He did not want to leave his comrades on the eve of war - but there he stood, on the threshold of adventure, heart heavy in his chest. Every passing moment seemed more real and alive as the threat of death loomed closer. His eyes picked out new details around the rooms he'd lived in for the past seven years. The mismatched hinges on his bedroom door. The fracture spreading through the floor.
"Are you ready?" asked a kind old voice. Merlin turned to see his uncle giving him a sad, remembering sort of smile.
"Yes," the warlock said quietly, taking one last look around the physician's rooms. He told himself that he would be coming back. Of course he would. By the time he got to Camlann, his magic would be restored. He would have nothing to fear from the battlefield. Even so, there would be something different about this place. Something was, after every great and terrible adventure.
The old man turned the younger one's head, and looked him over with a glint of approval in his eye. "What happened to that young boy who stumbled into my chambers just a few short years ago?" Gaius asked.
Merlin smiled upon his guardian, his teacher, the man most like a father he'd ever known, and answered. "He grew up."
The old physician wrapped his nephew in a tight hug. He was so, so proud of all the boy had done - all the lives he'd saved, and all the lives he'd changed for the better. Tears welled up in his eyes as he stepped out of the embrace.
Merlin's attention slid to the figure waiting patiently near the door. A bittersweet smile replaced the usual smirk. The stars in her eyes shone like beacons, beckoning him closer. "I have something to give you before you leave," Braith spoke softly, and held a giant round Viking shield out to him. It was thing of simple beauty - the whirling grain of the dark wood, the brilliant silver of the stud at its center. The girl gestured for him to hold his arm out, and he stuck out his right. She snorted at his ignorance. "The other one."
"Oh. I knew that," he smiled out of embarrassment. She raised an eyebrow. After strapping the shield to his (left) forearm, she clapped her hands to his shoulders as if to appraise his appearance.
"There. You almost look like a proper Saxon," she smirked, not quite as wide or mischievous as usual. Suddenly, a thought leapt back into Merlin's mind.
"I have something for you too, actually." He fished around for a moment in the pocket of his jacket, and pulled out a gold ring. The young man held it out to his lover, heart skipping a beat as a hope of the future crossed his sights.
Gaius glanced over to see his nephew holding a ring out to his beloved, and in that single instant a thousand thoughts wailed their worry in his head. Marrying the girl? Now?
"Oh! I was worried it was gone forever. Thank you," Braith beamed, slipping the little golden snake back onto her middle finger. The old physician took a second to regain his bearings - so it wasn't a proposal after all. Just a kindness. Phew.
"No problem," Merlin smiled at his lover, unaware of his uncle's mental panic. The warlock stared at the Dane for a moment, and his smile fell at the edges. These little moments were spent trying to forget the bad ones ahead.
War cost so many lives on both sides. So much bloodshed. And that blood, as they both knew, could be anyone's. "I... I guess this is goodbye."
The Viking frowned, and shook her head. Her stars were beginning to drown. "I'd much prefer to say 'see you soon', under the circumstances."
"Right then." The dark-haired servant covered the space between them with a single bounding step, and practically crushed her in an embrace. The young queen didn't care that the squeeze was tighter then a British bodice; she didn't care how small she felt in his arms beneath the giant shield. They just held on, savoring the comfort of another's touch.
Death was knocking at the door - demanding entrance into their fragile little world.
Braith breathed in the scent that lingered on his clothes. She wanted to remember it if, and when her final moments should arrive. The sense was so obvious and familiar, yet it brought in its wake the stark reality of class conflict.
Soap. Old books. Fresh hay. And a little bit of the stables, but - that was forgivable.
"See you soon." The words vibrated through Merlin's throat, just next to her ear. A promise and a prayer. A soft kiss was planted on top of the girl's head. The servant stepped back, and began to leave, with one last nod to Gaius. The Dane stared after the young man, twisting the ring absentmindedly around her finger. She glanced down at it. It was as if she was noticing something which she had long taken for granted.
"My father gave it to me, you know. On my twelfth summer," she said out loud, more to herself than those around her. Merlin turned back, to look up at her with expectant blue-moon eyes. The young woman didn't know what else to say, but the words came of their own accord. "I... I don't think it matters much now, since Beowulf sits in lord Odin's hall, - Valhalla, that is, our heaven - but he gave us his blessing. He saved your life, so he knew I'd have a brighter future."
The young man took a moment to respond. "I'd never thought of it that way before, but... I suppose he did," he said simply, smiling in a polite fashion and starting to leave the castle. A darker thought crossed his mind as he crossed the courtyard.
What ever future lies ahead for you, my presence makes it no brighter.
—-
It was an odd feeling, really: walking through the sweet woods of early spring when so much terror was coursing through the world. But that was only the world of man, not the natural one.
Constantly he had to look over his shoulder. To his wary eyes, shapes were moving between the trunks of the trees. Shadows shifted. Silhouettes slithered. He felt chased. Hunted. Like a mouse scurrying for cover. Even with Gawain on his right and the great shield at his other side, so large his arm swung like a pendulum, he felt feeble. Naked. Powerless.
Rubble knocked underfoot, and Merlin came to a halt. They had reached the Valley of the Fallen Kings. The namesake statues loomed above, their crumbling granite crowns implying an ancient, sacred power. The warlock paled in their lee - he knew this place was a favorite outpost of the Saxons, and getting through was going to be fraught with chance. His fist clenched around the strap of his shield, and in that little strip of leather he found courage. Everyone he loved would perish in Morgana's wrath - unless he could make it to the cave, and regain his magic. He stepped onto a lower ledge, preparing for the climb down to the valley's center.
One foot after another. A skid. A near miss. "Careful!" Gawain shouted. One foot after another.
Merlin risked the short leap to the bottom, landing with a soft thud. The warlock took a deep breath, and began towards the cave. He could see, in his mind's eye, where the cave was - just at the other end of this place. Gray-green moss hung in curtains all about the ravine, and he had to push them aside with his hand to move through. He went on quickly, almost running out of eager relief - so close to the closure.
He threw back a curtain of moss and came nose to nose with another man. Black paint filled in around his fish-gray eyes, sinking them back from a beaklike nose, and flaxen hair was cropped so close to his head it looked like mold. He gripped a fistful of Merlin's tunic, pulling him so near the servant could see the cracks in his attacker's teeth.
A Saxon mercenary.
Merlin crushed his arm around the man, the strong wood of his shield dealing a hit hard enough to knock him breathless. He let go, and the warlock could see two other men behind the first. Their weapons were drawn. One carried a cruelly curved sword, while the other carried an axe. The young man's heart beat fast, and he scolded himself for being so careless. He had only the shield, but in that single object he stacked so much faith. His lover had given it to him, and it was to be his only defense against death.
The mercenary with the battle axe ran forward, ready to bring it down on Merlin's neck. The warlock tore free of the first Saxon's grasp, and fell to his knees behind the great shield, bracing himself for an impact. Thwack. He could feel the axe glance off the shield's iron center. Shoving back against the earth, the young man stood - there was fight in him this time. A wounded creature, caged and battered and backed into a corner. The man with painted eyes came forward as his comrade faltered. He drew a hunting knife from a sheath at his hip, and Merlin remembered the pain inflicted upon him by another of those weapons. A flash of metal came right towards his face, and he barely had an instant to duck behind his protection. It was as though the mercenary was aiming to blind him! Even so, something warm stung the Briton's eyes, and red tinted the edges of his vision. There was a cut left just across the bridge of his nose, and it bled with sluggish malice.
But there was no time to be stunned. The Saxon aimed another quick strike at the warlock's face, this time catching him across the cheek. Again - he got his forehead. The great shield, no matter how strong and useful, was just too heavy for intense, one-on-one combat, at least in Merlin's hands.
"Gawain!" he screamed. But the knight was already in combat with the axe-wielding Saxon, and could not fend off two men in opposite directions.
With nothing but an animal instinct, the fight, the will, the need to survive, the younger man lashed out with his shield arm. It was all he could do. The metal-plated edge of the disk collided with the mercenary's temple, splitting it wide open. His skull rang, and he fell, ruby droplets of blood pattering across Merlin's face.
The magician stood there, in simple relief that it was over. He'd come out triumphant. The bloody Viking shield knocked against his leg, as deceivingly harmless as the servant who carried it. The last mercenary began to back off, fearful of his display. The young man carried a Saxon's shield - and surely that meant he was trained to fight. Retreating footsteps drummed against the earth, faster and faster with the shock. Blood both foreign and his own dripped down the warlock's face, and there was a look in his eyes that one couldn't place. Madness? Melancholy? Resentment? All three - or none?
But he'd frightened the last warrior far away, back from whence he came. Merlin finally realized his body ached for air, and let go of the breath he'd imprisoned in his lungs. They had run because he'd killed their leader, without even a proper weapon. He had killed someone? That easily? It was self defense. It wasn't his fault.
But the man, however evil he seemed... he could have had children. A wife. A lover. Somewhere he had a mother, who would now mourn the loss of a child.
This was the warlock's taste of war.
In the body.
In the mind.
In the soul.
When Merlin fell to his knees beside the other man's form, some might have called it weakness. Some might have called it pity. A knowing few might have called it the strongest, truest thing that could ever be felt: Compassion. This was what set him apart from the woman he was fighting. Morgana was hatred and rage, where he was love, and loyalty.
The warlock cupped his hand just over the Saxon's mouth, hovering just above the mouth. He could feel the ghost of breath rise to meet his fingers. The tension ebbed from the young Briton's body - at least he hadn't killed this man. Not this once. All the death he'd caused was beginning to weigh heavy on his conscience.
"Where to now?" the knight asked from behind him. His opponent had scurried off with only a maimed arm and a bruised ego. Money could only buy so close a loyalty, after all.
The young warlock stood, "It's not far from here. This way."
The Valley of the Fallen Kings was silent once more, as Merlin Emrys continued his pilgrimage to the cave where magic began.
—-
Three riders patrolled the darkling wood, the metal of their hilts and bridles glinting in the waning sun. The leader rode hard, effortless and angry, her chaos of raven hair free from any hood. Foam dripped from her steed's maw, and, restless, it tossed its head when she forced it to a halt. Mordred and Unferth came to a stop just behind her, for a pair of soldiers stood in their path, and by the looks on their faces, they'd wanted to find their leader.
"What do you want?" Morgana demanded, glaring down at the two Saxons.
"My lady. We were patrolling the Valley of The Fallen Kings," said the one who clutched his arm to his chest. "Several of our brothers were attacked by a pair of men. One was a knight, the other a layman. Both Britons, and dark-haired. The knight had a sword, but the layman had no weapons - only a shield like one of ours."
"They've killed a few of our troops, my lady," spoke the one with the curved sword. The rogue witch knew immediately who it was, and locked eyes with Mordred. "Emrys? But why would he leave Arthur now? Even with without his magic, he would still be loyal to his king." The woman bit the inside of her mouth. Something about this didn't make sense, but the thought of Emrys still unnerved her. She knew too well the terror he was prophesied to give her. "Mordred?" she asked with concern upon seeing the boy's bemused expression.
The Druid paused before he spoke. It was just a hunch after all. "There's an old story that my people tell about a cave that lies at the south end of the valley. They say that from its mouth came magic itself. It's only a tale, I've never heard it proved," Mordred said.
"So he's going to retrieve his magic?" Unferth cut in. "I didn't think that was possible."
"The poor little servant is desperate," Morgana pouted in a mocking fashion to soothe her own anxieties. "He's willing to believe anything."
"But what if there is truth in the tale?" the Druid spoke warily. "If he regains his strength and meets us at Camlann... our army might be the one annihilated."
The lady Pendragon took a moment to ponder his words. A flicker of fear danced in her eye, before it was replaced by an spark of emerald malice. She addressed both the soldiers and her fellow riders when she broke the silence with a sneer.
"Stay put. I'll take care of him."
---
"This is the place," Merlin said at last. He and Gawain stood several paces back from the mouth of a path through the end of the valley. At its end, lie the object of his quest - the Crystal Cave. "I can make my own way from here. You needn't come any further."
"Shall I wait here then?" the knight asked, in the same good humor as always.
The young warlock turned to look his old friend in the eye. "The army shouldn't be too far off from the way we came. You should join them. Arthur needs you, Braith needs you - they all do."
"How will you get back to Camelot? The woods are crawling with Saxons."
A wry smile threatened to show itself on Merlin's face. "If I find what I'm looking for, I'll be perfectly safe, I can promise you."
"What is it you're looking for?" The man's voice had become serious.
"I can't tell you that, Gawain, you'll just have to trust me." More secrets it pained him to keep. "Perhaps one day, when this is over, I'll say. But you just have to trust me for now."
The long-haired knight regarded him for a long moment, wondering what could be the reason for such an errand of secrecy, before he nodded. He'd known this young man through countless perils and six long years now. His trust in him was implicit. "Take care of yourself, Merlin." Their arms clapped together in a firm gesture of brotherhood, before he held his sword out to his friend.
"No, you need it for the battle."
"They'll have others. Take it - just in case," he insisted. "And remember to use the pointy end."
Merlin grinned, and accepted his comrade's sword, the weapon sitting heavy in his hand. "Here, take the shield. At least you will have something on your way back."
"Fair enough," he shrugged. It would be educational, if nothing else, to carry a Northerner's war-gear into battle against the Saxons.
As they were each about to disappear beyond the others' sight, Gawain called out to the servant. "Merlin?"
He turned back from the narrow path.
"I hope you find what you're looking for."
—-
Even Gawain's usual antics seemed forced and tired, although the Dane let herself be amused by them as they all took the long road to Camlann. She rode beside Arthur at the front of the winding river of capes - both Danish-cyan and Camelot-crimson. A joint army that was still smaller than their enemy's. They had strength in loyalty. Braith grabbed for her canteen before the long-haired knight could pick-pocket it off her saddle bag. Elyan's sigh was audible over the thudding of hooves, for he rarely appreciated Gawain's little games. Percival however was trying to wring out a smile by turning it into a frown. This endeavor proved useless when the Viking splashed her attacker instead of letting him get his way.
"Listen!" Leon whispered harshly with a sudden look of worry. The others' childish grins faded as the Pendragon king put up a hand. Everyone listened.
And sure enough, not far off and coming fast, were the beats of another rider.
Arthur drew his sword, with his knights and the Dane quickly following suit. Braith's eyes were bright and aware, ready to pick out even the slightest movement in the brush. The king both expected and dreaded the person to be Morgana. He didn't move an inch, and barely so much as breathed.
A light-coated horse burst the edge of the trees across the stream, and bounded through the shallow water. Arthur groaned with relief and the tip of his sword plunged to the earth, along with the others. It was none other than Queen Guinevere, dressed like the old Gwen would be for battle with a fur vest that hugged her sides. She panted along with the horse for a moment, before she looked her husband straight in the eye.
"I'm coming with you."
Arthur was shocked and delighted of course, but worried too. "Guinevere, the battlefield is no place for a-" He was about to say 'lady', but his eyes trailed to Braith for a moment. "-for you."
Apparently Northerners don't count, Braith thought haughtily.
"I can assure you, I won't be joining you there," the Queen of Camelot put to rest his fears. "But I'd much rather spend these coming days at the front with the one I love, than stay home and pray for a man I might never see again."
Arthur, who would probably have fallen into a swoon had he been less concerned with his manhood, leaned over from his saddle to give his wife a kiss. Gwen pecked him back sweetly, and joined the procession of warriors on horseback. All the knights and soldiers smiled to themselves as everyone began to ride once again, thinking of the ones they loved.
The Dane was no exception. Thoughts of Merlin bolted through her mind. Worry for the peril he might be in. Sadness for the distance between them. Hope for him to regain his gifts. Anger towards Morgana for stripping them away. Morgana...
And there it was again - worry.