were still three other magic users inside Camelot, trusted by him once, and close to the king. Kara might not be the only one privy to details of the plot, and that meant Arthur was in great danger.
Arthur. If Alator arrived safely, surely he would help Arthur determine if they could be trusted. But in the meantime, Arthur was alone, without protection.
With a bitten-off cry, Merlin smashed his hand into the stone floor.
He turned the pieces over in his mind, trying to find some logic among the chaos. Mordred had brought him to Lot, but why? What could he have to gain by giving Merlin over to a king who had long held magic in thrall by force? Lot's treatment of the Druids had been brutal; he had tortured and killed more than one sorcerer to achieve his goals. If only he could understand how they were aligned, and why, he could try to formulate a plan. There were always opportunities, and Merlin was a master at finding the niches and cracks through which he might slip.
There was no way of telling where he was being held prisoner, or how long he'd been missing. It was unlikely he was still in Camelot, but he couldn't be certain he was in Lot's kingdom, either. In the time Merlin had spent at his court, he had learned Lot might be prone to impulsive hatred, but he was not stupid, nor a fool. If he had planned this, he would have been careful.
Arthur would figure it out, in time, and when he did, he would stop at nothing to find Merlin. As surely as Merlin knew his own name, he knew his king would not rest until Merlin was safe. Everything in Merlin loved him for it, and cried out against the idea of him searching the five kingdoms for any traces; it was not safe. A thousand scenarios ran through Merlin's mind in the blink of an eye. He could be forced to hurt Arthur while under Lot's thrall. Even kill him. And Alator had said they must beware of Mordred; for all Merlin knew, he had played right into the embrace of deadly prophecy.
Merlin's hands began to tremble.
He stretched his neck high and hooked one finger underneath the metal collar, testing its strength. It seemed to be an unbroken line, no seams or seals, no fastenings to be undone. He had felt it click into place when it was forced on him, so even this must be sorcery. For a moment, Merlin considered what Arthur might do if he learned sorcery had been Merlin's undoing - if even Merlin could be destroyed by the thing he had helped Arthur bring back.
Merlin slipped four fingers under the collar, and then four fingers of his left hand as well, on the opposite side. The fit was tight, and he coughed, then began to pull, straining to find any sign of a crack or opening.
Red-hot pain seared over his hands first, crawling up his arms like a thousand serkit stings, but he continued, gasping and panting as the pain traveled up his body. His spine seemed to be melting, liquid metal scorching down his back. With a short scream, Merlin released the collar, and the pain instantly ceased.
Spent, he sat utterly still, trying to regain the strength lost to the pain. Without magic, he could not break the bonds. Still, there might be one who could.
Merlin lifted his face toward the dank stone ceiling and shouted, "O Drakon-"
This time, the pain circled his throat, choking off the words as surely as it had forced them from him on Lot's command. Merlin bent double, twisting with the effort to breathe, no longer even attempting sounds. As his intent to summon Kilgharrah died away, the pain did, but more slowly this time, as if the magic contained in his bindings did not trust him to be good.
Merlin buried his face in his hands and reached for his magic, exerting every bit of control he possessed to fight the pain. He could almost sense his magic responding, as if it reached toward his call but could not quite find the way. Only one name ran through his mind, over and over, and he begged his magic to reach toward Camelot, if it could not find its way to him.
Arthur. Arthur. Arthur.
Not just a name, but his heart; his world, and everything worthwhile in it. He breathed through the pain, and the rising panic, clawing at his bindings as if it would do any good. Writhing, he pressed his face against the wall, agony blooming now in every inch of his body, and still he begged his magic to obey this one command.
Emrys.
The word in his mind was not a voice, but an impression; smoke, and ice, and darkness. Not Mordred; something farther away.
Emrys. You can accomplish nothing this way. Stop struggling and rest.
Tears flooded Merlin's vision, born of pain and desperation.
Rest, Emrys.
He sent one final push toward his magic, and then succumbed to the strange voice in his head, allowing darkness to wash back over him.
**
Merlin awoke choking on cold water, and for a moment expecting to see Arthur hovering over him with a bucket in hand and a disapproving scowl on his face, even though that hadn't happened in years. It took him a moment to remember where he was, and he looked up to find three of the king's guard surrounding him.
"Up," one of them said, prodding him in the thigh with the toe of his boot.
Merlin sat up, dripping water, and wiped his face with a dirty hand. The guards reached down for him, their fingers gripping his upper arms hard enough to leave instant bruises, and hauled him to his feet. "Best not to keep the king waiting," the taller of the two said, and shoved Merlin toward the door.
As he walked, Merlin made a tentative grasp toward his magic, and felt only the same sensation of wet fabric over his eyes. His stomach lurched, but he took a deep breath and kept moving, on toward the faint light coming from the stone stairs ahead. The guards prodded him ahead, and he followed one of them into a narrow spiral stairway which seemed strangely familiar.
Eventually they emerged into a stone antechamber, with armor piled along one wall, and weapons against another. Merlin barely had time to look before a hand shoved him hard in the middle of the back. "The king wants you to see your surroundings," the guard said, shoving again. Merlin turned and glared, but went through the archway and up another short flight of stairs to the battlements.
Ahead of him stretched a desolate wasteland - one he had seen before.
"The Perilous Lands," he breathed, staring at the activity below. Unlike the last time he had come to the Fisher King's castle, the courtyard was not empty of all except wyverns and sand. Now there was a small village encamped at the foundations of the castle, and between the cooking fires and tents, soldiers walked freely.
"Enough, let's go." Another tug, and he was being herded down through the castle toward the scene below.
When finally they exited the gated arch, Merlin could see Lot waiting, one hand on the hilt of his sword as he watched Merlin approach. Even though the suppressing chains inhibiting his magic, Merlin could sense the magic in the air; the land was alive with it, where before the Fisher King's lands had been stripped of all vestiges of the Old Religion. In the distance, trees grew, stunted and short, but present all the same.
The guards laid hands on Merlin's shoulders and pushed him to his knees, and he looked up balefully at Lot's satisfied smile.
"You like what you see, boy? It was easiest for me to assemble my army here, far from prying eyes." Lot gestured to the camp.
Merlin said nothing, but he took his first close look at Lot's soldiers. There were many who clad in the regular mail and cloaks of all knights, but there were others with Druid markings visible on their skin. Merlin did not recognize the specific markings, but he noted every one of the Druids wore a sword or dagger - something he had never seen before.
"Ruadan," Lot called into the group, and a man turned around - the older warrior who had come first into the fray when Merlin was taken. Ruadan glanced at Merlin, and then came forward as Lot beckoned with short, impatient gestures.
"Sire."
"Get our guest on his feet."
Ruadan gave Merlin a long, searching look, and after a moment, said, "My apologies, Emrys. I regret that it has come to this." With speed to rival any of Arthur's best knights, Ruadan drew his sword and fisted one hand in Merlin's collar, yanking him to his feet, off-balance. The edge of his blade pressed against Merlin's neck, cold, unyielding, just below the metal collar. Merlin repressed a laugh; if they cut his throat, then any purpose they may have taken him for would be defeated. It was possible Lot was quite a bit more stupid than he had thought.
"There's no need for this." Mordred's voice cut through the crowd, and the pressure of the blade at Merlin's throat eased immediately. Mordred moved forward, giving Lot only the most cursory nod as he placed a hand on Ruadan's arm. "Move away, brother."
"How do you dare countermand my orders," Lot hissed, and there was movement behind him, probably Lot's men, though Merlin couldn't see them; Ruadan's arm around his chest was like an iron bar.
"I dare because there are other ways - more effective ways. Emrys is within your control, is he not? Would you not like an opportunity to demonstrate how ably you control his power?" Mordred's eyes were like twin flints, no emotion, only bland deference.
Lot didn't answer, but Ruadan's arm eased away from Merlin, only to be replaced by Lot's sturdy body behind Merlin. Lot rucked up Merlin's tunic to slide his hand beneath, and Merlin shivered with revulsion as Lot's fingers curled around the chain binding his chest. Lot pressed his lips to Merlin's ear and whispered, "Call the dragon."
Merlin's stomach turned over as he fought the command. If he called Kilgharrah, he would put the old dragon in great danger - they could require he ask anything of his friend, even his death, and Kilgharrah would have to obey. It was not certain that even the dragon's magic could save him, or that he would be strong enough to refuse Merlin's command. Merlin could not be certain others in the group did not know the language of dragons, so if he tried subterfuge, Kilgharrah's life might be forfeit anyway.
The drugging pull of the bindings seeped into him, even as he fought for clarity, to try to find a way to resist. He pressed his lips closed, biting back the words that would deliver the oldest magic in Albion into Lot's hands.
Lot pressed close against him, pulling the chain so that it cut into the wound down Merlin's side, and said, "Call him now, or see what I will do to you here, among all these men, if you do not." His meaning was plain, and Merlin did not try to hide his disgust at the ordinary threat, one which did not even take advantage of the control Lot could exercise with the chains.
Ruadan turned away, a muscle in his jaw twitching.
A thought struck Merlin then, like a lightning bolt cutting through a dark storm. Kara had read some of the history Geoffrey had set down regarding Merlin's confessed deeds over the last eight years. She knew of the dragon Merlin brought forth into the world, and Lot had not said which dragon. As far as anyone knew for certain, Arthur had slain the old dragon years before; there was no proof he lived.
There was only one way to ensure that remained true, and to guarantee his friend would not be endangered. It was a dreadful choice, but there were no other options.
Tears pricked the corner of Merlin's eyes as he threw back his head and roared, "O Aithusa, e male so ftengometta tesd'hup'anankes!"
In the silence that descended after his last word died out, he could sense the agitation of the Druids as they murmured to themselves. It was so easy to forget that no one had summoned a dragon in a generation. He wondered how many of the older men had known his father, and how many might feel shame at having betrayed his son in such a manner. Not enough of them, it seemed.
Lot shook him viciously by the chain and whispered, "Might have been more enjoyable if you'd tried to disobey. But just goes to show you're not as powerful as some have said, are you? Now that you are mine." He released Merlin with a shove, and a hand reached to steady him - Mordred's. Merlin flinched away as if burned, and stood staring at the sky with the rest of them as Aithusa came into view, circling overhead with a plaintive cry. As she descended onto the plain, Merlin had his first good look at her, and what he saw broke his heart.
Aithusa's wings were stunted, as if she had been hurt, and never healed properly. There were marks down her back that appeared to be scars, and she stood at a distance, quivering, her eyes beseeching Merlin. He had not summoned her in many months; he did not know what had happened, and so he was responsible. She had been his to look after, and now he had handed her to the enemy.
He looked away, tears falling freely down his face as he struggled to reconcile this wounded creature with the tiny, perfect creature he'd freed from the egg.
Wyverns took flight as Aithusa approached, screeching at her and diving past as though to knock her from the sky. Their taunts sent her hurtling toward the ground too quickly, and she landed with a thump, off-balance and shivering as she beseeched Merlin's help with her sad eyes.
He lowered his head, unable to offer her false comfort.
"Bring the sword." Mordred held out his hand, palm up, and one of the Druids placed a beautifully wrought sword into his hand, the hilt wrapped with hammered gold. Mordred lifted it into the air with magic. "Instruct the dragon to burnish this sword with dragon fire."
"She won't know how," Merlin said, pulling at Lot's hold. "She's too young, and she's had no one to teach her."
"Then instruct her," Mordred said mildly. "If she cannot create weapons, then she serves no purpose, does she?" As he approached Aithusa, she shrank back, ruffling her wings in alarm.
"Be still," Merlin said to her in the dragon tongue, his attention fixed to the sword and the threat it represented. "You must breathe fire on the sword."
Aithusa made a sort of croaking noise, and Merlin frowned; it was unlike any word he'd ever heard from a dragon. Then she extended her neck, lifted her wings, and made the noise again.
"Put the sword in front of her," Merlin said, noting that Mordred seemed to have no fear of the little dragon, or her fire.
Aithusa's roar, and the flame that followed it, lasted but a few seconds. When she had finished, Mordred retrieved the blade and tested it with a gloved hand; there was no heat, an indication that magic had manifested in the dragon breath. "It is done." He handed the blade back to one of the Druids. "Bring the rest." To Merlin, he said, "She will comply, will she not?"
"Yes," Merlin answered. He tried to ignore the vicious ache in his chest, the betrayal of his kin, and reached for his magic once more, testing the chains. Perhaps because Aithusa was near, he was able to sense it more strongly, but he still could not call it to him.
"When she has finished with these weapons, she is free to go," Mordred said.
"What?" Lot shoved Merlin into the arms of a guard and stalked forward. Ruadan and two others drew their swords, putting their allegiances on full display, but Lot ignored them as he circled Mordred. "That was not our agreement. The dragon could be useful. Who knows what else it can do?"
"The dragon is a creature of magic. We required its assistance, but it is not yours to enslave."
"You had no problem with enslaving the sorcerer."
"That is a different matter. Merlin is a traitor to his kind. What you do with him once he outlives his usefulness to me is of no concern." Without even a glance at Merlin, Mordred turned his back on Lot and threaded his way into the ranks of Druid warriors flanking him.
Merlin took in the scene before him: Lot distracted, Ruadan and others with drawn swords watching either Mordred or Lot, and the guard charged with watching Merlin not touching him. He thought briefly of all the harm he could be forced to do to Camelot - to Arthur - and the only choice available to him became clear.
He lunged away from his guard and flung himself toward Ruadan, directly toward the point of his sword. Ruadan twisted sideways with a true warrior's reflexes, but he would not be able to avoid it; Merlin knew his trajectory was true. At the last moment, he closed his eyes, ignoring Aithusa's distressed wail.
Two pairs of hands grabbed him, grappling for control, and Merlin opened his eyes to see Ruadan shrinking back, carefully moving his sword away even as Merlin strove toward it. The tip of Ruadan's sword was an inch away from Merlin's torso, at best. Merlin used all his strength, fighting his way toward it, even as the crowd behind Ruadan tried to scramble back so he would have room to withdraw.
The deadly struggle seemed to go on forever, and more hands were on him, until finally their number was too great and Merlin did not have the strength to pull forward. He landed hard on the ground, gasping for breath, devastation flooding through him.
"Let me through," Lot ordered, and the guards withdrew, still standing within reach. Lot pulled him up from the ground, and when he and Merlin were eye to eye, he smiled grimly. "Oh, no, little bird, you do not fly from me today," he said softly. He nosed down Merlin's neck, laughing softly when Merlin tried to twist away, and then sank his teeth savagely into the join of Merlin's neck and shoulder. Merlin gritted his teeth, determined not to make a sound that would betray his feelings.
Lot licked back over the bite, then lifted his head to stare into Merlin's eyes. "A promise of what's to come, when the Druids have finished with you." He put a hand on Merlin's chest and stepped him back a pace. "Take him back to his cell."
Dinner for Merlin was bread, water, and a piece of cheese so hard, he considered putting it to use sawing the bars of his cell. He ate the bread, drank the water, and tried to put order to the thoughts churning around in his head. Without the ability to control his magic, he would not be able to free himself, and now he would be guarded more closely than ever.
He dozed fitfully, back against the wall, trying to ignore the vicious sting of Lot's bite, and all it represented.
When he woke, Mordred was standing outside the cell, watching him. He wore ordinary chain mail, and a sword hung at his side. He might have been any knight, from any kingdom, standing guard; he seemed so young and removed from the bloody business of killing. It was deceptive, but then again, he had always been deceptive, with his quiet way and his sincere eyes, and Merlin dreaded what Arthur would make of him if they encountered one another on the battlefield.
Merlin blinked slowly, trying to clear his head, as Mordred turned and lit the torch on the wall to his left. "You were foolish to attempt escape today."
"I wasn't trying to escape." Merlin put his hand on the damp straw and pushed himself up a bit straighter.
"No? There is more than one type of escape, Merlin." Mordred's stare was dispassionate, his eyes glittering green in his pale, young face. "But why am I explaining this to you? After all, you know what it is to turn away when others need your help."
There was no need for Mordred to elaborate. Merlin would remember that day until his last breath. He could still hear the shouts of the Druids as they fought or fled Uther's knights, and he had done nothing - except halt Mordred's escape, and try to trap him into certain death. He supposed he did deserve a measure of justice for his inaction, though it had been impossible to do otherwise.
No. Not impossible. That was a lie he told himself, a way of comforting a troubled conscience.
He sighed. "I did what I had to do, Mordred."
"So you believe. And that is the trouble, really." Mordred folded his arms, and they fell to an uneasy silence, one Merlin broke with a question.
"What I don't understand is why you have thrown in with Lot. Surely you know what kind of king he is - what he's done to the Druids, to possess their power." The time Merlin had spent in Lot's kingdom had left a long and vivid impression on him, particularly as it pertained to Mithian and her choice to remain with him. The man had nearly brought Camelot to the brink of war, all because he coveted the things other kings possessed - Merlin still could barely think of himself as one of those things, but Lot had clearly not stopped thinking of it for a moment.
"Lot had things I needed: an army, and weapons. Things I could not use magic to obtain on a larger scale. My warriors needed a place to mass, and Lot provided that as well. In return, his demand was simple: just you, nothing more. He did not even care to expand his lands through acquisition of Camelot." The cold smile returned, spreading across Mordred's face like ice. "His troops will make excellent fodder for the swords of Arthur's knights in the coming battle."
"So much for the Druids being a peaceful people."
"You know nothing about the Druids," Mordred said sharply. "What would you know of generations of persecution and death? You, who hid what you were until it was to your benefit to reveal it. You disgust me."
"I don't care what you think of me." Merlin pushed himself up slowly, using the wall to lean against. "What are you really after, Mordred? Are you in league with Morgana?"
"Hardly." Mordred's voice curled on a sneer. "Morgana has nothing to do with this. She is weak - she has been consumed by envy for a crown that was never hers. Her desire for power has been her undoing time and again. But I will admit, her single-minded obsession has been an excellent distraction. I have been able to build my forces and persuade others to my cause with little fanfare, while she has tried and failed to capture Camelot for herself."
"You seem to have it all in hand." Merlin approached the bars warily, so he could see Mordred's face better. "What do you want with me, then? Was all this about calling the dragon?"
"With you?" Mordred laughed. "When this is finished, I will give you to Lot as a plaything, and you will do his bidding for the rest of your short life." Mordred leaned closer to the bars, and his eyes blazed with fierce hate. "It is Arthur I want."
Merlin's heart began to race. "Why? He has never harmed you."
"No. He has not. And it is regrettable that he must die." Mordred paced slowly down the length of the bars, moving his gloved hand from one bar to the next as he passed. "I asked myself, what has always fueled your actions? Why have you betrayed those who use magic, time and again? Sanctioned their deaths? And the answer is so very simple. You have chosen your king whenever a choice must be made."
Merlin said nothing; there was no way to answer such an accusation, where distortions and lies were so entwined. He would always choose Arthur; that much was true, and he could not deny it. A tiny seed of panic took root in Merlin's belly. He had done this - he had made Arthur a target, just the thing he had hoped to prevent when his magic was known to all, and there was no need to hide.
He stared at Mordred, and focused on showing him nothing, no emotion to use against him as a weapon. Mordred knew far too much already, and every morsel of information he gave Merlin now might be useful, later.
"It was when I heard of your union with Arthur that I began to understand you entirely: there is nothing in this world that would destroy you more completely than the death of your king. So that is what must happen." Mordred stopped pacing and turned, angling his body toward the sound of Merlin's indrawn breath. "First, I will kill your king. Then I will dismantle his kingdom, piece by piece, until everything you have put in place has been utterly destroyed. Magic users will be free to do as they choose, without submitting to your laws, your restrictions. Camelot will be a kingdom ruled by magic, as it was in the days before Uther's tyranny."
Merlin began to understand the endgame. "And Lot?"
Mordred raised his other hand to grip the bars. "The chains I have fashioned for you are my chains. You will do Lot's bidding because it is what I wish, and when I wish for you to murder your king, you will do that, too. Once you have made Arthur suffer at your hands - once you have watched him die slowly; once your friends are dead, and all you love is gone - I will give you to Lot as payment for the bargain we struck."
No hint of emotion showed in Mordred's expression - not greed, or satisfaction, not even anger. "I doubt Lot will even stop to take you back to his own lands. He'll want to sample your charms the moment you're delivered to him. While he is occupied with you, it will be easy to dismantle his kingdom also, and when he's no longer useful, his life is forfeit. And then - finally - I will end your life."
He smiled, sending a slow chill up Merlin's spine. "I promised you long ago, Emrys, that I would never forgive you. You will see now, how I keep my promises."
on to part three