Merlin Big Bang Fic part 1/4

[snarkydame]

I've decided to go ahead and repost this here. Just because, really. It looks much prettier at the BoxofMagic site! But I want it on my own journal, as well.

It's also up on my Dreamwidth account, if you like it better all in one piece.

Title: They Howl in Dreams of Winter
Warnings: explicit sex, of the slash variety.
Summary: An enemy sorcerer invades Merlin's dreams, seeking to foment betrayal and ruin a great destiny. There's a cave, and monsters, and a glowing sword (no, really).
Length: 20919 words. I'll have to post it in two or three parts on LJ . . .
Disclaimer: Merlin and its characters do not now, nor will they ever, belong to me. No infringement is intended.
Notes: Thanks again, L, for printing this whole thing out and sharpening your red pencil! I still appreciate it!

You may want to read the preview first, as it introduces the villain of the piece.

They Howl in Dreams of Winter

The stones of the castle walls caught the last fall of light, and glowed with it, warm against the cooling dusk. As torches came alight along the ramparts, the men who lit them glittered and shone, as though they carried the fire in the links of their mail.

Leaning out of the window in his quarters, Arthur took a deep breath, and held it, tasting the smoke from the town hearths, the sharp tang of snow that hadn't yet begun to fall. He released it, and watched the torches glow through the brief fog. Like magic. He smiled, a slow thrill shaking down his spine.

The wine from dinner seemed to run pleasantly warm through his veins. His father had been in a particularly good mood tonight, smiling and laughing with Morgana while he entertained the lords and ladies of the court. Arthur smiled wistfully. He himself had been interminably engaged in diplomatic small talk, until he'd managed to plead fatigue and leave the hall.

He felt boneless. Made of light. He leaned a bit farther out of the window, and covered the rising moon with another plume of his breath.

"I'm not wiping your nose if you catch ill," a voice exclaimed behind him. "I am not your nursemaid, whatever you might try to tell me." The voice almost succeeded in hiding its fond concern under a thick layer of peevish disdain, but Arthur chose to hear it anyway.

He turned, and slouched back against the sill. Merlin, standing with his back to the fire, caught his speculative gaze and shook his head emphatically.

"No," he said. "I'll ask Gaius to dose you with the foulest possible tonic, and bribe the chambermaids to come and mop your fevered brow, but I'm not about to risk catching your cold. You know, should you catch one, hanging half-dressed out of your window in the middle of winter."

Arthur smirked easily. "Liar," he said. "You wouldn't let anyone else touch me."

Merlin drew himself up like an indignant cat. "You know what happened the last time I got sick!" he protested. "You had to hustle me out of town before I accidentally turned someone into a toad."

Arthur frowned, remembering. "Gwen thought I'd done something to make you run away. Morgana was insufferable about it."

"Really?" Merlin blinked. "Huh." A bright smile crossed his face, and he paused, Arthur's court clothes half folded in his hands. Arthur felt his breath hitch in his chest. The warmth from the wine began to gather into a slow burn, deep in his belly.

"That makes you happy, does it? That they missed you."

Merlin raised his head at the tone that edged his voice. Arthur blinked at himself. He hadn't intended to sound so cold. Wide eyed, he stared at Merlin, fighting the lassitude of the wine. Merlin's smile softened slowly into something almost sweet. He looked back at the cloak he was folding on the bed, and smoothed the fabric with a gentle hand.

"My Prince," he started, somehow both mocking and utterly sincere. "Are you jealous?"

Arthur could feel his heart beating throughout his whole body -- Merlin had to hear it, it seemed so clear. He peeled himself away from the window and stood, very straight. The warmth of the fire licked up to heat his face, but he shivered, the winter chill at his back.

"Merlin," he said. "Would you give me reason to be jealous?"

Merlin's mobile face stilled. Deliberately, he turned and tucked his hands behind his back. He looked up at Arthur through thick lashes, and his eyes shone bright as stars.

Arthur caught his breath, feeling the cold air pushed away. A deep warmth took its place, washing in like a wave. The sound of the guards on the castle walls faded and was gone; the faint strains of music, still lofting from the court, drifted away. The walls of his quarters were engulfed in a red gold glow that had no source but Merlin. They stood alone in that shell of heat and light, motionless.

When Merlin spoke his voice cracked, such raw intensity did he devote to the single word: "Never."

He would have said more, but Arthur crossed the space in a lunge, and cradled Merlin's head in his hands. Merlin's mouth was still open to speak, though his sudden move had silenced him. Abruptly certain that he wanted no more talking this night, Arthur leaned in, and kissed him.

Merlin's hands came around and ran up his back, clutching at his tunic as they overbalanced and fell onto the bed. The cloak Merlin had so carefully folded slipped beneath them, nearly sending them to the floor before Arthur's booted feet found purchase. He took one hand from Merlin's hair to clutch under his thigh, and pushed him back up onto the mattress, crawling after him. Merlin's laughter felt like wings against his lips.

With Merlin sprawled beneath him on a stable surface, Arthur took his time. The kiss deepened, tart as wine. Arthur set himself comfortably, knees braced outside of Merlin's legs, back bowed. He tugged at Merlin's hair, not entirely gently, and ran his free hand up under Merlin's tunic. The thin skin over his ribs twitched at his touch, and Merlin sucked in a breath. Arthur broke the kiss, and smiled at the protesting noise from Merlin.

But he leaned back only far enough to grip the hem of Merlin's tunic in his hands and pull it up. Merlin, fumbling in his haste, yanked it out of his hands and pulled it over his own head. His hair, once he'd thrown his tunic over the side of the bed, stood straight up, and crackled when Arthur reached to smooth it. Looking at him, the skinny disheveled mess of him, Arthur felt his cock begin to strain against his pants. So much for taking his time.

Merlin growled, a throaty sound, and lunged forward. Only an athletic twist let Arthur stop them from going backwards off the bed. Merlin looked down at him, intensely focused, and grinned before diving in for a kiss of his own. Arthur rocked back against the mattress, and hugged Merlin to him. He slid his hands down Merlin's naked back, and dipped them under the waistband of his trousers, cupping his arse, feeling the muscle flex as Merlin set his knees outside of Arthur's. He had too many clothes on, Arthur decided. He still had his boots on. He pulled his hands free and pushed Merlin back, wrestling him around until he could get his boots off, and his pants. Merlin laughed and laughed, and was no help at all.

And then Merlin was naked, pale and shining in the enchanted glow that lit the room. He grinned merrily up at Arthur, splayed out on the bed, cock free and rising. His eyes were blue again, but just as bright.

Arthur stared at him, a hunger building within him. He could devour him.

Slowly, he let his weight down over Merlin's body, letting his own boots dig into the covers of his bed. He planted his hands on the mattress above Merlin's shoulders, and leaned in close, until he could feel the heat of the flush that was spreading over Merlin's face. Merlin's eyes slowly closed, and Arthur could feel his long lashes brush against his own. He kissed them, softly. He laid a trail of kisses, over his cheekbones, along his jaw. He sucked at the pulse thrumming in Merlin's neck, first gently, and then harder, as Merlin's breath began to stutter. His hands made little grabbing motions at the covers. He released him, and blew gently over the wet skin. Merlin mewed, a broken, needy little sound.

Arthur shuddered, and buried his face in the smooth skin where Merlin's neck sloped into his shoulder. Merlin's heartbeat echoed through him, faster even than his own. He felt such a surge of need and want and love that for a moment, he simply lay still, unable to move.

But then Merlin's hands were tugging at his hair, and Merlin was licking his mouth open, sucking at his lower lip. His legs had opened under him, and Arthur could feel his cock throbbing against his belly, leaving wet traces against the fabric of his tunic.

Merlin was babbling now, sounds so quick and scattered he couldn't call them words. He swallowed them, surging into a heated kiss. He ground down against him, and felt Merlin's hands rake down over his back, scrabbling desperately at his tunic. He ignored them, surfacing from the kiss, to kiss and lick and bite his way down Merlin's throat, his chest, the twitching muscles of his stomach. He paused, breathing heavily, and stared at the darkly flushed length of Merlin's cock.

Merlin let go of his tunic to seize his shoulders; digging his fingers in so hard he'd leave bruises. Arthur's own fingers trembled as he pushed at Merlin's inner thighs, spreading his legs further apart. He kneaded the silk-soft skin gently, and nosed against the sweat-damp hair that curled at the root of his cock. Merlin hiccupped, and his muscles jumped and strained.

Arthur let out a long breath, and licked up the shaft in one long, easy stroke. He closed his mouth around the tip, and felt Merlin let out a deep, wordless groan. He looked up along the length of Merlin's body -- his head was arched back against the mattress, the tendons of his neck sharply defined. He gasped for air as Arthur, so slowly, took his cock into his mouth.

Merlin's babbling returned, louder, but no more coherent. Arthur hummed accompaniment. His throat worked, and Merlin squirmed helplessly. He could taste him. Much better than wine, he thought, and gripped Merlin's narrow hips, sucking him in.

And then Merlin was arching off the bed, his hands frantically tugging at Arthur's hair, pulling him up and off and into a wide open, desperate kiss, and Merlin was spilling himself between them, hot and slick against his naked body, against Arthur's clothes.

They came apart gasping. Merlin's hair, sweat-damp and curling against his forehead, stuck to Arthur's lashes as he pulled away. He rocked back on his heels and stared at Merlin.

Eyes half-closed, lips swollen and bruised, Merlin lay spent and utterly ravished in Arthur's bed. Arthur eagerly drank in the sight of him, tracing the marks of his hands, his teeth, his lips.

Crouched over Merlin's body, Arthur felt his clothes too tight, the fine fabrics hot and rough and painful against skin that was suddenly too sensitive to bear them. His cock throbbed painfully, constricted.

He pulled his tunic off with one hand, hearing the seams rip as it came over his shoulders, and freed himself of his boots and trousers.

Naked and achingly hard, Arthur waited, trembling. Below him, Merlin stretched his arms back over his head, turning his body into one long shining bow. He reached under the bed, pulling out a glass jar half full of oil. Merlin whispered something, and his eyes flashed gold. The oil in the little jar steamed gently when he opened it, and a clean, spicy scent touched the air.

Arthur sucked in a breath, and Merlin grinned wickedly, handing him the jar. When Arthur took it, he turned himself on his stomach, and raised his arse, giving it a little wag.

"Merlin . . . ," Arthur groaned, breaking his silence, and threw himself down. With one arm, he braced himself over him, kissing his way up the knobs of his spine. He dug into the warm oil with trembling fingers, coating them liberally. When his slick fingers breached him, Merlin bit sharply at Arthur's pillow. Arthur waited for his shudders to subside, though his own muscles twitched with the effort of holding himself still. He felt Merlin relax around his fingers and slid them deeper, holding his breath. Merlin opened up around him, sighing deeply into the mattress. And then he shoved himself back against Arthur, growling, and Arthur bit down on his shoulder.

He slicked the length of his cock with the oil, holding himself against Merlin, who squirmed beneath him, eager and wanton.

"Come on, you prat!" he exclaimed, voice high and broken. Arthur grinned sharply, and thrust in, a long, deep stroke that left Merlin sobbing for breath.

They shuddered together for a long second, and then Arthur was moving. Long, hard thrusts, rocking the bed beneath them. Merlin, babbling constantly, twisted and pushed against him, until he reached that spot, and Merlin howled. Arthur felt his own voice tearing out of him, something wordless and intense, and he moved faster. Frantically faster, driving into Merlin as though to split him in two, or to join him so deeply he would disappear, a part of him.

The magic shell of heat and light and privacy pulsed in time with Merlin's cries, a curtain of fire around them. The light painted Merlin's pale back in red and gold and amber, and Arthur cried out for the beauty of it, and climaxed then, so sharply he felt his bones would surely fly apart.

Merlin lay tucked in his arms, the covers of the bed pulled over them both. It smelled of sweat and sex and oil, and Arthur breathed it in deep, content. The magic had dispersed, leaving the room lit only by starlight, and the smoldering remains of the fire in the hearth.

Merlin stirred against him. "Did you hear that?" he asked, drowsily.

"Hear what?" Arthur heard nothing but their own breathing, slow and sated.

"The howls." Merlin's voice was distantly troubled, as though he were half dreaming. "The wolves are howling."

"I don't hear anything," Arthur murmured. He stroked Merlin's shoulder. "Go back to sleep. You're only dreaming."

But Merlin was already gone, his breath slow and steady over his chest. Arthur let his eyes close, and fell asleep to the beat of Merlin's heart.

The halls he walked were unfamiliar, but he turned no wrong corners.

He came to a door, where the guards, all gold and red, looked blankly through him. He smirked, holding the image of empty air like a second skin.

He whispered a word, and the lock turned. He pushed silence into the hall, and the guards heard neither the lock nor the hinges as he opened the door.

The great bed, canopied in scarlet, held a single occupant. He slept, apparently soundly, but his brows were furrowed, and his fists were clenched.

He studied him, for a moment, head cocked to the side. He felt no hate. No anger. Just a mild satisfaction, as if he looked over a tool that suited him.

He raised his hands, and sucked in a breath as the magic gathered, so impossibly easily. He wondered at it, at the sheer lazy power coiling around him.

A covetous smile grew slowly on his face. He nodded once, firmly, and spoke a word. It cracked through the quiet room like a whip, and the magic ignited.

It was just dawn when Arthur woke. He shivered with the chill of the room, and burrowed deeper into the blankets; but where he looked for the warmth of Merlin's body, he found only a rapidly cooling depression in the mattress.

Frowning, bleary eyed, he peered over the blankets.

The early light of a cloudy day lit his chambers. The ashes in the hearth were long cold. His soiled clothes were still strewn around the floor where he'd thrown them, but Merlin's clothes were not.

Arthur's frown deepened. He hadn't expected Merlin to be up and out so early. Certainly not with his duties so clearly unattended to.

"Merlin?" he called, irritated at how plaintive his voice sounded in the empty room.

But obviously, Merlin was gone.

Before he could work up some proper irritation to cover over the forlorn ache he felt at waking up alone, Arthur felt the stone floor of his chamber shake sharply, and heard voices rising in alarm.

Tangled in the blankets, he nearly fell in his haste to get out of bed. He swore at himself, kicking last night's clothing under the bed. The voices of frightened servants in the hall were joined by those of the Palace Guards. And he could hear some of his own knights, barking orders into the chaos.

Quickly pulling on clean clothing, he flung open his door, boots in hand. The knights were already running to his door.

"Your Highness!" they called, relief thick on their faces when he opened the door. "Prince Arthur, your father's been attacked!"

The shock did much to wake him up.

"It was sorcery, for certain," Cai said. The stocky knight was pale, but his voice was steady. "The flames roared in like a living thing, howling and wailing, and they burned blue, your Highness, ice blue."

"The sorcerer attacked the King while his guards were outside his door," Gareth, the younger knight, said grimly. "His chamber doors blowing out over them were the first we knew of the attack."

Cai must have seen the momentary fear that gripped his heart, for he quickly moved to reassure him. "The King's unharmed," he said, "but his chambers are in ruins all around him, and we couldn't get to him, at first, for the flames that roared around. His guards are dead, crushed by the doors."

"The sorcerer killed them," Gareth growled. "And they never even knew he was there."

Finally dressed, Arthur left his chambers nearly running, the guards at his heels. "Where is my father now?"

"In the Great Hall. He sent us for you, to make sure the sorcerer didn't target you after the first attempt failed. He's organizing the guard to hunt him down."

Perhaps, Arthur thought anxiously, Merlin had left so abruptly in order to foil this assassination attempt. He was surely even now running after the enemy sorcerer, alone and unaided. The fool! He should have woken him.

"Have my horse readied and my gear brought out," he ordered. "I'll be leading this hunt." He looked down the corridor that led to Gaius' chambers, wanting to find Merlin and reassure himself that he hadn't run after a dangerous sorcerer alone; but while Gareth peeled off to follow out his orders, Cai stuck to his side.

At Arthur's angry glance, Cai stoically replied, "You're to be guarded, my Prince." And Arthur could only grit his teeth and pass the corridor by. Surely, surely, Merlin would wait for him.

Anxious servants scuttled past them as they neared the Great Hall. They're strained faces lightened as Arthur strode past them, unharmed. Arthur hardly noticed.

He could hear his father's voice before the doors to the Great Hall opened. Black rage roared through it, but Arthur thought he might be the only one who heard the fear shivering below.

Arthur could not agree with all his father's policies, but he knew what drew his father to them. Even with all the power of Camelot, a sorcerer could strike so closely at its heart, and there was nothing King Uther could do to stop it.

Arthur, as the doors opened, caught sight of his father and paused, a chill striking at his heart. The king sat his throne with iron in his spine, but Arthur could see the effort it cost him. Gaius stood at his side, silently winding a bandage around the king's temple. Blood stained the white linen, and Gaius' face was grim. The king's robes were covered in ash and bits of what Arthur thought, with a morbid sort of fascination, were the splinters of what must have been an ornately carved wardrobe. The one that had taken four burly guards to bring into the Royal Chambers. The splinters were finer than straw.

When Uther glanced at the opening doors, the rage darkening his face lifted briefly, and Arthur warmed at the relief he saw there. But Uther quickly turned back to haranguing the guards, burying his concern for his son beneath his duties.

He left Cai at the doors, and took his place before his father.

Morgana, standing white and still to Gaius' left, found his eyes and held them. Arthur swallowed at the misery he saw there. He wondered, uneasily, what she'd dreamed.

Gwen, behind Morgana, looked over his shoulder. Not seeing Merlin, she stood straighter, nearly on the tips of her toes, and looked again. She flushed when she saw him watching her, but kept looking, more discreetly.

Arthur stood in front of the King, waiting. Uther stood, shaking off Gaius' ministrations, and snapped out some final instructions to the Captain of the Palace Guard before turning to his son.

He looked him over, a quick, intense glance that missed nothing. Finding no sign of injury, he nodded sharply at his son and spoke.

"You've heard the situation. Take your knights and hunt him down." Without another word, the King stalked out of the Hall. Gaius, with a sharp look at the space at Arthur's back where Merlin should be, followed Uther.

Stunned at the abrupt dismissal, Arthur stood silent, watching him. When a hand fell softly on his shoulder, he jumped, startled. Morgana.

"He was frantic," she said softly, "worrying over you. He is tired, and in pain." There was a curious sort of disdain in her voice, as though she didn't know why she was defending him. "He doesn't trust himself to send you off properly without revealing weakness."

"He is the king," Arthur said, only a little woodenly. "He can't afford weakness."

Morgana's lips tightened. Gwen, still standing at her back, kept her face carefully blank.

"Where is Merlin?" she asked, changing the subject.

"In his quarters, I imagine. If anyone could sleep through this ruckus, it would be him," Arthur growled, carefully not giving voice to his worries. He suspected that Gwen and Morgana knew about Merlin's magic, but he didn't know for sure, and he could not afford to betray that secret.

"I'll just go check on him, then," Gwen announced, "Not that he needs checking on. I mean he'd want to be woken up for this. Not," she hurriedly moved to assure him, “that he would enjoy it or anything. Just that he'd want to help. You. With your armour. And your horses. He wouldn't want to hunt a sorcerer. Not that he wouldn't want a sorcerer to be captured, just that it's . . . dangerous." She ended rather lamely, twisting her hands and not looking at him.

His suspicion grew to near certainty, and he sighed inwardly for the risks Merlin took.

Morgana took pity on Gwen's tied tongue. "Go ahead, Gwen," she said, giving her servant a tiny push. "I'm sure he would want to help."

She waited until she was gone. Then, quietly, she turned to him and said, "I dreamt of wolves."

She was hesitant, watching him carefully. "It felt dangerous, evil. They howled, and the sound was so cold . . .” Her troubled eyes caught Arthur's. "Merlin's in trouble, I think."

Arthur took a deep breath. Morgana's dreams unsettled him, as even Merlin's magic never had. But he had a vague memory of Merlin's voice, heavy with sleep, murmuring of wolves. But it was faint, and unclear. He shook his head. He'd gone after the sorcerer alone, like he'd feared. He'd have to find him, before the knights caught the sorcerer. Or they might catch Merlin by mistake.

"Yes," he answered Morgana's unasked question. "I'm sure he is. I'll have to haul him out." And he turned on his heel, gathering Cai as he left.

Morgana, left behind, stood alone in the Hall, a troubled frown on her face.

They howled behind him. Shapeless, colourless, they nonetheless loomed large at the edges of his vision. Images of teeth, of narrow, gleaming eyes in the dark. Lean, hungry shadows lurking in the wind.

He ran.

He'd done something. Or stopped something? There was fire, blue and cold, and dead men in the hall. But the image came in fragments, fleeting and broken, and he was far from any hall now.

The forest was endless. He crossed streams, frozen and hidden in snow, that were identical to streams he'd already crossed. He thought those were his own footprints, thrust deep in the snow. He was following his own tracks.

The trees that he flashed past were tall and dark and straight. Skeletal branches whipped by at frightening speed, but never touched him. Or the wolves.

Where was he running to? He followed no path but the impossible trail he'd made himself. He'd been running forever, but the stars, what few he could see through the trees, hadn't moved. The constellations were frozen in place.

He was desperately tired. But his legs did not falter. They couldn't, less the wolves leap and bring him down.

A name beat at his throat, and he ached to call it out. To scream for help. But he clenched his teeth around it and held it in. Some shame, bone deep, kept him from releasing it.

What had he done, to bring these wolves to run him down? What had he done, that he didn't dare hope for Arthur's sword to save him?

The horses steamed in the winter air, trailing white clouds against the starkly shadowed trees. It had snowed in the night -- a thin, dry snow that slipped beneath their hooves and slithered across the trail as the wind blew, leaving intricately waving marks across the frozen ground.

Arthur's best trackers, Caradoc and Owain, coursed far ahead. The tracks were thin, indistinct. The hard-frozen ground did not hold them well. But they could find them. One set of tracks, one man, running as though the hounds of hell were nipping at his heels.

Which, Arthur thought, with a grim satisfaction, was flattering, if not entirely warranted. If he were powerful enough to attack King Uther in his chambers and get away unseen, a dozen knights should hardly pose a problem.

They came to a frozen stream and paused while the knights determined whether the ice would hold the weight of their horses. Arthur loosened his sword in its sheath, looking around.

The winter sun was not strong enough to break completely through the high cloud cover, leaving the world lit with a pale, directionless light. It flattened the forest around them, compressing distances and hiding dips and gullies until the horses were at risk of injury. They could not move forward as quickly as they'd like. The crunch of dry snow and the skeletal rustling of bare black branches were an eerie accompaniment to the creak of oiled saddle leather and the chiming of chain mail and weapons.

The strange lack of birds, even ravens, made the knights nervous. Oh, they went on confidently enough. But the banter that normally they would engage in, even on a hunt like this one, was muted, half-hearted. Arthur himself kept to a grim silence, and they all watched the forest very carefully.

When a branch, far off, snapped in the freezing air with a sound like a crack of lightning, they all flinched, hands going for swords by reflex. But a moment of frozen listening had them back on their way, carefully sending the horses, one at a time, over the frozen stream.

He knelt panting in a clearing, hands buried in snow so dry and cold it burned. He looked over his shoulder, sight hazed with exhaustion, to see the wolves circling around him. The stars were gone, as though a curtain had been drawn back, and the light of a winter sun showed them clearly -- like mist they were, the color of his own labored breaths in the frigid air. They were as tall at the shoulders as a pony, and lean as starvation itself. Their ribs pushed sharply at their shaggy coats, and their eyes were wicked.

He braced himself. He couldn't run anymore, not yet. He had to rest. But the wolves only stared at him hungrily -- they made no move to come closer.

Angry now, he tried to gather his magic, and found it insubstantial as fog. He struggled with it, confused and terrified, but his power came only in trickles and faded away as quickly as it came. He held on to what he could hold, a miserably small amount, and rose to his knees, yelling at the pack.

"Come on then! What are you waiting for?" His voice cracked thin and anguished in the silent forest. The wolves sat on their haunches, tongues lolling in what could only be a laugh.

"My lord," Owain said, with the patience of someone who had been trying to get his attention for some time. Arthur shook himself out of his thoughts; of Merlin, still and silent in the snow, clothes still smoldering with blue flame. He turned from such unlikely things to see what Owain had to show him.

"Here, where the snow's deep enough to hold a track. You can see where the sorcerer turned back towards Camelot, took just a few steps, and was set back on his heels. When he took off away from the city again he was running even faster."

"Someone else is chasing him?" Arthur thought instantly of Merlin, but frowned, looking at the snow. "There are no other tracks."

Owain shrugged. The ways of sorcerers were not his concern; his impassive face seemed to say.

"Well," Arthur decided, matching Owain's shrug, "that's neither here nor there. Our quarry is the same."

And they moved their horses on. He kept his thoughts focused on the trail, on the hunt. Merlin could take care of himself.

He wouldn't dare die without Arthur there to save him.

Cai's horse bumped into his as the knights took a bend in the trail. "Sir," he said, "What will we do when we catch up with this sorcerer?" The older knight kept the question quiet. He didn't sound frightened. He fully expected Arthur to know.

Arthur looked over his knights. Brave men, all of them, and skilled. But sorcery -- he could not stop pulling up the blood-tinged memories of the griffin; the horrid inevitability of the Black Knight.

"We'll do our duty," he told Cai. The hope that Merlin would be there to help, he kept to himself.

They wouldn't let him turn back.

They kept their distance, when he sank down to the snow. But when he'd caught his breath they circled closer, harrying him forward. He tried to turn; to go back . . . he no longer knew where. Somewhere warm, and safe. Somewhere where Arthur was.

But the wolves snarled so viciously. They leapt at him, slavering, and he flinched. The miniscule threads of magic he'd managed to gather were hardly enough to hold them off.

And besides, Arthur could not save him now. He didn't know, exactly, what he'd done. But increasingly, he knew something was wrong. That he'd broken something; a promise, an oath.

He stood in the snow, surrounded by wolves, and tried desperately to remember what oath, what promise he'd forsaken, and why. Dully, he knew the wolves slunk close around him, until he could feel the icy touch of their insubstantial hides, brushing against him. They pushed, and he rocked back one step, and then another. They growled, and he was walking.

One step at a time, further from Arthur, further from warmth. Further from the knowledge of what he'd done.

He knew only that something terrible had been done, and he felt sure, somehow, that he had done it. He feared that the wolves were pushing him towards something even worse. But he went, slowly.

He was too tired to run anymore.

Arthur felt as if he and his knights were riding through a dream. A chase, with no beginning and no end. The sun, that flat glow behind the clouds, sat directly overhead now, but the light it gave seemed insubstantial. The unnaturally empty forest swallowed it, and they rode through a dim sort of twilight.

Hunger gnawed at him. He hadn't eaten, in his rush after the sorcerer. The knights tore at bread and cheese while they rode, not stopping, but Arthur left his meal in his saddlebags. His stomach ached more from nerves.

They topped a ridge, and found a clearing beneath them. Here the wind had blown the grass nearly clear of the dry, shifting snow. Caradoc found the trail anyway.

"He stood here for a long while," the tall knight said. "The grass is frozen, and he broke the blades. Stood on them long enough for the ice to melt beneath him, and then left, long enough ago for it to refreeze. I think we're catching up, though."

"What was he doing?" Gareth asked. "There's nothing in this godforsaken forest but bare trees and wind." No one had an answer for him, though all had commented on the dearth of wildlife.

Arthur pushed his horse past them. "It doesn't matter," he tossed over his shoulder. "We're catching up to him."

* * *

Onward to part two