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merlin_holidaysTitle: The Cup and the Dagger
Recipient:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
reni_m
Author:piscaria
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Arthur/Merlin
Word Count: 13,977
Warnings: Temporary death of a main character.
Spoilers: Contains spoilers through 3x12
Summary: When Merlin dies defending him, Arthur sets out on a quest to get him back.
Author's Notes: Many thanks to my lovely betas, B. and M. for their timely comments and constructive criticism. Any remaining mistakes are my own. Thanks also to D., for being a sounding board and an all-around source of inspiration, support, and flaming three-headed bears.
Disclaimer: This is a not-for-profit work of fanfiction. The characters and setting belong to Shine and BBC.
By the time Arthur reached Gaius's chambers, Merlin lay limp and feverish in his arms, his breath coming in short, shallow pants. Gaius looked up in alarm as Arthur kicked open the door, his startled expression giving way to worry as he caught sight of Merlin.
"What happened?" Gaius asked, abandoning his quill and scroll and hurrying to Arthur's side.
"Snake bite," Arthur said curtly, laying Merlin out on the bed. "Or something like a snake, anyway. It had two heads, and feathers." Arthur dragged off Merlin's boot, and rolled the hem of his trousers up so that Gaius could see the bite on his calf. He couldn't help drawing in a breath as he did so — the wound had been bad enough in the clearing, angry red, the two fang marks leaking poison. But now, Merlin's entire leg was swollen nearly twice its usual circumference. The skin around the fang marks had turned black, and a mottled grey discolouration was spreading slowly out from the wound.
Gaius gave it one assessing look, then frowned, hurrying to his work bench. Arthur watched numbly as he began pulling down glass vials and bundles of dried herbs. Feeling helpless, and at loose ends, he sat beside Merlin, reaching for his limp hand.
"How long ago?" Gaius asked as he worked.
"An hour," Arthur said. "We were hunting. It came out of the woods. I've never seen anything like it, Gaius. I cut it in half, but it just reattached itself. Then Merlin . . ."
Arthur swallowed, still awed at the golden light that had flooded Merlin's eyes, the power that had infused his voice. Energy had sizzled the air around him while he chanted the words that lit Arthur's sword with blue fire. That Merlin had seemed so strong, so full of life, that Arthur couldn't quite reconcile him to the limp, still boy stretched out on the bench, his swollen tongue peeking out of his mouth, and his pulse so weak that Arthur could barely feel it in his wrist.
Gaius stiffened, and then turned from the workbench, his face carefully guarded. "Merlin?" Gaius repeated, voice cautious.
Arthur drew in a shaky breath, still clinging to Merlin's hand. "He used magic, Gaius."
Gaius blanched, steadying himself on the workbench. "Sire," he started, and Arthur lifted a hand to stall him.
"It's all right," he said. "I'm not my father. And I won't tell him about Merlin."
In the three months since he'd retaken Camelot from Morgana, Arthur had assumed most of the daily responsibilities for running the kingdom. Uther spent most days in bed now, lost in a depression that might have seemed magical in origin, if Arthur hadn't known the cause. As King Regent, Arthur felt sure that he could protect Merlin from his father if it came to that, but he didn't want to put it to the test. Camelot had been through too much in recent months -- a battle of wills between Arthur and his father was the last thing the kingdom needed.
"Thank you, Sire," Gaius breathed, some of the tension leaving his shoulders.
"Merlin's the one who deserves the thanks," Arthur said softly. He looked down at Merlin's fever-flushed face, and his stomach twisted. "I could never have killed it without his help. He cast some kind of spell on my sword. But after . . . " He shuddered, gripping Merlin's hand. "I took its head off, Gaius. Both of its heads. It was dead! I'm sure of it. But when Merlin stepped close to one of them, it flipped around and bit him!"
"Some snakes have the power to bite after death," Gaus said, sounding troubled.
"I sucked on the wound and spat out the poison," Arthur said, his cheeks flushing a little as he remembered the heat of Merlin's skin beneath his lips. Four years of wanting to put his mouth on Merlin, and the first time he managed it, Merlin had lain pale and shaking on the forest floor, whimpering quietly in pain. "I heard once that it helped."
"You did the right thing," Gaius assured him. "If you hadn't drained some of the poison from his system, I fear he'd already be dead." Stepping to the bed, he pressed a poultice into Arthur's hands. "Could I trouble you to apply this to his wound, Sire? I must identify the creature that attacked Merlin if I'm to create an antidote."
Arthur nodded mutely, glad to have something useful to do. Carefully, he pressed the warm herbs to Merlin's wound. Merlin stirred a little, voicing a wordless protest. Arthur squeezed his hand. "You'll be okay," he promised, pressing the herbs a little harder to the wound. "I promise. You'll be okay, Merlin."
From behind him came a mighty crash. Arthur looked over his shoulder to see that Gaius had dropped a thick leather tome. The old man's face had gone as white as parchment, and he was clutching the bookshelf as though he might fall over without it.
"Gaius! What is it?"
Gaius drew in a shuddering breath, and then released it. When he looked up, his eyes glimmered with tears. "The creature that attacked him is called an amphisbaena," he said, his voice trembling a little. "Its bite is fatal. There is no antidote."
Arthur stared at him, uncomprehending. "You're wrong." In response, Gaius bent down and retrieved the book. He crossed to Arthur's side and showed him the illustration of a two-headed feathered snake. Arthur recognized it immediately. "No," he whispered.
Gaius's hand came to rest on his shoulder. "I can make him comfortable," he said. "And wake him up, at least for a little while. We can . . . " He swallowed, and the hand on Arthur's shoulder fell away. "We can say our goodbyes, at least."
Arthur shook his head, and stared down at Merlin's face while Gaius returned to his workbench. Sweat beaded Merlin's forehead, slicking his dark fringe. His body shook with fever. Not two hours ago, he'd been whinging, loudly, about having to carry the doe Arthur had shot. He couldn't be dying. Gaius had to be wrong.
Carrying a small glass vial of ruby red liquid, Gaius knelt beside Arthur. "Tilt his head back," he instructed, and Arthur did as he asked, his fingers gentle on Merlin's jaw. Gaius poured the liquid into Merlin's lips, and Merlin coughed, weakly. Arthur started at the sound, staring down at him anxiously. Gaius's worn fingers touched his wrist.
"Merlin is like a son to me," Gaius said. "Please, give me a moment with him."
Arthur hesitated, loathe to relinquish Merlin's hand and his place at his bedside. But Gaius's eyes were pleading. Giving Merlin's hand a final squeeze, he stood and withdrew, not to the corridor — he didn't think he could handle curious eyes on him, not right now — but to Merlin's room.
Sinking onto the bed, he caught Merlin's pillow, hugging it to his chest. In the room beyond, he heard Gaius's voice, followed by Merlin's, both too quiet for him to make them out clearly. Arthur rested his cheek against the pillow, wondering when things had gone so horribly wrong.
Soft footsteps sounded from the stairs, and Arthur looked up to see Gaius step into the doorway, looking older than he ever had. "He wants to see you, Sire," Gaius said, and Arthur nodded, setting the pillow down. He followed Gaius into the workshop, and saw Merlin looking up at him with glassy eyes.
"Hey," Merlin managed, his voice weak. His cheeks were still bright with fever, and even with the numbing effects of Gaius's salve, his mouth was clenched with pain. But he grinned at Arthur anyway, dimples showing, and Arthur swallowed, overcome with fondness. Merlin was brave, he thought, even in death. So brave.
Arthur swallowed. "Hey." Unsteadily, he crossed the room to perch on the edge of the bed. Gaius, mercifully, stayed behind, giving them space. Arthur felt a pang of gratitude for him.
"You'll have to find someone else to polish your boots now," Merlin said, the words slurring a little. His lashes fluttered down to lie against his cheek like a bruise.
"Not a chance," Arthur said, fighting to keep his voice steady. "You're not getting out of your duties that easily."
A small smile quirked Merlin's lips, and he blinked his eyes open, slowly, as though his eyelids were incredibly heavy. "Arthur," he murmured, lifting a hand to touch Arthur's cheek, weakly. Arthur caught the hand, pressing it there. Merlin gazed up at him fondly. "You know," he whispered. "About the magic. You know, and you don't hate me."
Arthur stared down at him, dumbly. "You . . . you idiot!" he said hoarsely, feeling ready to be sick. "Did you think I'd have you beheaded? You're . . ." He broke off, unable to put into words exactly what Merlin was to him.
Merlin just smiled up at him, his eyes fuzzy and unfocused. "I'm glad you know. If I'm going to die, I want you to know me."
"Nobody is going to die here!" Arthur snapped.
But Merlin just smiled at him, a little fuzzily. "I'm honoured," he whispered, "to have served you. My king . . ."
"No!" Arthur yelled, squeezing Merlin's hand hard enough it must have hurt. "No goodbyes!"
Merlin shuddered, and drew a long gasping breath. Arthur waited, his heart pounding. But no other breath followed.
"Merlin!" Arthur caught him, and shook him. "Merlin, goddamnit! Stop fooling around! Merlin!"
"Sire!" Gaius caught his arm. "That's enough. He's gone."
Arthur whirled on Gaius, but the sight of the old man's tear-streaked face stopped him. His heart gave a great, heaving lurch, and he stumbled to his feet, feeling like he was going to be sick. Leaving Merlin on the bed, he stumbled past Gaius and out the door.
* * *
Gwen caught him on his way out of the sick room. "The guards told me that Merlin was hurt! Is he . . . " she trailed off, apparently reading the answer on his face. "Oh God," she whispered, raising a hand to her mouth. Tears glittered in her eyes, and she steadied herself on the castle wall. "Arthur, I'm so sorry." She reached for him, sniffling, but he touched the back of her wrist apologetically, and backed away.
"I . . . I have to go," he said.
"Arthur?"
"I'm sorry, Gwen, but I can't . . . I have to . . ." And shaking his head, he turned and bolted.
Blood pounded in his ears, and his breath came in short, sharp gasps as he ran through the corridors and up the winding staircases to the tallest tower. His legs ached, and every slap of his foot against the stone floor stung through the leather soles of his boots. Only when he pushed through the door onto the battlements and felt the cold wind on his face did Arthur stagger to a stop. He didn't realize he was crying until he felt the cold wind on the tear tracks. Crunching through the snow atop the tower, Arthur stumbled forward and caught himself on the edge of the railing, staring blindly out at the city below. Snow was falling, gathering in his hair and eyelashes. Without a cloak, he'd be soaked from it soon. Arthur was glad. He wanted the cold. It reminded him of his life before Merlin — a loneliness so numbing that he hadn't even noticed it, until his new manservant warmed his heart to pins and needles.
Arthur closed his eyes, shaking. Calmly, deliberately, he curled his hand into a fist and struck the stone battlement. The pain helped to focus him, and he drew in a deep breath through his nose, releasing it as he struck again. The skin on his knuckles split open with the impact, and he opened his eyes to see a smear of blood across the snow-covered stone.
The sight plucked a string of memories in his mind, and he frowned, reaching for it.
"There's only one thing I don't get," he'd said, sitting on the steps with Merlin after Camelot had been retaken. Merlin had glanced over at him, curiously, and Arthur had explained. "In the dungeons, I thought we were goners. But all of a sudden, the guards we were fighting just disappeared." He'd shrugged, frowning. "Not that I'm complaining, mind you. But still, it would have been nice to know what happened."
Merlin's voice had been curiously flat when he spoke. "Oh," he said. "That was . . . It was Lancelot and me. We were fighting in the room where Morgana stored the Cup of Life. I tripped and knocked it over. When it spilled, all of the soldiers disappeared. Gaius thought that the spell keeping them alive needed their blood in the cup to anchor it."
Arthur had laughed. "I'm glad to know your clumsiness came in handy for once!" he'd said, clapping Merlin on the shoulder.
At the time, Arthur had thought Merlin embarrassed by his role in that story. Looking back, he realized there must have been more to it than that. Had Merlin's magic been responsible for the undead army's disappearance? For that matter, how many other surprising victories had Merlin been responsible for? Squeezing his cut knuckles to feel the pain, Arthur stared over the battlements, wondering how many times Merlin had saved him with magic. He felt suddenly ashamed for underestimating Merlin all these years.
Staring out at the snow-topped roofs and chimneys of the lower town, Arthur thought of the many adventures he'd gone on with Merlin. Each one demanded now to be re-examined with the knowledge of Merlin's magic. Yet among them all, that one memory — he and Merlin on the front steps of Camelot — kept coming back to him, again and again.
He frowned, replaying Merlin's excuse again in his mind. Something about it nagged at him. When he finally realized what it was, hope bubbled up like a fountain in his chest. Turning, nearly slipping on the icy roof, Arthur hurried down the steps towards his father's storerooms.
* * *
"The Cup!" Arthur cried, charging into Gaius's workroom. He waved the Cup of Life in the air, and grinned at Gaius, wanting the old man to realize what it meant. "The Druids saved Leon with the Cup. We can do the same thing to Merlin!"
Gaius blinked up at him from where he was stooped over Merlin's bedside. He'd wrapped Merlin in a white sheet while Arthur was gone — Merlin's skin, always fair, looked waxy against the linen.
"The Cup can be used to heal the dead," Gaius said. His voice was rough from tears, his face splotchy, but as Arthur watched, he squared his shoulders, clearly trying for his usual clinical detachment. "As long as the soul remains in the body."
"See!" Arthur said, clapping Gaius's shoulder. "We can save him!"
Gaius reached for the Cup, and turned it around in his hands. Finally, he sighed. "The power of Life and Death is only wielded by the strongest and mightiest sorcerers," he said. "In our hands, it's nothing more than a cup."
"But you have magic!" Arthur protested. "My father said so."
Gaius sighed. "I can try," he said, sounding dubious. "But we mustn't get our hopes up."
Taking the the pitcher from his worktable, Gaius poured a stream of clear water into the Cup. Arthur watched with bated breath as Gaius waved his hand over, starting to chant. His voice broke midway through, and he sniffed, and started over. Arthur closed his eyes, aching for him, for both of them. Finally, Gaius's eyes flashed gold.
Crossing to the sick bed, Gaius lifted the Cup to Merlin's lips. They both watched anxiously as the water dripped inside Merlin's parted lips. But nothing happened.
"Maybe it takes a few minutes to set in?" Arthur asked.
Gaius passed his hand over his eyes. In a weak voice, he said, "The effect of the Cup is instantaneous." His breath hitched, and he took a moment to compose himself before continuing. "It's as I suspected. I'm not strong enough to wield it."
"Who is then?" Arthur demanded.
Sighing, Gaius said, "In all of Camelot, the only person I know of who's ever used the Cup successfully was Merlin himself."
Arthur's eyebrows lifted, and he looked down at friend's body. Anger was smoldering in his chest — anger for the Merlin he'd lost, and the one he'd never had the chance to know. But he couldn't focus on it. He had to be calm, calculating, as he was in battle.
Forcing his voice to remain steady, he asked, "How long until his soul leaves his body?"
Gaius blinked at the question. "There's some debate on the topic," he said slowly. "But most physicians believe it takes three days."
Arthur nodded, swallowing. "Don't bury him," he said. "Don't burn him. Don't do anything until I get back."
Gaius's eyes narrowed, and he studied Arthur shrewdly. "Where are you going?"
"To the Druids," he said. "If they healed Leon with the Cup, they can use it to heal Merlin."
"The Druids have no reason to trust you," Gaius said. "You'll need a bargaining chip."
"What would you suggest?" Arthur asked, although he suspected he knew the answer. Sure enough, Gaius nodded towards the Cup.
"The Druids are a peaceful people, Sire. They see themselves as guardians of all the old magical artifacts. It would be a tremendous gain for them to get the Cup of Life back."
Arthur looked down at the Cup, imagining his father's wrath when he learned that Arthur had used it as a bargaining chip, and with the Druids no less. Yet Arthur sat on the throne now, not his father. He would gladly face his father's anger and disappointment if it meant that he'd have Merlin back. Before he realized he'd made up his mind, he was nodding. "All right," he said.
Gaius's worn hand closed around his arm. "Thank you, Sire," he breathed. In the dim light of the candle, Arthur could see tears glimmering at the corners of his eyes.
Standing, Arthur helped the old man to his feet. "I'll do what I can, Gaius," he said, suddenly feeling awkward and insufficient. But Gaius was smiling at him, his expression oddly paternal.
"You have amazing courage, Sire," Gaius said. "Perhaps that's why Merlin cared so —"
"Don't," Arthur said, lifting his hand. "Don't talk about him in the past tense. Not yet."
Gaius seemed to shrink in on himself, diminishing with sadness. "I can preserve his body for three days, sire," he said. "But you must be back by sunset. After that . . ."
"I'll be back by then," Arthur promised. "Or I won't be back at all."
* * *
The problem was, Arthur realized as he thundered out of the courtyard twenty minutes later, that he didn't know where to find the Druids. Not exactly. They'd always been a secretive people. They'd had to be, in order to survive his father's reign. Constantly on the move, they'd always managed to stay a half step ahead of Arthur's patrols. Yet the caves where he'd last found them had been in Cenred's kingdom. Cenred had not shared Uther's hatred of magic, nor did his successor. The Druids were safe enough there — they might have decided to remain in place, even after Arthur discovered them. Turning his horse towards the Forest of Ascetir, Arthur decided that the caves were a reasonable place to start. The ride could be done in a day, if he hurried.
He rode for hours, the world passing by in flashes of snow, bare-limbed trees, and, in his mind at least, Merlin. Arthur felt his absence keenly. If he stared straight ahead at the road before him, he could almost pretend that Merlin rode behind -- Merlin in one of his moods, at least. On a normal day, the space between them would be filled with Merlin's voice, whinging about the cold and complaining how unfair Arthur was to drag him into it, when they both knew that if Arthur had set out alone, Merlin would have only followed him. This silence made him imagine the other Merlin, the brooding, pained one who never favoured Arthur with so much a glare, and who wrapped himself in a silence so thick that it was dangerous, because Arthur kept wanting to go to greater and greater lengths to break it. In his mind, Merlin trailed him mournfully, like a wraith. Arthur imagined that he might catch a glimpse of him if he turned around, and so he stared straight ahead, not wanting to see the empty road behind him, with its single set of hoof prints in the snow.
"I'll save you," he said to the Merlin in his mind. "I'll bring you back. Trust me."
The road was remarkably free of bandits, and Arthur felt faintly disappointed. He would have relished a fight to focus his mind, although that made him imagine Merlin rolling his eyes. "Oh yes, the great Arthur Pendragon can take on whole teams of bandits on his own, his imaginary Merlin broke his silence to say. "Why didn't you bring Gwaine or Lancelot along with you? Idiot!" Arthur sighed, and pressed his horse forward, supposing that even bandits must go inside in the cold.
As the purple glow of twilight brightened the horizon, a child appeared in the road before Arthur. So suddenly did she appear that Arthur nearly trampled over her — one moment, the road stretched empty before him, all shadows and mist. The next, a pale-eyed child stood there, less than three strides ahead of him. Starting, Arthur sat deeper in the saddle, lifting the reigns slightly and squeezing in his knees.
Obediently, his mare planted her two fore feet, rocking Arthur forward a bit with her sudden stop. Stroking her neck, Arthur swung off the shadow, and knelt to examine the child.
A little girl stood there, dressed in a patched blue shift and a dove grey mantle that couldn't possibly keep out the winter chill. Arthur guessed she was four, maybe five — she came about to his waist, and her cheeks were still plump with baby fat. Dark curls tangled around her face like a hedgerow. Her eyes were large, and eerily pale, almost milky. Although her chin lifted slightly at Arthur's approach, her gaze remained solidly fixed to the right of him. She was blind, Arthur realized.
Dropping to a crouch before her, he said, "You shouldn't stand in the road like that. It's dangerous."
She reached forward at the sound of his voice, her plump hand seeking his face. In the waning light, Arthur saw the sooty lines of a triskellion tattooed on the back of her wrist. Her fingers lit on his cheek, light as a butterfly. Frowning intently, she mapped the lines of his face. Arthur held still, unnerved, though there was no reason to be.
"I don't trust her," his imaginary Merlin said.
"Shut up, Merlin," Arthur thought, and felt some of his trepidation fade. The child's fingers were cold against his skin. She ought to have some mittens. Her lips were pursed, like she was thinking intently.
Finally, she pulled back, and smiled beatifically. "Arthur?" she asked, in a piping voice.
Arthur nodded, then, realizing she couldn't see the movement. "Yes. I'm Arthur Pendragon."
She reached out again, expectantly. After a moment, he reached out and took her hand, feeling at loose ends. Her tiny fist curled around two of his fingers, and taking a step sideways, she tugged him towards the forest.
"Where are you going?" he asked.
"This way," she said.
They took a few, steps forward, away from the road, the snow crunching up to Arthur's knees and reaching the child's waist. A few steps was all it took for Arthur to have enough. Leaning forward, he scooped her up and deposited her onto the saddle, guiding her flailing hands to the pommel.
"Hold on tight," he said. After a moment's thought, he unfastened his red cloak, and draped it over her shoulders, lifting the hood to cover her curls. Her mouth made a surprised little o, and she lifted a hand to stroke the fur lining.
"Where do you need to go?" Arthur asked, taking the reins. "Do you live near here?"
She leaned over in the saddle so suddenly that Arthur feared she might tumble out of it. But instead, she only rested her hand atop his head, like a benediction. A chill passed through him that had nothing to do with the lightly falling snow.
"I can show you the way," she said.
Swallowing, he swung into the saddle behind her. She lifted a hand, her plump wrist peeking from the voluminous folds of his cloak, and pointed, not the way she'd been tugging him, but north, into the forest. Arthur gave the darkening woods a dubious look, then sighed, and nudged his horse forward.
The journey through the woods was long and slow. With uncanny accuracy, the blind girl pointed out a faint series of deer trails so covered with snow that even Arthur's trained eyes couldn't spot them. Several times, he was obliged to dismount and clear a fallen branch from the horse's path. After awhile, it became easier to walk beside the horse, holding the reigns. His boots and trousers were soaked and half-frozen, he shivered without his cloak, and twice, he nearly fell, tripping over roots hidden beneath the snow.
The child had gone silent in the saddle, only moving to point the twists and turns in the deer trail.
Arthur didn't know how much time had passed before he caught the faint glow of light through the trees, and heard the distant sound of voices. At last, they pushed through a copse of alders into a clearing lit by dancing torchlight. Several tents dotted the ground here, lit from within like glowing flowers. Two young men, obviously sentries, had been playing a game of knucklebones with each other. But as Arthur stumbled into the clearing, leading the horse behind him, they looked up, reaching for their weapons.
"How did you get here?" the tallest one demanded, eyeing Arthur warily.
"The girl," Arthur said, turning to point to her -- but the child was gone. His cloak puddled over the saddle like a pool of blood.
* * *
"The girl's name is Tede," the Druid elder said, handing Arthur a steaming cup of tea. The elder, Iseldir, was the same man who'd taken Mordred when Arthur smuggled him out of Camelot, and the one who'd later given Arthur the Cup of Life.
Arthur sniffed the tea. It smelled faintly medicinal, but when he took a sip, the warmth seemed to spread through his entire body. "Tede?"
Seated beside Arthur, a plump woman in moss-green robes leaned forward conspiratorially. "She's been dead for over twenty years," she said.
"She's dead?" Arthur remembered the touch of her fingers on his face, her dimpled smile. The hair on the back of his neck rose, and it took all of his training to restrain a shiver. "How did she die?" he asked, although he suspected he knew the answer.
Sure enough, a tall man with a bushy red beard glared at him. "Your father had her drowned," he said. "It never made a difference to him whether a magic user was a hardened sorcerer or a blind girl who used the Sight to find her way."
"She's followed us ever since," the plump woman said softly. "Sometimes she appears on the road, and leads strangers away."
"She's led two of your patrols into bogs," the red-haired man said mildly. "You're lucky she was kinder to you."
Iseldir crossed his arms. "Why have you come here, Arthur?" he asked. "Do you want only to threaten more of our children?"
Arthur swallowed. "I . . . I shouldn't have done that last time," he said.
The red-haired man scoffed, and the plump woman glared at him.
"Damned right you shouldn't have," she said. "That was my nephew you held a sword to."
Arthur bowed his head, his chest burning. "I'm sorry," he said. "I needed the Cup. I didn't know what else to do."
"And so you have the Cup," Iseldir said. "Although if the rumours that have reached this far are true, it's brought you more trouble than gain. So again, why have you come here, Arthur Pendragon?"
In response, Arthur reached into his pack and pulled out the Cup. "You've used this before to save one of my knights," he said. "Now I need you to save somebody else. If you do, I'll give it back to you."
The elders gathered around the circle exchanged a series of troubled glances with each other. At last, Iseldir sighed. "We cannot give you the help you seek, Arthur Pendragon."
"You don't understand!" Arthur protested.
"But we do," Iseldir said. "Emrys is dead. We saw the signs of his passing last night."
"A falcon, killed by the snake," an old woman with a long white braid breathed.
Arthur shook his head. "No! I don't know an Emrys. I need help for Merlin. He's my servant! My . . . my friend."
"The man who was with you when you retrieved the Cup," Iseldir said, and Arthur nodded eagerly.
"We know him as Emrys," the plump woman said softly. "His loss grieves us, as it does you. But we can't help."
"No!" Arthur said. "You've got to do something!" Lunging to his feet, he reached for his sword, holding the tip to Iseldir's throat. The plump woman gasped, and the red-headed man started forward, then stopped at Arthur's glare. The old woman shuffled to her feet, and patted Arthur's arm.
"I can tell you cared very deeply about him," she said, her voice sounding patient, almost maternal. Arthur opened his mouth to snap at her, then closed it, feeling frustrated and wrong-footed.
Iseldir sighed. "I only met Emrys once," he said, "when you brought him to the cave. Yet on one point, the prophecies are all clear: he was always your most loyal defender. I can't imagine he would place his faith in a man who would threaten an innocent people."
Anguished, Arthur stared down the length of the sword at him, aching to do something useful, something he knew how to accomplish. Iseldir looked back, unafraid. With a strangled sob, Arthur wrenched down the sword, and caught the back of his chair to keep himself from falling, doubled over, with grief. "I don't understand," he whispered, almost to himself. "You brought Leon back. Why not Merlin?"
"The Cup isn't a toy," the red-haired man said firmly. "Nothing is more vital to the Old Religion than balance. For a life to be saved, a life must be given. That is the way of things."
The old woman nodded. "I offered myself in your knight's place," she said. "But the powers of Life and Death are fickle. They let an old woman live to ache a few months longer, and instead took my granddaughter in childbirth."
"Why did you save him then?" Arthur asked.
Iseldir sighed. "There are many prophecies about the Cup of Life, Arthur Pendragon," he said. "But on one point, all of them are clear: it was fated to end up in your hands. We saved your knight because we knew that you would claim the Cup once you learned of its existence."
"But I can't use it!" Arthur protested. "Not without Merlin."
"Fate sometimes works in mysterious ways," the plump woman said. "His death is an example of that." Arthur stared at her uncomprehending, and she clarified. "Nature needs a balance. Your father has tipped the scales too far in his persecution of magic users. That much death demands retribution. It's a pity that, in return, the greatest sorcerer of our time was called to pay that balance. Yet Emrys has always supported the throne of Camelot. I suppose it's fitting, in a way."
Arthur shook his head. "No," he said. "It can't be that simple. There has to be a way to bring him back!"
"Emrys was no ordinary man," the old woman said. "The price that would be required to bring him back," she trailed off, and Arthur caught a glimpse of fear in her eyes.
He hesitated, torn. When he was prince, he would have offered his own life for Merlin unthinkingly — had offered it, in fact. But now he was acting king. With his father still infirm, and Camelot left without an heir, Arthur had no doubts what would happen if he offered his own life in Merlin's place. Camelot would fall, and his people would pay the price for it. He remained silent, hating himself for it.
The red-headed man was nodding in agreement. "The Destiny that was written for you and Emrys was powerful," he said. "But destiny is cold comfort for those who must suffer for it. We can't help you use the Cup in good conscience. Not even for him."
"You're wrong!" Arthur said. "You . . . you talk about him like he's a legend! But he's not -- I'm not asking for your help to bring back a legend. Merlin is kind, and stupid, and good-hearted, and he died protecting me. Not for destiny, or whatever you call it, but because he was my friend."
"We all must lose those we love someday," Iseldir said, his voice suddenly hard. "Even you." He stood. "You may yet find the help you need, but you won't find it here."
Turning on his heel, Iseldir strode out of the tent, his thin, wool cloak trailing in the air behind him like a spirit. One by one, the other Druids followed, the plump sending a sympathetic glance Arthur's way, the red-headed man glaring at him. The old woman paused at his side, and trailed her hand, sympathetically, through his hair, like a grandmother might. Then she, too, was gone.
Arthur sank to his knees, feeling hollow. He didn't know how long he remained there, grief freezing him in place. Only when the corner of the tent lifted with the barest whisper of sound, did Arthur look up, curiosity slowly rising through his grief.
A youth slipped inside the tent. He was fourteen, maybe fifteen, pale, and skinny. His green tunic was unlaced, revealing a spiral tattoo over his breastbone. He'd grown taller in the years since Arthur had seen him last, and the baby-soft roundness of his cheeks had hollowed. But Arthur recognized the unsettling blue eyes, the pendant he wore around his neck.
"Mordred?"
"Arthur," the young man responded, inclining his head slightly, as though he, too, were royalty, meeting Arthur for a treaty signing or a tournament. He carried himself like a prince, Arthur noticed dully, all certainty and grace. "I heard what happened," Mordred said. "I'm surprised that the elders would not move to help Emrys."
"It's not right!" Arthur exploded. "It's not his time!"
"We don't all think like the elders do," Mordred said, dropping to a crouch beside Arthur. "Some of us are tired of waiting passively while the world falls to pieces around us. The elders fear to act because we are diminished. They don't understand that sometimes we need to fight to preserve ourselves. The world is changing, Arthur."
Arthur stared at him, and licked his lips. "Do you know how to use the Cup of Life?" he asked.
Mordred nodded, a small smile flickering at the corners of his mouth. "I do."
"Will you help me?" Arthur asked, eagerness touching his voice. "I'll give it to you afterwards."
Mordred laughed. "Keep the Cup," he said. "I'm not the one destined to have it."
"What do you want, then?" Arthur asked.
Mordred looked at him sideways. "The earth is reeling beneath your feet, Arthur," he said. "You can't hear her, but she's calling out in pain. We magic users are a part of the earth, you see. Her magic runs in our veins. Every time one of us dies, she feels it, like you would feel the loss of a finger or a toe." He reached out, and ran a hand soothingly over the grass floor of the tent. "So many of us have died, Arthur," he said, his voice growing softer, almost hypnotic. "She is crumpling from the shock of it. She's lost her orbit. The center cannot hold." Mordred looked up, and his eyes sharpened, fixing on Arthur unerringly. "It will take magic to restore the balance," he said. "Powerful magic. The elders are afraid to wield it, but we aren't. We know our duty to the earth, and we'll see it done."
"What kind of magic?" Arthur asked, a sinking feeling in his stomach.
Mordred smiled, licking his lips. "Blood magic," he breathed. "One sacrifice to replace the hundreds of lives that were stripped from her. It sounds fair, doesn't it?"
"Fair?" Arthur spat. "Like the Old Religion is ever fair. Whose blood?"
"A Pendragon carried out this crime," Mordred said. "A Pendragon must be the one to repent it."
"I won't give you my father!" Arthur protested. "Not even for him."
Mordred laughed. "You misunderstand me. Uther's death would not do. He still does not see the error of his ways, even now, when all of the evidence is there before him. No. It must be a willing sacrifice, and a nobler one." His eyes glittered eerily as he looked up at Arthur. "It would have to be you."
Arthur drew in a shaky breath, and released it. "No," he said, rising to his feet.
"You've risked your life for him before," Mordred said, and some dim part of Arthur's mind wondered how he'd known that. "How would this be any different?"
Arthur turned on him, disbelieving. "It's one thing to risk myself for a comrade on the battlefield or on a quest," he said. "I'm the first knight of Camelot. It's my duty to be the best, to be the bravest, to fight for my people as I ask them to fight for the kingdom. Dying in battle that way would be noble. But to leave my people without an heir just so that I can save my friend?" He shook his head. "You can't imagine how it feels to think of facing the future without him," he said, his voice dropping. "But if I took your offer, I would be worse than my father. He acted out of ignorance, and fear, and the genuine belief that magic was dangerous to Camelot. I would be acting only out of selfishness. I won't do it."
Mordred stared up at him with something like hunger on his face. "You are everything the legends said," he whispered. "I didn't see it at first. But you are. What a brilliant sacrifice you'd make, Arthur Pendragon."
"I already told you," Arthur said. "No."
"I understand," Mordred said, nodding. "You need to care for your people. They need a king to repair the damage that your father wrought." His face turned crafty, and he cocked his head to one side. "What if you could do both?" he asked.
Arthur looked at him sharply. "What do you mean?"
"Twenty-three years," Mordred said. "That's how long your father has been murdering my people. What if I could give you another twenty-three?"
Arthur stared at him, uncomprehending. "What?"
"Twenty-three years," Mordred whispered, saying the words like a promise. "Twenty-three years with him by your side. Imagine the kingdom you could have, the deeds you could accomplish together."
"I'd be forty-six," Arthur said. "That's younger than my father."
Mordred shrugged. "Greatness diminishes with age," he said. "And you will be great, Arthur. How would you rather pass? As an old man, doddering away while your kingdom moves forward without you, waiting for you to die and your heir to replace you? Or as a warrior, at the height of your reign, struck dead nobly, on the battlefield by my hand? Old men die forgotten, Arthur. But that death? Stories will be told about it centuries from now."
"You lie," Arthur choked, scrutinizing Mordred's inscrutable face.
"I never lie," Mordred said calmly. He rose to his feet in a fluid motion, and crossed his arms over his chest. "Emrys, too, could have been great. He gave his life for you. Surely he's worth twenty-three years?"
Arthur closed his eyes, wrapping his hand around the Cup. "All right," he agreed.
next
Recipient:
reni_mAuthor:
piscariaRating: NC-17
Pairing: Arthur/Merlin
Word Count: 13,977
Warnings: Temporary death of a main character.
Spoilers: Contains spoilers through 3x12
Summary: When Merlin dies defending him, Arthur sets out on a quest to get him back.
Author's Notes: Many thanks to my lovely betas, B. and M. for their timely comments and constructive criticism. Any remaining mistakes are my own. Thanks also to D., for being a sounding board and an all-around source of inspiration, support, and flaming three-headed bears.
Disclaimer: This is a not-for-profit work of fanfiction. The characters and setting belong to Shine and BBC.
By the time Arthur reached Gaius's chambers, Merlin lay limp and feverish in his arms, his breath coming in short, shallow pants. Gaius looked up in alarm as Arthur kicked open the door, his startled expression giving way to worry as he caught sight of Merlin.
"What happened?" Gaius asked, abandoning his quill and scroll and hurrying to Arthur's side.
"Snake bite," Arthur said curtly, laying Merlin out on the bed. "Or something like a snake, anyway. It had two heads, and feathers." Arthur dragged off Merlin's boot, and rolled the hem of his trousers up so that Gaius could see the bite on his calf. He couldn't help drawing in a breath as he did so — the wound had been bad enough in the clearing, angry red, the two fang marks leaking poison. But now, Merlin's entire leg was swollen nearly twice its usual circumference. The skin around the fang marks had turned black, and a mottled grey discolouration was spreading slowly out from the wound.
Gaius gave it one assessing look, then frowned, hurrying to his work bench. Arthur watched numbly as he began pulling down glass vials and bundles of dried herbs. Feeling helpless, and at loose ends, he sat beside Merlin, reaching for his limp hand.
"How long ago?" Gaius asked as he worked.
"An hour," Arthur said. "We were hunting. It came out of the woods. I've never seen anything like it, Gaius. I cut it in half, but it just reattached itself. Then Merlin . . ."
Arthur swallowed, still awed at the golden light that had flooded Merlin's eyes, the power that had infused his voice. Energy had sizzled the air around him while he chanted the words that lit Arthur's sword with blue fire. That Merlin had seemed so strong, so full of life, that Arthur couldn't quite reconcile him to the limp, still boy stretched out on the bench, his swollen tongue peeking out of his mouth, and his pulse so weak that Arthur could barely feel it in his wrist.
Gaius stiffened, and then turned from the workbench, his face carefully guarded. "Merlin?" Gaius repeated, voice cautious.
Arthur drew in a shaky breath, still clinging to Merlin's hand. "He used magic, Gaius."
Gaius blanched, steadying himself on the workbench. "Sire," he started, and Arthur lifted a hand to stall him.
"It's all right," he said. "I'm not my father. And I won't tell him about Merlin."
In the three months since he'd retaken Camelot from Morgana, Arthur had assumed most of the daily responsibilities for running the kingdom. Uther spent most days in bed now, lost in a depression that might have seemed magical in origin, if Arthur hadn't known the cause. As King Regent, Arthur felt sure that he could protect Merlin from his father if it came to that, but he didn't want to put it to the test. Camelot had been through too much in recent months -- a battle of wills between Arthur and his father was the last thing the kingdom needed.
"Thank you, Sire," Gaius breathed, some of the tension leaving his shoulders.
"Merlin's the one who deserves the thanks," Arthur said softly. He looked down at Merlin's fever-flushed face, and his stomach twisted. "I could never have killed it without his help. He cast some kind of spell on my sword. But after . . . " He shuddered, gripping Merlin's hand. "I took its head off, Gaius. Both of its heads. It was dead! I'm sure of it. But when Merlin stepped close to one of them, it flipped around and bit him!"
"Some snakes have the power to bite after death," Gaus said, sounding troubled.
"I sucked on the wound and spat out the poison," Arthur said, his cheeks flushing a little as he remembered the heat of Merlin's skin beneath his lips. Four years of wanting to put his mouth on Merlin, and the first time he managed it, Merlin had lain pale and shaking on the forest floor, whimpering quietly in pain. "I heard once that it helped."
"You did the right thing," Gaius assured him. "If you hadn't drained some of the poison from his system, I fear he'd already be dead." Stepping to the bed, he pressed a poultice into Arthur's hands. "Could I trouble you to apply this to his wound, Sire? I must identify the creature that attacked Merlin if I'm to create an antidote."
Arthur nodded mutely, glad to have something useful to do. Carefully, he pressed the warm herbs to Merlin's wound. Merlin stirred a little, voicing a wordless protest. Arthur squeezed his hand. "You'll be okay," he promised, pressing the herbs a little harder to the wound. "I promise. You'll be okay, Merlin."
From behind him came a mighty crash. Arthur looked over his shoulder to see that Gaius had dropped a thick leather tome. The old man's face had gone as white as parchment, and he was clutching the bookshelf as though he might fall over without it.
"Gaius! What is it?"
Gaius drew in a shuddering breath, and then released it. When he looked up, his eyes glimmered with tears. "The creature that attacked him is called an amphisbaena," he said, his voice trembling a little. "Its bite is fatal. There is no antidote."
Arthur stared at him, uncomprehending. "You're wrong." In response, Gaius bent down and retrieved the book. He crossed to Arthur's side and showed him the illustration of a two-headed feathered snake. Arthur recognized it immediately. "No," he whispered.
Gaius's hand came to rest on his shoulder. "I can make him comfortable," he said. "And wake him up, at least for a little while. We can . . . " He swallowed, and the hand on Arthur's shoulder fell away. "We can say our goodbyes, at least."
Arthur shook his head, and stared down at Merlin's face while Gaius returned to his workbench. Sweat beaded Merlin's forehead, slicking his dark fringe. His body shook with fever. Not two hours ago, he'd been whinging, loudly, about having to carry the doe Arthur had shot. He couldn't be dying. Gaius had to be wrong.
Carrying a small glass vial of ruby red liquid, Gaius knelt beside Arthur. "Tilt his head back," he instructed, and Arthur did as he asked, his fingers gentle on Merlin's jaw. Gaius poured the liquid into Merlin's lips, and Merlin coughed, weakly. Arthur started at the sound, staring down at him anxiously. Gaius's worn fingers touched his wrist.
"Merlin is like a son to me," Gaius said. "Please, give me a moment with him."
Arthur hesitated, loathe to relinquish Merlin's hand and his place at his bedside. But Gaius's eyes were pleading. Giving Merlin's hand a final squeeze, he stood and withdrew, not to the corridor — he didn't think he could handle curious eyes on him, not right now — but to Merlin's room.
Sinking onto the bed, he caught Merlin's pillow, hugging it to his chest. In the room beyond, he heard Gaius's voice, followed by Merlin's, both too quiet for him to make them out clearly. Arthur rested his cheek against the pillow, wondering when things had gone so horribly wrong.
Soft footsteps sounded from the stairs, and Arthur looked up to see Gaius step into the doorway, looking older than he ever had. "He wants to see you, Sire," Gaius said, and Arthur nodded, setting the pillow down. He followed Gaius into the workshop, and saw Merlin looking up at him with glassy eyes.
"Hey," Merlin managed, his voice weak. His cheeks were still bright with fever, and even with the numbing effects of Gaius's salve, his mouth was clenched with pain. But he grinned at Arthur anyway, dimples showing, and Arthur swallowed, overcome with fondness. Merlin was brave, he thought, even in death. So brave.
Arthur swallowed. "Hey." Unsteadily, he crossed the room to perch on the edge of the bed. Gaius, mercifully, stayed behind, giving them space. Arthur felt a pang of gratitude for him.
"You'll have to find someone else to polish your boots now," Merlin said, the words slurring a little. His lashes fluttered down to lie against his cheek like a bruise.
"Not a chance," Arthur said, fighting to keep his voice steady. "You're not getting out of your duties that easily."
A small smile quirked Merlin's lips, and he blinked his eyes open, slowly, as though his eyelids were incredibly heavy. "Arthur," he murmured, lifting a hand to touch Arthur's cheek, weakly. Arthur caught the hand, pressing it there. Merlin gazed up at him fondly. "You know," he whispered. "About the magic. You know, and you don't hate me."
Arthur stared down at him, dumbly. "You . . . you idiot!" he said hoarsely, feeling ready to be sick. "Did you think I'd have you beheaded? You're . . ." He broke off, unable to put into words exactly what Merlin was to him.
Merlin just smiled up at him, his eyes fuzzy and unfocused. "I'm glad you know. If I'm going to die, I want you to know me."
"Nobody is going to die here!" Arthur snapped.
But Merlin just smiled at him, a little fuzzily. "I'm honoured," he whispered, "to have served you. My king . . ."
"No!" Arthur yelled, squeezing Merlin's hand hard enough it must have hurt. "No goodbyes!"
Merlin shuddered, and drew a long gasping breath. Arthur waited, his heart pounding. But no other breath followed.
"Merlin!" Arthur caught him, and shook him. "Merlin, goddamnit! Stop fooling around! Merlin!"
"Sire!" Gaius caught his arm. "That's enough. He's gone."
Arthur whirled on Gaius, but the sight of the old man's tear-streaked face stopped him. His heart gave a great, heaving lurch, and he stumbled to his feet, feeling like he was going to be sick. Leaving Merlin on the bed, he stumbled past Gaius and out the door.
Gwen caught him on his way out of the sick room. "The guards told me that Merlin was hurt! Is he . . . " she trailed off, apparently reading the answer on his face. "Oh God," she whispered, raising a hand to her mouth. Tears glittered in her eyes, and she steadied herself on the castle wall. "Arthur, I'm so sorry." She reached for him, sniffling, but he touched the back of her wrist apologetically, and backed away.
"I . . . I have to go," he said.
"Arthur?"
"I'm sorry, Gwen, but I can't . . . I have to . . ." And shaking his head, he turned and bolted.
Blood pounded in his ears, and his breath came in short, sharp gasps as he ran through the corridors and up the winding staircases to the tallest tower. His legs ached, and every slap of his foot against the stone floor stung through the leather soles of his boots. Only when he pushed through the door onto the battlements and felt the cold wind on his face did Arthur stagger to a stop. He didn't realize he was crying until he felt the cold wind on the tear tracks. Crunching through the snow atop the tower, Arthur stumbled forward and caught himself on the edge of the railing, staring blindly out at the city below. Snow was falling, gathering in his hair and eyelashes. Without a cloak, he'd be soaked from it soon. Arthur was glad. He wanted the cold. It reminded him of his life before Merlin — a loneliness so numbing that he hadn't even noticed it, until his new manservant warmed his heart to pins and needles.
Arthur closed his eyes, shaking. Calmly, deliberately, he curled his hand into a fist and struck the stone battlement. The pain helped to focus him, and he drew in a deep breath through his nose, releasing it as he struck again. The skin on his knuckles split open with the impact, and he opened his eyes to see a smear of blood across the snow-covered stone.
The sight plucked a string of memories in his mind, and he frowned, reaching for it.
"There's only one thing I don't get," he'd said, sitting on the steps with Merlin after Camelot had been retaken. Merlin had glanced over at him, curiously, and Arthur had explained. "In the dungeons, I thought we were goners. But all of a sudden, the guards we were fighting just disappeared." He'd shrugged, frowning. "Not that I'm complaining, mind you. But still, it would have been nice to know what happened."
Merlin's voice had been curiously flat when he spoke. "Oh," he said. "That was . . . It was Lancelot and me. We were fighting in the room where Morgana stored the Cup of Life. I tripped and knocked it over. When it spilled, all of the soldiers disappeared. Gaius thought that the spell keeping them alive needed their blood in the cup to anchor it."
Arthur had laughed. "I'm glad to know your clumsiness came in handy for once!" he'd said, clapping Merlin on the shoulder.
At the time, Arthur had thought Merlin embarrassed by his role in that story. Looking back, he realized there must have been more to it than that. Had Merlin's magic been responsible for the undead army's disappearance? For that matter, how many other surprising victories had Merlin been responsible for? Squeezing his cut knuckles to feel the pain, Arthur stared over the battlements, wondering how many times Merlin had saved him with magic. He felt suddenly ashamed for underestimating Merlin all these years.
Staring out at the snow-topped roofs and chimneys of the lower town, Arthur thought of the many adventures he'd gone on with Merlin. Each one demanded now to be re-examined with the knowledge of Merlin's magic. Yet among them all, that one memory — he and Merlin on the front steps of Camelot — kept coming back to him, again and again.
He frowned, replaying Merlin's excuse again in his mind. Something about it nagged at him. When he finally realized what it was, hope bubbled up like a fountain in his chest. Turning, nearly slipping on the icy roof, Arthur hurried down the steps towards his father's storerooms.
"The Cup!" Arthur cried, charging into Gaius's workroom. He waved the Cup of Life in the air, and grinned at Gaius, wanting the old man to realize what it meant. "The Druids saved Leon with the Cup. We can do the same thing to Merlin!"
Gaius blinked up at him from where he was stooped over Merlin's bedside. He'd wrapped Merlin in a white sheet while Arthur was gone — Merlin's skin, always fair, looked waxy against the linen.
"The Cup can be used to heal the dead," Gaius said. His voice was rough from tears, his face splotchy, but as Arthur watched, he squared his shoulders, clearly trying for his usual clinical detachment. "As long as the soul remains in the body."
"See!" Arthur said, clapping Gaius's shoulder. "We can save him!"
Gaius reached for the Cup, and turned it around in his hands. Finally, he sighed. "The power of Life and Death is only wielded by the strongest and mightiest sorcerers," he said. "In our hands, it's nothing more than a cup."
"But you have magic!" Arthur protested. "My father said so."
Gaius sighed. "I can try," he said, sounding dubious. "But we mustn't get our hopes up."
Taking the the pitcher from his worktable, Gaius poured a stream of clear water into the Cup. Arthur watched with bated breath as Gaius waved his hand over, starting to chant. His voice broke midway through, and he sniffed, and started over. Arthur closed his eyes, aching for him, for both of them. Finally, Gaius's eyes flashed gold.
Crossing to the sick bed, Gaius lifted the Cup to Merlin's lips. They both watched anxiously as the water dripped inside Merlin's parted lips. But nothing happened.
"Maybe it takes a few minutes to set in?" Arthur asked.
Gaius passed his hand over his eyes. In a weak voice, he said, "The effect of the Cup is instantaneous." His breath hitched, and he took a moment to compose himself before continuing. "It's as I suspected. I'm not strong enough to wield it."
"Who is then?" Arthur demanded.
Sighing, Gaius said, "In all of Camelot, the only person I know of who's ever used the Cup successfully was Merlin himself."
Arthur's eyebrows lifted, and he looked down at friend's body. Anger was smoldering in his chest — anger for the Merlin he'd lost, and the one he'd never had the chance to know. But he couldn't focus on it. He had to be calm, calculating, as he was in battle.
Forcing his voice to remain steady, he asked, "How long until his soul leaves his body?"
Gaius blinked at the question. "There's some debate on the topic," he said slowly. "But most physicians believe it takes three days."
Arthur nodded, swallowing. "Don't bury him," he said. "Don't burn him. Don't do anything until I get back."
Gaius's eyes narrowed, and he studied Arthur shrewdly. "Where are you going?"
"To the Druids," he said. "If they healed Leon with the Cup, they can use it to heal Merlin."
"The Druids have no reason to trust you," Gaius said. "You'll need a bargaining chip."
"What would you suggest?" Arthur asked, although he suspected he knew the answer. Sure enough, Gaius nodded towards the Cup.
"The Druids are a peaceful people, Sire. They see themselves as guardians of all the old magical artifacts. It would be a tremendous gain for them to get the Cup of Life back."
Arthur looked down at the Cup, imagining his father's wrath when he learned that Arthur had used it as a bargaining chip, and with the Druids no less. Yet Arthur sat on the throne now, not his father. He would gladly face his father's anger and disappointment if it meant that he'd have Merlin back. Before he realized he'd made up his mind, he was nodding. "All right," he said.
Gaius's worn hand closed around his arm. "Thank you, Sire," he breathed. In the dim light of the candle, Arthur could see tears glimmering at the corners of his eyes.
Standing, Arthur helped the old man to his feet. "I'll do what I can, Gaius," he said, suddenly feeling awkward and insufficient. But Gaius was smiling at him, his expression oddly paternal.
"You have amazing courage, Sire," Gaius said. "Perhaps that's why Merlin cared so —"
"Don't," Arthur said, lifting his hand. "Don't talk about him in the past tense. Not yet."
Gaius seemed to shrink in on himself, diminishing with sadness. "I can preserve his body for three days, sire," he said. "But you must be back by sunset. After that . . ."
"I'll be back by then," Arthur promised. "Or I won't be back at all."
The problem was, Arthur realized as he thundered out of the courtyard twenty minutes later, that he didn't know where to find the Druids. Not exactly. They'd always been a secretive people. They'd had to be, in order to survive his father's reign. Constantly on the move, they'd always managed to stay a half step ahead of Arthur's patrols. Yet the caves where he'd last found them had been in Cenred's kingdom. Cenred had not shared Uther's hatred of magic, nor did his successor. The Druids were safe enough there — they might have decided to remain in place, even after Arthur discovered them. Turning his horse towards the Forest of Ascetir, Arthur decided that the caves were a reasonable place to start. The ride could be done in a day, if he hurried.
He rode for hours, the world passing by in flashes of snow, bare-limbed trees, and, in his mind at least, Merlin. Arthur felt his absence keenly. If he stared straight ahead at the road before him, he could almost pretend that Merlin rode behind -- Merlin in one of his moods, at least. On a normal day, the space between them would be filled with Merlin's voice, whinging about the cold and complaining how unfair Arthur was to drag him into it, when they both knew that if Arthur had set out alone, Merlin would have only followed him. This silence made him imagine the other Merlin, the brooding, pained one who never favoured Arthur with so much a glare, and who wrapped himself in a silence so thick that it was dangerous, because Arthur kept wanting to go to greater and greater lengths to break it. In his mind, Merlin trailed him mournfully, like a wraith. Arthur imagined that he might catch a glimpse of him if he turned around, and so he stared straight ahead, not wanting to see the empty road behind him, with its single set of hoof prints in the snow.
"I'll save you," he said to the Merlin in his mind. "I'll bring you back. Trust me."
The road was remarkably free of bandits, and Arthur felt faintly disappointed. He would have relished a fight to focus his mind, although that made him imagine Merlin rolling his eyes. "Oh yes, the great Arthur Pendragon can take on whole teams of bandits on his own, his imaginary Merlin broke his silence to say. "Why didn't you bring Gwaine or Lancelot along with you? Idiot!" Arthur sighed, and pressed his horse forward, supposing that even bandits must go inside in the cold.
As the purple glow of twilight brightened the horizon, a child appeared in the road before Arthur. So suddenly did she appear that Arthur nearly trampled over her — one moment, the road stretched empty before him, all shadows and mist. The next, a pale-eyed child stood there, less than three strides ahead of him. Starting, Arthur sat deeper in the saddle, lifting the reigns slightly and squeezing in his knees.
Obediently, his mare planted her two fore feet, rocking Arthur forward a bit with her sudden stop. Stroking her neck, Arthur swung off the shadow, and knelt to examine the child.
A little girl stood there, dressed in a patched blue shift and a dove grey mantle that couldn't possibly keep out the winter chill. Arthur guessed she was four, maybe five — she came about to his waist, and her cheeks were still plump with baby fat. Dark curls tangled around her face like a hedgerow. Her eyes were large, and eerily pale, almost milky. Although her chin lifted slightly at Arthur's approach, her gaze remained solidly fixed to the right of him. She was blind, Arthur realized.
Dropping to a crouch before her, he said, "You shouldn't stand in the road like that. It's dangerous."
She reached forward at the sound of his voice, her plump hand seeking his face. In the waning light, Arthur saw the sooty lines of a triskellion tattooed on the back of her wrist. Her fingers lit on his cheek, light as a butterfly. Frowning intently, she mapped the lines of his face. Arthur held still, unnerved, though there was no reason to be.
"I don't trust her," his imaginary Merlin said.
"Shut up, Merlin," Arthur thought, and felt some of his trepidation fade. The child's fingers were cold against his skin. She ought to have some mittens. Her lips were pursed, like she was thinking intently.
Finally, she pulled back, and smiled beatifically. "Arthur?" she asked, in a piping voice.
Arthur nodded, then, realizing she couldn't see the movement. "Yes. I'm Arthur Pendragon."
She reached out again, expectantly. After a moment, he reached out and took her hand, feeling at loose ends. Her tiny fist curled around two of his fingers, and taking a step sideways, she tugged him towards the forest.
"Where are you going?" he asked.
"This way," she said.
They took a few, steps forward, away from the road, the snow crunching up to Arthur's knees and reaching the child's waist. A few steps was all it took for Arthur to have enough. Leaning forward, he scooped her up and deposited her onto the saddle, guiding her flailing hands to the pommel.
"Hold on tight," he said. After a moment's thought, he unfastened his red cloak, and draped it over her shoulders, lifting the hood to cover her curls. Her mouth made a surprised little o, and she lifted a hand to stroke the fur lining.
"Where do you need to go?" Arthur asked, taking the reins. "Do you live near here?"
She leaned over in the saddle so suddenly that Arthur feared she might tumble out of it. But instead, she only rested her hand atop his head, like a benediction. A chill passed through him that had nothing to do with the lightly falling snow.
"I can show you the way," she said.
Swallowing, he swung into the saddle behind her. She lifted a hand, her plump wrist peeking from the voluminous folds of his cloak, and pointed, not the way she'd been tugging him, but north, into the forest. Arthur gave the darkening woods a dubious look, then sighed, and nudged his horse forward.
The journey through the woods was long and slow. With uncanny accuracy, the blind girl pointed out a faint series of deer trails so covered with snow that even Arthur's trained eyes couldn't spot them. Several times, he was obliged to dismount and clear a fallen branch from the horse's path. After awhile, it became easier to walk beside the horse, holding the reigns. His boots and trousers were soaked and half-frozen, he shivered without his cloak, and twice, he nearly fell, tripping over roots hidden beneath the snow.
The child had gone silent in the saddle, only moving to point the twists and turns in the deer trail.
Arthur didn't know how much time had passed before he caught the faint glow of light through the trees, and heard the distant sound of voices. At last, they pushed through a copse of alders into a clearing lit by dancing torchlight. Several tents dotted the ground here, lit from within like glowing flowers. Two young men, obviously sentries, had been playing a game of knucklebones with each other. But as Arthur stumbled into the clearing, leading the horse behind him, they looked up, reaching for their weapons.
"How did you get here?" the tallest one demanded, eyeing Arthur warily.
"The girl," Arthur said, turning to point to her -- but the child was gone. His cloak puddled over the saddle like a pool of blood.
"The girl's name is Tede," the Druid elder said, handing Arthur a steaming cup of tea. The elder, Iseldir, was the same man who'd taken Mordred when Arthur smuggled him out of Camelot, and the one who'd later given Arthur the Cup of Life.
Arthur sniffed the tea. It smelled faintly medicinal, but when he took a sip, the warmth seemed to spread through his entire body. "Tede?"
Seated beside Arthur, a plump woman in moss-green robes leaned forward conspiratorially. "She's been dead for over twenty years," she said.
"She's dead?" Arthur remembered the touch of her fingers on his face, her dimpled smile. The hair on the back of his neck rose, and it took all of his training to restrain a shiver. "How did she die?" he asked, although he suspected he knew the answer.
Sure enough, a tall man with a bushy red beard glared at him. "Your father had her drowned," he said. "It never made a difference to him whether a magic user was a hardened sorcerer or a blind girl who used the Sight to find her way."
"She's followed us ever since," the plump woman said softly. "Sometimes she appears on the road, and leads strangers away."
"She's led two of your patrols into bogs," the red-haired man said mildly. "You're lucky she was kinder to you."
Iseldir crossed his arms. "Why have you come here, Arthur?" he asked. "Do you want only to threaten more of our children?"
Arthur swallowed. "I . . . I shouldn't have done that last time," he said.
The red-haired man scoffed, and the plump woman glared at him.
"Damned right you shouldn't have," she said. "That was my nephew you held a sword to."
Arthur bowed his head, his chest burning. "I'm sorry," he said. "I needed the Cup. I didn't know what else to do."
"And so you have the Cup," Iseldir said. "Although if the rumours that have reached this far are true, it's brought you more trouble than gain. So again, why have you come here, Arthur Pendragon?"
In response, Arthur reached into his pack and pulled out the Cup. "You've used this before to save one of my knights," he said. "Now I need you to save somebody else. If you do, I'll give it back to you."
The elders gathered around the circle exchanged a series of troubled glances with each other. At last, Iseldir sighed. "We cannot give you the help you seek, Arthur Pendragon."
"You don't understand!" Arthur protested.
"But we do," Iseldir said. "Emrys is dead. We saw the signs of his passing last night."
"A falcon, killed by the snake," an old woman with a long white braid breathed.
Arthur shook his head. "No! I don't know an Emrys. I need help for Merlin. He's my servant! My . . . my friend."
"The man who was with you when you retrieved the Cup," Iseldir said, and Arthur nodded eagerly.
"We know him as Emrys," the plump woman said softly. "His loss grieves us, as it does you. But we can't help."
"No!" Arthur said. "You've got to do something!" Lunging to his feet, he reached for his sword, holding the tip to Iseldir's throat. The plump woman gasped, and the red-headed man started forward, then stopped at Arthur's glare. The old woman shuffled to her feet, and patted Arthur's arm.
"I can tell you cared very deeply about him," she said, her voice sounding patient, almost maternal. Arthur opened his mouth to snap at her, then closed it, feeling frustrated and wrong-footed.
Iseldir sighed. "I only met Emrys once," he said, "when you brought him to the cave. Yet on one point, the prophecies are all clear: he was always your most loyal defender. I can't imagine he would place his faith in a man who would threaten an innocent people."
Anguished, Arthur stared down the length of the sword at him, aching to do something useful, something he knew how to accomplish. Iseldir looked back, unafraid. With a strangled sob, Arthur wrenched down the sword, and caught the back of his chair to keep himself from falling, doubled over, with grief. "I don't understand," he whispered, almost to himself. "You brought Leon back. Why not Merlin?"
"The Cup isn't a toy," the red-haired man said firmly. "Nothing is more vital to the Old Religion than balance. For a life to be saved, a life must be given. That is the way of things."
The old woman nodded. "I offered myself in your knight's place," she said. "But the powers of Life and Death are fickle. They let an old woman live to ache a few months longer, and instead took my granddaughter in childbirth."
"Why did you save him then?" Arthur asked.
Iseldir sighed. "There are many prophecies about the Cup of Life, Arthur Pendragon," he said. "But on one point, all of them are clear: it was fated to end up in your hands. We saved your knight because we knew that you would claim the Cup once you learned of its existence."
"But I can't use it!" Arthur protested. "Not without Merlin."
"Fate sometimes works in mysterious ways," the plump woman said. "His death is an example of that." Arthur stared at her uncomprehending, and she clarified. "Nature needs a balance. Your father has tipped the scales too far in his persecution of magic users. That much death demands retribution. It's a pity that, in return, the greatest sorcerer of our time was called to pay that balance. Yet Emrys has always supported the throne of Camelot. I suppose it's fitting, in a way."
Arthur shook his head. "No," he said. "It can't be that simple. There has to be a way to bring him back!"
"Emrys was no ordinary man," the old woman said. "The price that would be required to bring him back," she trailed off, and Arthur caught a glimpse of fear in her eyes.
He hesitated, torn. When he was prince, he would have offered his own life for Merlin unthinkingly — had offered it, in fact. But now he was acting king. With his father still infirm, and Camelot left without an heir, Arthur had no doubts what would happen if he offered his own life in Merlin's place. Camelot would fall, and his people would pay the price for it. He remained silent, hating himself for it.
The red-headed man was nodding in agreement. "The Destiny that was written for you and Emrys was powerful," he said. "But destiny is cold comfort for those who must suffer for it. We can't help you use the Cup in good conscience. Not even for him."
"You're wrong!" Arthur said. "You . . . you talk about him like he's a legend! But he's not -- I'm not asking for your help to bring back a legend. Merlin is kind, and stupid, and good-hearted, and he died protecting me. Not for destiny, or whatever you call it, but because he was my friend."
"We all must lose those we love someday," Iseldir said, his voice suddenly hard. "Even you." He stood. "You may yet find the help you need, but you won't find it here."
Turning on his heel, Iseldir strode out of the tent, his thin, wool cloak trailing in the air behind him like a spirit. One by one, the other Druids followed, the plump sending a sympathetic glance Arthur's way, the red-headed man glaring at him. The old woman paused at his side, and trailed her hand, sympathetically, through his hair, like a grandmother might. Then she, too, was gone.
Arthur sank to his knees, feeling hollow. He didn't know how long he remained there, grief freezing him in place. Only when the corner of the tent lifted with the barest whisper of sound, did Arthur look up, curiosity slowly rising through his grief.
A youth slipped inside the tent. He was fourteen, maybe fifteen, pale, and skinny. His green tunic was unlaced, revealing a spiral tattoo over his breastbone. He'd grown taller in the years since Arthur had seen him last, and the baby-soft roundness of his cheeks had hollowed. But Arthur recognized the unsettling blue eyes, the pendant he wore around his neck.
"Mordred?"
"Arthur," the young man responded, inclining his head slightly, as though he, too, were royalty, meeting Arthur for a treaty signing or a tournament. He carried himself like a prince, Arthur noticed dully, all certainty and grace. "I heard what happened," Mordred said. "I'm surprised that the elders would not move to help Emrys."
"It's not right!" Arthur exploded. "It's not his time!"
"We don't all think like the elders do," Mordred said, dropping to a crouch beside Arthur. "Some of us are tired of waiting passively while the world falls to pieces around us. The elders fear to act because we are diminished. They don't understand that sometimes we need to fight to preserve ourselves. The world is changing, Arthur."
Arthur stared at him, and licked his lips. "Do you know how to use the Cup of Life?" he asked.
Mordred nodded, a small smile flickering at the corners of his mouth. "I do."
"Will you help me?" Arthur asked, eagerness touching his voice. "I'll give it to you afterwards."
Mordred laughed. "Keep the Cup," he said. "I'm not the one destined to have it."
"What do you want, then?" Arthur asked.
Mordred looked at him sideways. "The earth is reeling beneath your feet, Arthur," he said. "You can't hear her, but she's calling out in pain. We magic users are a part of the earth, you see. Her magic runs in our veins. Every time one of us dies, she feels it, like you would feel the loss of a finger or a toe." He reached out, and ran a hand soothingly over the grass floor of the tent. "So many of us have died, Arthur," he said, his voice growing softer, almost hypnotic. "She is crumpling from the shock of it. She's lost her orbit. The center cannot hold." Mordred looked up, and his eyes sharpened, fixing on Arthur unerringly. "It will take magic to restore the balance," he said. "Powerful magic. The elders are afraid to wield it, but we aren't. We know our duty to the earth, and we'll see it done."
"What kind of magic?" Arthur asked, a sinking feeling in his stomach.
Mordred smiled, licking his lips. "Blood magic," he breathed. "One sacrifice to replace the hundreds of lives that were stripped from her. It sounds fair, doesn't it?"
"Fair?" Arthur spat. "Like the Old Religion is ever fair. Whose blood?"
"A Pendragon carried out this crime," Mordred said. "A Pendragon must be the one to repent it."
"I won't give you my father!" Arthur protested. "Not even for him."
Mordred laughed. "You misunderstand me. Uther's death would not do. He still does not see the error of his ways, even now, when all of the evidence is there before him. No. It must be a willing sacrifice, and a nobler one." His eyes glittered eerily as he looked up at Arthur. "It would have to be you."
Arthur drew in a shaky breath, and released it. "No," he said, rising to his feet.
"You've risked your life for him before," Mordred said, and some dim part of Arthur's mind wondered how he'd known that. "How would this be any different?"
Arthur turned on him, disbelieving. "It's one thing to risk myself for a comrade on the battlefield or on a quest," he said. "I'm the first knight of Camelot. It's my duty to be the best, to be the bravest, to fight for my people as I ask them to fight for the kingdom. Dying in battle that way would be noble. But to leave my people without an heir just so that I can save my friend?" He shook his head. "You can't imagine how it feels to think of facing the future without him," he said, his voice dropping. "But if I took your offer, I would be worse than my father. He acted out of ignorance, and fear, and the genuine belief that magic was dangerous to Camelot. I would be acting only out of selfishness. I won't do it."
Mordred stared up at him with something like hunger on his face. "You are everything the legends said," he whispered. "I didn't see it at first. But you are. What a brilliant sacrifice you'd make, Arthur Pendragon."
"I already told you," Arthur said. "No."
"I understand," Mordred said, nodding. "You need to care for your people. They need a king to repair the damage that your father wrought." His face turned crafty, and he cocked his head to one side. "What if you could do both?" he asked.
Arthur looked at him sharply. "What do you mean?"
"Twenty-three years," Mordred said. "That's how long your father has been murdering my people. What if I could give you another twenty-three?"
Arthur stared at him, uncomprehending. "What?"
"Twenty-three years," Mordred whispered, saying the words like a promise. "Twenty-three years with him by your side. Imagine the kingdom you could have, the deeds you could accomplish together."
"I'd be forty-six," Arthur said. "That's younger than my father."
Mordred shrugged. "Greatness diminishes with age," he said. "And you will be great, Arthur. How would you rather pass? As an old man, doddering away while your kingdom moves forward without you, waiting for you to die and your heir to replace you? Or as a warrior, at the height of your reign, struck dead nobly, on the battlefield by my hand? Old men die forgotten, Arthur. But that death? Stories will be told about it centuries from now."
"You lie," Arthur choked, scrutinizing Mordred's inscrutable face.
"I never lie," Mordred said calmly. He rose to his feet in a fluid motion, and crossed his arms over his chest. "Emrys, too, could have been great. He gave his life for you. Surely he's worth twenty-three years?"
Arthur closed his eyes, wrapping his hand around the Cup. "All right," he agreed.
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