Chapter Text
Merlin stood at the window, gazing after the figures of Arthur and Mordred sparring. His own visage stared back at him, ghostly, disapproving glare as evident in his reflection as it was in his heart. The two men seemed almost unreal from this distance, playing at a game only Merlin knew the truth of. The battle they teased at now—danced around laughingly—led to a far darker destiny that now seemed to be locked in stone.
“There is nothing I can do to prevent it,” Merlin breathed, and despair like he had never quite understood before befell him. All the many losses he had endured in the past had never felt as oppressive, if only for the fact that he endured all such losses in service of fulfilling his destiny, or perhaps defying it. Arthur’s sake was the aim of his life, plainly. That sake being forsaken was unthinkable. That Arthur should die was, simply, impossible. He had never allowed himself to believe it really might occur; there was no other way to live. “Nothing.”
He met his own murky, doubtful gaze in the window pane. He could not continue to sit uselessly in his own denial. “I have to go,” he murmured to Gaius, whose assuredly confused gaze he could not see as he turned and walked away.
His feet carried him blindly through the castle. His magic buzzed anxiously, unsettling itself, like an hourglass violently overturned. He picked up the pace, anxious to go where he was not sure—but he also was not sure he could control himself until he got there, so he decided to leave as soon as possible. His stalk became more of a run. He could feel magic pushing back on his heels with every step, propelling him ever more forcefully in some certain direction.
He saddled his horse. In his haze of desperation he did not really consider how far he might be going, or what he needed to pack—alone, magic would suffice for everything, he felt quite sure, but did not know why.
As he trotted through the courtyard, Gwaine came up to him, brow furrowed, subtly putting himself in Merlin’s way. “Alright, Merlin?”
Merlin carefully tamed his annoyance. “Yes, just—gathering herbs for Gaius,” he said, still rather more hurriedly than he had intended.
“I could accompany you,” Gwaine replied. “Lots of bandits deep out in the woods these days.” Merlin frowned, impatience getting the best of him. Llamrei echoed his restlessness, shifting on her hooves.
“I’m not going that far. Besides, you’re just using me to skive off training,” he said a bit breathlessly, and when Gwaine chuckled he took the opportunity to trot around him and escape the courtyard before his heart or his magic jumped out of his chest.
As he broke free of the city limits, he pushed Llamrei into a gallop. A path through the trees suddenly seemed the natural course—as soon as Merlin laid eyes upon it, he stopped considering where he might go, and simply went. The path was narrow, just wide and tall enough to avoid being hit by branches, and clear of obstructing rocks or fallen trees. He leaned forward and asked Llamrei for more. The wind tore at him and washed away all his thoughts, because he could not afford to despair anymore; not in this moment. His magic snapped and sparked.
He did not know how much time had passed when the path let out onto a familiar clearing. His magic had urged him to the Crystal Cave.
He tied Llamrei to a tree and gingerly dismounted; as soon as his feet touched the ground his magic rejoiced and seemed to pound headily, in time with his heart. He felt his eyes heat and buzz, meaning they were likely flashing gold—in a sudden bid to channel the rising spike of magic, he put his hand to the forest floor. When he withdrew it, droplets of water rose with it, forming an orb above his palm. He glared at it for a moment before bringing it before Llamrei. She drank from it, and he watched her, suddenly struck with the impulse to stall for time. He was indeed desperate to reverse Arthur’s fate, but now knowing what depths of magic lay here, there was a part of him that was afraid to find what he would have to do in pursuit of his goal.
The maw of the cave loomed over his turned back until he grit his teeth, faced the hand that beckoned, and walked to meet it.
Stepping foot inside, the crystals began to pulse and glow. The air was thick and holy with magic. The essence of everything, the nameless shadows of the truth behind the world, trembled and hummed with the blue clarity of the crystals whose rule extended as far as the far seas, like a sundial glimpsed in a dream or a bird that stirred suddenly in its sleep—reflecting and therefore endlessly duplicating the forces of time, and magic, and destiny, and agony, insofar as those things could be distinguished from one another.
“Merlin,” a familiar voice whispered.
Merlin’s eyes traced with vague and holy dread until they settled upon the ghost of his father, blue and whole as the first time Merlin had seen him. “Father,” he breathed.
“My son,” Balinor said warmly, and took a step forward.
“Are you here? Are you real?” Merlin asked, not daring to hope.
“Dead or alive, real or imagined, past or present—these things are of no consequence. All that matters is that you heed the words of the father who loves you.” Balinor smiled gently. “You have come to the Crystal Cave, as the prophecies spoke of.”
“But I have been here before,” Merlin protested.
“You were not ready, then,” Balinor replied calmly.
“For what?”
“To come into your destiny, as Emrys.”
Merlin’s eyes widened. He took one breath, then another. “Am I not already Emrys?” he asked, attempting to be measured in his panic.
Balinor smiled, and put a ghostly hand on Merlin’s shoulder. Merlin felt the magic, but not the touch. “You are indeed the prophesied Emrys, but you have yet to accept the full breadth of your powers as magic incarnate. Your power is meant to be as limitless as the magic that constructs the world as you know it, and do not know it.”
Merlin blinked. He had always been told he was the most powerful sorcerer to walk the earth, and as of yet had not been proven entirely unworthy of it. Magic came naturally to him, and kept coming, but oftentimes during fights with other sorcerers he found himself wondering if such fights might not be easier if he were really as powerful as others said him to be. He was occasionally exhausted of magic and had to dig, hard, to find more of it. Perhaps those moments of limits on supposedly limitless power were warning signs that he had not yet reached the zenith of his abilities. Damn, damn, damn.
“Father, I—” Merlin started, then cut himself off. His voice was choked momentarily. “I do not know if I want more power. If I can tolerate having much more. If my soul will survive it,” he explained, and felt like a child. That childish part of him cried in relief for having his father there to comfort him, for only the second time in his life, really.
“Merlin, I understand your fear. I would fear the same in your place. But know that you will not lose yourself as you ascend to your position as God of magic. You already are magic incarnate; you, in all your kindness, cleverness, mischief, capability, and love, are magic itself. In accepting your full power, you will only become more of yourself, not less.” Balinor’s smile faded momentarily. “Though allowing the magic of the world to flow through you may cause you to somewhat—float away, perhaps—from your human form, it is my understanding that you were born a human so that human love and earthly ties would always ground you.”
Merlin crouched. “I don’t want to be inhuman. I don’t want to be a God. I’m a person, I—” he cut himself off again and put his face in his hands.
“I know, my son. Look over the crystals. See what future awaits you if you do not. Make your decision then. I will always love you, no matter which you choose.”
Merlin breathed and tried to calm himself, but every inhale only contained the richness of magic. He could feel it gathering in him, a boulder in his stomach growing larger every moment. He uncovered his eyes and looked upon the loving face of his father, whose gaze in return was filled with tears, though Merlin could not tell if they were from pride or grief. He did not think his father knew either.
He stood and approached one of the crystals. Touching it, he no longer felt as if he were looking into the murky surface of a gem, but rather that he could see every image it portended as if through his own eyes. He saw in breathless sequence a bloodied red battlefield; Mordred gutting Arthur, who looked on the face of his protégé with betrayal; himself holding Arthur tenderly to his chest grasping with increasing desperation onto the vestiges of Arthur’s golden soul as it slipped away like sand through his fingers down down through the ground where he was not powerful enough to reach any longer; blinding heavy darkened grief, a pall around his eyes, years and years stacking upon his shoulders until he lived a man possessed by them.
Staggering away from the crystal, he fell into the waiting arms of his father, who lowered him gently to the ground and held him in his magic grasp. Merlin gasped for salvation and vowed never to let such a future come to pass regardless of the price he paid. As Merlin lifted his head from his knees he caught a glimpse of the crystal again, though from this distance all he could see within it was the faint image of Gaius telling him, just a few days ago, only the gods could alter a man’s fate.
“I will do it,” Merlin said, tears drying into tracks on his face.
“You know how,” Balinor whispered, and stood. “Adieu, adieu, adieu. Remember me.” Merlin turned and his father was vanished.
It was true, what he said. Merlin did know how to do it. He closed his eyes and placed both palms on the floor of the cave. He reached for his magic, which jumped at the chance, and began circling through him from head to toe with his blood. It flowed into the ground from his right hand. It plunged deep into the Earth in golden arcs—he thought, distantly, that it reached far enough to catch the dying soul of Arthur as it had fallen in his vision—then came back up and flowed into his left hand, then back through his bloodstream again, until his heart and the Earth’s beat as one. Each time his magic, like a net, brought back more and more power within it. His fingertips tingled and went numb.
For a moment, all was still and silent. Not just in the cave, but in the world. Merlin felt the tension of existence tighten like a bowstring, and the only thing on the face of the planet that quivered was his body, wordless in concentration—focused upon the bow—taut—waiting—until he let the arrow fly.
Arthur sat on the sill of his window and looked out over his kingdom. Papers waited for him on his desk, but the words of the Disir echoed in his head. They told him he had sealed his fate, and the fate of Camelot. His own fate he did not care for so much, though realistically he knew it was important; it was Camelot he feared for. All he had ever wanted since the day he knew he would be king was to help his people, or at the very least not harm them. Had he unwittingly done the very opposite?
A large part of him wanted to do what he had done before and dismiss their warnings as religious babble he did not believe in, but Mordred’s miraculous recovery gave him pause. He could not imagine why the very object of his quest being achieved should unsettle him, except that it had gone against the Disir’s terms. Perhaps that indicated they were indeed speaking mere air rather than substance. The strategist in him warned that it was never wise to underestimate one’s enemy, and that if all was not as it should have been, he did indeed have reason for concern.
In a larger sense, he knew that the Old Religion had some truth to it, in that the proof of its existence had tormented him all his life: magic. These gods must have been gods after all. Therefore their prophecy was likely to hold some truth in it as well. His chest tightened.
Would accepting magic in Camelot truly be as dangerous as he feared? A lingering sense that perhaps he could be wrong in his stance against its legalization plagued him. After all, Arthur’s will to never harm his people was somewhat compromised by his own laws, which mandated pyres. He had not burned any sorcerers in the city without a fair trial since he ascended to the throne, but he knew quite well that the same could not be said throughout the kingdom. Had he been breaking his own vows, again and again and again? The image of a mangled and burnt druid camp flashed in his mind’s eye.
What he did not understand was Merlin’s determination that magic should not be allowed to live free in Camelot. Merlin had assisted him in freeing sorcerers from the dungeons before, and had pushed for clemency in nearly every matter of justice that had ever come before Arthur. Arthur supposed that, rather like himself, Merlin’s witness of all the horrors magic had wrought turned him against its freedom altogether. But Arthur wondered that if he did not persecute sorcerers, if they perhaps would not persecute him or his kingdom in return; at least, not as much.
As he sat and thought in the yellowing light, growing dimmer as the day began to come to a close, he was suddenly struck by a profound silence. The waning light stayed still for a moment; the quiet sounds floating up from the courtyard halted; the wind rattling the panes held its breath, and so did he. He did not even blink.
Then the world exhaled. He felt overcome for a moment with the buzz of warm air in his blood. It was as if life had begun anew. He looked around and then came down from his perch.
Where was Merlin? The man had disappeared while Arthur was training, leaving him to scramble to find a squire who could divest him of his armour—not half as efficiently or amusingly as Merlin did, he thought with some resentment. But Merlin always had a greater sense of awareness of these sorts of strange and worldly things, and could likely offer some sort of explanation for whatever phenomenon had just occurred.
He stalked through the hallways towards Gaius’ chambers. On his way he saw many servants; most acted as normal, but a few seemed to have taken pause in their duties. He saw one maidservant standing by a window, rubbing her hands over her forearms and muttering to herself with eyes closed. Another man had his arm against a wall and was breathing steadily with his head bowed. Arthur furrowed his brow and picked up his pace. Was it a curse of some kind?
He knocked on the door to Gaius’s chambers. After some muted shuffling, Gaius came to the threshold, expression nearly clearing when he saw Arthur, though some phantom of concern remained in the arch of his brow. “Sire,” he said, and stepped to the side.
“Have you seen Merlin?” Arthur asked, walking inside. He did not fail to notice Gaius’ concern rise sharply before he tamped down upon it once more.
“The tavern, I believe, my lord.” Gaius rested a hand, quivering slightly, upon a mound of books on the table. He turned his head, hair falling over the profile of his face, and seemed to inspect some bundles of dried herbs.
“I have need of him,” Arthur said, and could not deny sounding somewhat petulant about it. “But seeing as he is occupied by being utterly useless whenever he ought to be doing his job, I shall ask you instead: did you notice, just now, some… sudden silence? Like everyone in Camelot held their breath at the same time?”
At this Gaius did not, or could not, hide his surprise. “Yes, my lord. I… I cannot say I have ever experienced, or ever heard tell of magic that was capable of such a thing. I doubt if I were to look in my books I might find an explanation for you.” Arthur blinked. He was unused to such guileless talk from Gaius, who always seemed to know the answers for his questions—and if he did not, had an idea of where he could find them.
“I saw servants in the hallways who seemed to be… overcome, rather. It is a curse; do you not agree?”
Gaius shook his head. “It carried no trace of malevolence, sire.”
Arthur cocked his head. “If you did not know what it was, how could you say whether or not it was malevolent?” Gaius appeared troubled for a moment before answering.
“I do not know how to explain it more than you have said. It was as if life itself stopped and started again. If such a phenomena were evil, which I do not truly suspect, I should certainly say it was not targeted at Camelot specifically; perhaps because Camelot is too small a target for how great a power of the Old Religion might be needed to achieve such a feat.”
A pang of fear struck Arthur then. The power of a god might be able to achieve this feat. Was it the beginning of the gods’ judgement upon him? Had he, in his pigheadedness, doomed his people as he had so many years ago when he slayed a unicorn in a foolish, youthful act?
Arthur huffed a measured breath. “Regardless of your suspicions, I would like you to search for an explanation for this… event. When Merlin returns, send him to my chambers, and then have him assist you in your research. He’ll be able to understand what happened.”
He turned and left, feeling distinctly unsatisfied; and more than that, he felt he was being lied to, or at least not being told the whole truth. Gaius’ nerves in answering Arthur’s questions about the silence were only rivaled by his visible concern when discussing Merlin’s whereabouts.
Lost in thought, he did not notice the other figure ascending the stairs as he descended until he bumped into Gwaine quite forcefully. Gwaine reached out a hand on his arm to steady him. “Alright, princess?” he asked with a suave grin, which Arthur cursed in his head with a reluctant fondness.
“Just distinctly lacking a manservant, but I find myself so often without one nowadays it is a wonder I still call Merlin by that title,” he grumbled. “Perhaps you’ve been the one keeping him away from his duties, down at the Rising Sun?”
Gwaine’s smile faded, and he furrowed his brow. “Merlin hasn’t been with me at the tavern. He hardly ever takes me up on my offers, anyway. He told me he was gathering herbs for Gaius when I saw him riding away earlier,” he said.
Arthur frowned. “Gaius told me he thought Merlin was in the tavern.”
Gwaine turned and began descending the stairs. Arthur stared after him confusedly for a moment, then followed behind. He caught up as Gwaine stalked down a hallway. The man explained: “I should have known. Merlin told me he was not going deep into the woods to find the herbs, but if that were true, why would he have gone on horseback? And why was he in such a hurry to leave?” Arthur picked up his pace, catching on to the idea that Gwaine intended to search for Merlin.
“Did you see what he had packed in his saddle?” Arthur asked.
“Nothing. No provisions. He could not have intended to stay out after nightfall,” Gwaine said breathlessly, and matched Arthur’s pace until the both of them were nearly running to the stables.
“We ought to get more of the knights to help with the search,” Arthur said, but then looked up and gauged the light. There was not nearly enough of it to spare on gathering knights from around the castle when just the two of them would certainly be forced to return within a candlemark, after which point searching the woods was fruitless and dangerous. He sighed frustratedly, and Gwaine met his resigned gaze; they would go alone, then.
Arthur raced out on Hengroen, hot on Gwaine’s heels, as they pursued the direction Gwaine recalled Merlin going in. They traced the edge of the woods, Arthur covering one half of the clearing’s rim while Gwaine covered the other. When they reunited neither had found a sign of him. Arthur looked longingly towards the edge of the woods, but the remaining daylight was rapidly slipping away, and neither he nor Gwaine had any provisions or armour.
Gwaine read the look on his face and huffed furiously. “We can’t just leave him out here, Arthur.”
Arthur’s brow twitched, and he shook Hengroen’s reins. “If we stay out, we have no chance of finding him but we put ourselves in as much danger as he may be in, if not worse. If he has not appeared in the morning, we ride at first light, but for the moment we have to trust he is wise enough to look after himself. Who knows, perhaps he has returned already,” Arthur said weakly, but his words were of poor comfort even to himself.
Gwaine’s face was blank. Arthur knew it well enough by now to understand that Gwaine tended to show his emotions on his face when he felt them strongly, but when they were at their strongest they were all but invisible in his visage. “First light,” he growled in reply, then turned and headed back towards Camelot.
As they raced against the setting of the sun, Arthur wondered at the strangeness of the day. Merlin disappearing without a word was not uncommon, but he usually did not do so right after they returned home from a quest. Arthur always figured when Merlin could not be found that he was taking some time (well-earned or not) in the tavern, or perhaps had people to see, but after a long journey there were reliably many tasks to be accomplished that Merlin would never simply shirk. It was particularly unlike Merlin to vanish in the middle of a training session, when he knew he would be needed at its conclusion. Indeed, Merlin always took the stewardship of Arthur’s armour far more seriously than any other task.
Worse, Gaius did not seem to know where Merlin had gone either, and Arthur did not understand why Gaius felt compelled to hide that fact. Arthur also could not forget the feeling of suspension and renewal he and apparently all the world had felt so briefly that evening. For some strange reason he could not separate the two concerns from one another, though he knew them to be unconnected.
“Did you feel that, earlier?” he asked Gwaine, as they trotted through the lower town below the warm glow of the torchlight.
“I did,” Gwaine said quietly, in a tone too serious for his usual disposition. “It felt like waking up.” ✷