Fic: Merlin; G/PG; Equilibrium - Chapter 8
Title: Equilibrium (8/9 + Epilogue)
Fandom: Merlin
Rating: G/PG
Wordcount: This part: 4143, Overall ~44000
Pairing/Characters: Merlin, Nimueh, Arthur, Percival (OC), Uther, Gaius,
Disclaimer: I do not own Merlin, nor any of the characters. The version of Arthurian legend this was inspired by/based on belongs to the Beeb.
Warnings: Vague corruption of Arthurian Legend
Spoilers: Up to Excalibur
Author’s Note: Many thanks to wrennette for the beta work and again to everyone reading… almost finished now *sigh* I’m almost sad. My apologies for a badly written fight scene…
Also, this was written before the finale, so… any resemblance to it is purely coincidental.
Summary: In this part: Merlin meets Nimueh and is given a choice. Uther finds out about the situation and Percival and Arthur confront each other.
Previous Chapters: 1| 2| 3| 4| 5| 6| 7
Merlin was nowhere near as good a hunter as Arthur; he would not want to be. The idea of killing animals for sport, not mere need, was as alien to him as magic would be to the Prince. That was probably why it took him so long to realise that he was being watched. And the only reason he did in the end was because he caught sight of the wolf out of the corner of his eye.
He reached out to reassure his horse automatically, but the mare did not seem to have noticed the creature. It was staring right at them from yards away, its gaze unblinking. For some reason Merlin could see its eyes clearly despite the difference, clear, bright blue eyes. He shuddered as they locked with his and he realised that Nimueh was there, waiting for him.
It had not been a foolproof plan by any means, but it was all he had had time to come up with and Arthur was due to be executed… he had to stop the execution.
He took a deep breath as the wolf turned and ran away from him. Gently tugging on the reins, he turned his horse to follow it and proceeded warily along the path it chose.
Nimueh wanted him dead, he reminded himself. She had manipulated him and the whole court of Camelot to get him to drink from the poisoned chalice. She had found Arthur in his attempts to save him and led him to almost plunge to his death in the caves. She wanted him dead and she was ruthless and she was powerful, maybe not as powerful as him, but far more experienced and that was what counted.
His skin prickled uncomfortably, and he knew that she was near. It was her magic he was feeling, amplified in some way.
He slipped off the horse and tied her to a nearby branch loosely. It would not do for her to be involved, he would go as well or better on foot.
As he began to walk, the first snowflakes of the year drifted down through the canopy of the trees and he tugged his arms in close to his sides.
The further he went, the heavier the flurries of snow fell until it felt as though he was walking in a blizzard and his footsteps began to crunch as he walked.
Water soaked through his jacket and his shoes and he cursed under his breath as he continued. Merely watching him freeze to death seemed a little simple for her tastes. Just when he was about to start back, the snow all but stopped and he found himself in the middle of a clearing. A familiar young woman stood opposite him, holding a pouch in her hand dangled above an open flame.
“Merlin,” she said, inclining her head to him slightly. He blinked at the unexpected sign of respect for him. “You came.”
“I did,” he agreed, rubbing at his arms to try and regain some warmth.
“There are no spies of Camelot here,” she said, “I will not be offended if you use magic to warm yourself.” He looked at her suspiciously for a second before muttering the words of that incantation. Slowly the unpleasant feeling of cold wetness left and heat flooded him. “You should not be afraid to utilise your talents for such things. Uther’s law cripples you.”
He chose not to answer; the statement was too close to his own opinion for him to be comfortable discussing it with this woman who he knew to be an enemy.
“You would never renounce the Prince,” she said, and Merlin knew that it was not a question. “I am sorry for that. You have the makings of a truly great sorcerer. I have never seen your like, Merlin, and I have been alive many years.”
“Change Arthur back,” Merlin commanded.
“You have to have something to bargain with Merlin… and I have everything,” she smiled. “But I will give you a choice.”
“A choice?” he asked, unwillingly, but the words spilled out of his mouth despite himself. Any choice that Nimueh had to give him could not be a good one. “That doesn’t sound appealing.”
“The time was you would have fallen over yourself to help me, Merlin,” she said with a small, wicked grin.
“I didn’t know who you were or what you wanted, then,” Merlin replied tightly, forcing himself to take a step closer. The pouch in her hand was the totem; he felt it as certainly as his own heartbeat, and the fact that she was holding it over the flame. That meant that one of the choices would mean that Arthur went free. “What’s the choice?”
“Quite a simple one,” she said with a small toss of her hair. Merlin wondered how he could have ever thought of her as beautiful. Her face was more lined, and there was darkness to her eyes that he had not seen before. It was then that he realised that the spell he had used to see Arthur must also be working on Nimueh. The beauty he had seen before was merely a glamour. He almost laughed at her vanity, but then he saw the Prince’s fate swinging gently over the candle flame and he held his amusement in. “One you’ve made before, in fact… any number of times.”
“What is it, Nimueh?” he asked. She laughed.
“You should learn patience, Merlin. That is one of the key requisites for magic: patience. So many spells depend on timing and frame of mind. You could recite one for days and it will not work until you are almost ready to give up… Patience is essential.” He nodded.
“I don’t have the time for patience,” he pointed out, “so tell me what the choice is.”
“Your life for the life of your Prince,” she said abruptly, finishing toying with him. “If you agree to submit to me then I will let him regain his identity.”
“He might still die…” Merlin protested.
“That is up to Arthur and Uther, not you,” she smiled. “You came here to save him, and I can give you that.”
“But I have to let you kill me?” Merlin asked. She tilted her head to one side.
“Do you think the exchange unreasonable? A life for a life… that is the way the balance of magic works… it will not be the first time someone has died for Arthur, and I can guarantee that it would not be the last.” She paused. “Your time is running out, Merlin. The execution will no doubt be soon. Uther can never suffer a sorcerer under his roof for long.”
“Yes.” Merlin did not even have to think about it before he gave his answer. If that was the choice, the only choice available to him, then he would take it.
“Yes, what?” she asked.
“Yes - my life for his,” he said with a nod of his head, “but I have to know that you kept your word first.”
“A life for a life, I would not alter that.” She nodded. “I have your word?”
“Why do you need it? I’m here - I’m at your mercy,” Merlin pointed out.
“There is more to magic than the balance… and more to surrender than mere words… You promise me your life in return for Arthur’s?”
“I promise it.”
“Your word is binding, Merlin,” she told him.
“My life for his, you have my word.” He said, and as he spoke he could feel his magic rushing through him and he saw Nimueh smile. Her hand dropped lower and the pouch caught light. There was a blinding flash of light as the fire caught it and when Merlin blinked the afterimage from his eyes all that was left were white ashes falling from her hand.
“How do I know that Arthur’s himself again?” he asked. She beckoned him over, stepping to one side to reveal a stone bowl mounted on a plinth.
He crossed over warily and peered down into the bowl. It was full of water and, despite the temperature and the snow all around, the surface remained unfrozen. Nimueh passed a hand over it, muttering under her breath. Merlin opened his mouth to ask her the spell before remembering that it would not do him much good.
On the surface of the water below him images appeared: he could see the guards in their uniforms leading out a prisoner. He wondered for a moment, why he could no longer see Arthur as himself, had the spell worn off or was it some reaction of his magic with Nimueh’s. He did not have time to ask, though as he caught sight of Uther and the Prince - who was not the Prince - on the balcony of the castle, watching. Then, as the prisoner began to climb the steps to the dais on which the executioner stood, he fell to his knees, his face contorted in shock and - perhaps - pain, as did the Prince. Their bodies seemed to glow, a pulsing white light like that of the totem as it was destroyed, spreading out from their centres to the tips of their fingers. Merlin watched impotently, leaning closer to the surface of the water as the guards turned, their swords drawn towards the prisoner and Uther called to them from the balcony that the sorcerer was attacking his son. They stepped closer to Arthur, the real Arthur, the shining tips of their swords darting forwards.
Merlin let out a shaky breath, wanting to call out, feeling despair beginning to take him. There were words on the tip of his tongue, magic words and ordinary words, but he was nothing but a passive observer. In this he had to trust Arthur to protect himself. He had made the choice, but it had all been for nothing, they would kill Arthur before he got a chance to speak.
But none of the guards moved, all motionless in terror before the obvious magic and, before anyone could react, it was Prince Arthur who stood before them, looking slightly shocked, and the prisoner who stood at Uther’s right, looking terrified.
He could not help but smile as Arthur pulled himself upright and graced the guards with his most scathing look.
***
Merlin had done it. The amazement that accompanied that thought as Arthur stood up was quickly overcome by the knowledge that all the guards and knights in the square were pointing their weapons at him. He glanced upward and saw his father staring in confusion and disbelief at Percival, standing where he had thought his son would be.
It took the King less than half a second to demand that the prisoner be taken back into custody and both he and his son be brought into the throne room. Arthur heaved in internal sigh of relief before striding between the lines of guards in the direction of the throne room. There had been a moment of panic where he had thought his father would refuse to be swayed and execute him anyway.
He had his father’s attention, now he only had to prove his identity. In his own body, that should be a lot easier. There was enough time to share a look with Gaius of relief and mutual joy in Merlin’s obvious success. As soon as he had dealt with the situation within the castle, he would ride out to look for him. There was no way he would leave anything to chance with sorcery. If Nimueh got to Merlin before he did - he had no doubt that Merlin would have been unable to overwhelm her on his own - then his manservant was most likely dead.
He caught sight of Morgana looking puzzled and worried in the crowd and inclined his head to her with a smirk. She blinked at the action and her eyes shot to Percival who was standing, flanked by guards, in front of the throne. His smile grew at that, she had finally figured it out.
“Will someone please explain the meaning of this?” Uther demanded and Arthur stepped forward, but he was beaten to it.
“Sorcery, your highness,” Gaius said, stepping towards the king.
“I can see that!” Uther snapped back, sitting back down in his throne. “But who is behind it.”
“If I might, your highness,” Gaius bowed deeply and Uther waved him forward. There was a hushed conversation, which Arthur strained his ears to hear - not that he was eavesdropping. The only word he caught was a name Nimueh and he saw the look on his father’s face as it was spoken. There was pure hatred there, and it was as though all the hate the King had for every magic user was poured together for this one sorceress. He had known that his father knew her, when they stood on the battlements discussing his actions in the cave, but Uther had tried to put him off: to know the heart of one sorcerer is to know them all, and it looked as though she was the one who had started it all.
After a few minutes of discussion, Arthur began to reacclimatise himself to his body. His fingers reacted as he hoped they would, his stance felt comfortable and familiar, unlike when he had stretched Percival’s back out in order to stand straight. On the other side of the hall, Percival stood, also flanked by guards and the way he was fidgeting implied a similar sensation. Arthur almost smiled at that. They were the only two people in the room who knew what it felt like to be someone else. Their eyes met, and the shared knowledge was evident. Percival looked guilty, which he was, Arthur reminded himself. He had refused to step forward and explain what had happened. But, having faced the executioner, with mere moments to spare, Arthur had a little more understanding of the fear that had frozen the man. It was not like a battle or a fight to the death, where you lived by your skill, your luck and everything was up to you. There was none of the heat of pumping adrenaline, nor the rush of coming face to face with death and defying him: it was cold and hopeless. All choice was taken out of your hands and you had to resign yourself to ignominy and disgrace along with the axe. He could see that resignation in Percival’s eyes as they looked at each other, and he wondered if Percival could see the relief in his own.
Their gaze was broken as his father stalked back to his throne, Gaius walking a respectful step behind in a manner Arthur had not yet quite been able to instil in Merlin. As the King sat down he looked between Arthur and Percival carefully, looking them both up and down. Arthur drew himself up as best he could, while Percival forced himself to glare stubbornly at the King.
“I have no choice,” he said, leaning back and resting one elbow on the arm of his throne. Arthur winced, this was not going to be a decision he would enjoy, he could tell from the frown pulling at his father’s forehead. He dropped his gaze to the floor, waiting silently. He could see Percival’s feet shifting nervously to one side. “There is no proof of your identities, and I cannot risk the future of the Kingdom without it. Therefore…” he paused.
“My son is the foremost warrior of Camelot. He is the champion of the tournaments. I see no other choice in this instance than to have this matter settled by combat.” Arthur’s head jerked upwards, his mouth falling open.
He could see Percival’s face, devoid of colour, out of the corner of his eye. The boy had no idea how to use a sword; he had been able to tell that just from walking in his body. His muscles were built from manual labour not training.
“Father… I hardly consider a fight against an untried and untrained peasant an honourable one.” He argued, something in him deciding that, while he had sworn to kill Percival, if he did so, it would not be like this, never like this. This was no better than the execution block; it would be like a cat playing with his meal before he ate it.
“You wish to drop out? Do you fear that you will lose?” Uther asked, ignoring how Arthur had addressed him.
“No, but…”
“Then you will fight.” Uther waved his hand and the matter was concluded. Arthur drew in a deep breath, trying to contain his irritation. He caught Morgana’s eye and noticed how displeased she looked. She glared at him and he knew that she was warning him not to kill Percival. She had always seen through to the heart of things more quickly than anyone else he knew. He did not question her knowledge, just raised one eyebrow almost imperceptibly. Let her take that how she would. Not that he had any intention to kill the man anymore, though he would be well within his right. The boy had been enchanted into the situation and it was as little his fault as it was Arthur’s. Nimueh had caused these problems and it should be Nimueh who paid. And there were more pressing matters on his mind. Merlin was out there somewhere, having solved the main problem, but Arthur did not doubt that he had got himself into trouble in the process. Merlin gravitated to trouble more often than not; his motto appeared to be ‘why do something simply if I can risk my life?’ He hoped the idiot had managed to get out of there without doing something stupid like challenging the sorceress.
He reminded himself that there was no need to worry just yet. There was no way Merlin could have returned to Camelot quite that quickly and even if he was in trouble there was no way out, now. The guards surrounded him on all sides, watching every move he and Percival made. His father stared down at him in judgement. If he ran it would be a sign of guilt and they would kill him there and then. He could not leave Camelot without an heir… not even for a stupid, self-sacrificing manservant who kept inconveniently saving his life.
He looked away from Morgana’s piercing gaze, trying to avoid the accusation in her eyes.
“Yes father,” he said, bowing slightly.
“The challenge will take place immediately,” Uther commanded. “Prepare yourselves.” Arthur bowed again, and Percival followed his example before they were both led out of the room.
***
The armoury seemed smaller with all the guards in it, and if felt strange to watch someone who was not Merlin pulling the heavy chainmail over his head and fastening on his plates and sword belt. He kept one eye on Percival as he waited, watching him go through the same routine, but a lot less smoothly than Arthur did. It was clear to anyone watching which of them was really the Prince. The challenge was nothing more than Uther’s desire for him to prove himself. He raised his chin and set his shoulders firmly, keeping his face as blank as he could.
“Good luck,” Arthur said, not looking directly at Percival as he did so. The other man laughed nervously, shifting round to look at him. The servant dressing him glared as he had to readjust the straps on his armour.
“Make it quick,” he said, simply. Arthur looked at him then and blinked at what he saw. There was none of the petulance he had seen earlier, but a fierce determination to do what had to be done and an acceptance of what was going to happen. “I’d prefer this to what they do to sorcerers.”
“You are no sorcerer,” Arthur said, not mentioning the request.
“No… but that doesn’t really matter now, does it?” Percival asked. They lapsed into silence as Arthur’s sword was pressed into his hand and they were freed from the servants.
Side by side, they faced the door, and Arthur knew that Percival was almost vibrating with fear and adrenaline.
“Keep your strikes focussed, dodge what you can and look at me, not the blade. If you look at the blade you’re reactions will be slower,” he advised under his breath. Percival nodded dumbly, staring at the door in front of them as though it was about to turn into a dragon and breathe fire at him. “Keep your head up…” he whispered again as the door swung open and the guards on either side of it indicated that they should follow them down the corridor.
The halls of the castle seemed longer than ever as Arthur walked solemnly along them. Merlin had still not come back. He had no doubt that his errant manservant would have found him immediately if he had, just to check that everything had gone according to plan, and he was feeling the beginnings of concern.
They finally rounded the last corner and they were outside again, blinking at the sunlight.
It felt right to be back in his armour, to be back in his body in his armour, with a sword at his side. The combat was nothing more than a farce, but there was a part of him revelling in the feeling of being him once more. He wanted to grin as widely as Merlin did when he thought he was being clever or funny but he could not afford to do that. There was too much left to do.
The pair of them were led out into the courtyard - the tournament arena was not set up and from the look of it, the only preparation for the fight had been to clear away the execution block. Uther clearly expected him to kill his opponent.
He shut his eyes as the guards left them and they walked alone to their positions. He had half expected Percival to run when the King had announced the trial by combat, but the young man stood opposite him more firmly than half of his knights had their first time against him. He was reminded briefly of Lancelot, who had managed to overcome him and who he fully intended to instate as a knight proper if he ever returned to Camelot.
But where Lancelot had been in full control of his sword, earnest to prove himself, Percival, although he could see that same edge of determination in his eyes, that he would not dishonour himself, was holding the sword like it was a snake about to bite him. He had clearly barely even seen one before, and never seen one used.
Arthur cast his father, who stood statue-like on the balcony above them, a wary look. The King’s face was impassive and Arthur wanted to ask him what humiliating this man would do, when none of this was even his fault. But he knew he would never ask, and if he did, he would never get an answer.
Morgana was beside him, biting her lip with worry and behind her stood her maid, not looking at the fighters, but scanning the crowds, looking for someone Arthur was certain was not there. But there was no time for other concerns, even an untrained fighter could kill you with one well-aimed blow. He pushed all other thoughts from his mind and concentrated on the farce of a battle to come.
He drew his sword and fell into his attack position automatically, the tip of the blade pointing directly at Percival, his hand firm on the hilt, his body turned to the castle, though his eyes were glued on Percival’s face. His opponent, for that was how he had to think of him, looked at his blade in terror before pausing and switching his attention to Arthur. The Prince smiled slightly at that, and noted how Percival’s hands switched on the sword, so he held it with more confidence, taking his lead from Arthur. He was a quick study.
“Begin,” his father’s voice boomed down from the balcony and Arthur forced himself to move forward.
Percival was unsure on his feet, even in his own body and every swing of his sword was obvious in the move of his shoulders. Arthur winced as he swung wildly at his shoulder, there was no finesse to his movements at all and he managed to block the swing easily. That was how it went for several strikes, Percival swinging and Arthur defending himself, not pushing the offensive. He knew, without looking, that his father was twitching with impatience, longing for him to finish the job, but he could not bring himself to do it.
It took him a few seconds before he knew what he was going to do. Percival, still learning fast, aimed a blow towards Arthur’s neck and, with more control than Arthur had thought he possessed, switched the direction of the blade halfway to instead aim it at the Prince’s stomach. Arthur dodged easily, but he smiled at the action anyway.
He dove into a series of moves designed to disorientate an opponent. Any of his knights could have followed them easily, blocking, until he finished the combination up with a hard blow to Percival’s cheek with his sword hand.
As he had expected, Percival went down, tumbling to the floor. But before Arthur could place the sword against his throat, he had pulled himself back to his feet. His sword was feet away from him, and Arthur could see his eyes darting towards it. His movements were sluggish and ungainly, probably partially due to the unfamiliar chainmail.
Percival made a dash for his weapon, and Arthur followed him, slower than he normally would, waiting until he had the sword firmly in his hand before he attacked again. Percival managed to stop several of the blows, but a couple got through and Arthur marked his cheekbone with a thin slice.
The second time he disarmed him, he lay the tip of the sword against the hollow of Percival’s throat as quickly as he could, bringing the blade round in a blur of silver that his opponent clearly thought would kill him, but paused a hair’s breadth away from his skin.
“My son,” Uther’s voice called down. “The sorcerer is yours to kill.” Arthur drew his sword back, almost as if he were about to strike, before tossing it away.
“He’s not a sorcerer, Father,” he said, projecting his voice so it rang around the courtyard. “And I will not kill a man who is without defence.”
His eyes locked on his father’s and he could see the rage in them. Beside him he could hear Percival’s mutterings of disbelief. “He is as much a victim of this as I was, and I will not have his blood on my hands.” Morgana was smiling at him, but he had no time to glance at her. Gaius was hurrying towards them both, his physician’s case in his hands and a worried look on his face.
“Has Merlin returned?” Arthur asked as soon as the Court Physician was within hearing distance. Gaius shook his head, looking at Percival curiously. “It’s good to see you’re back to yourself again, though, sire.” The older man muttered as guards came forwards to seize Percival from both sides.
“I don’t want to die like this…” the young man muttered as he looked at the Prince. Arthur nodded.
“I know,” he looked at the guards. “I’ll talk to my father when I’ve brought Merlin back.”
“I hope he’s okay,” Percival said, with a sad smile. Then the guards pulled him away.
Arthur slid his sword back into his scabbard and set off for the stables, ignoring the fact that his father was no doubt on his way to have a serious discussion about the treatment of sorcerers at that very minute.
“I’ll bring him back,” he told Gaius, who had fallen into step beside him.
“Yes, sire,” the man said, but he did not sound convinced. They reached the door of the stable and Gaius paused. “Nimueh is very powerful, sire…”
“She won’t kill me, Gaius,” Arthur said with complete certainty. Merlin though, he was not too sure about.
***
On to Chapter 9
-
Fandom: Merlin
Rating: G/PG
Wordcount: This part: 4143, Overall ~44000
Pairing/Characters: Merlin, Nimueh, Arthur, Percival (OC), Uther, Gaius,
Disclaimer: I do not own Merlin, nor any of the characters. The version of Arthurian legend this was inspired by/based on belongs to the Beeb.
Warnings: Vague corruption of Arthurian Legend
Spoilers: Up to Excalibur
Author’s Note: Many thanks to wrennette for the beta work and again to everyone reading… almost finished now *sigh* I’m almost sad. My apologies for a badly written fight scene…
Also, this was written before the finale, so… any resemblance to it is purely coincidental.
Summary: In this part: Merlin meets Nimueh and is given a choice. Uther finds out about the situation and Percival and Arthur confront each other.
Previous Chapters: 1| 2| 3| 4| 5| 6| 7
Merlin was nowhere near as good a hunter as Arthur; he would not want to be. The idea of killing animals for sport, not mere need, was as alien to him as magic would be to the Prince. That was probably why it took him so long to realise that he was being watched. And the only reason he did in the end was because he caught sight of the wolf out of the corner of his eye.
He reached out to reassure his horse automatically, but the mare did not seem to have noticed the creature. It was staring right at them from yards away, its gaze unblinking. For some reason Merlin could see its eyes clearly despite the difference, clear, bright blue eyes. He shuddered as they locked with his and he realised that Nimueh was there, waiting for him.
It had not been a foolproof plan by any means, but it was all he had had time to come up with and Arthur was due to be executed… he had to stop the execution.
He took a deep breath as the wolf turned and ran away from him. Gently tugging on the reins, he turned his horse to follow it and proceeded warily along the path it chose.
Nimueh wanted him dead, he reminded himself. She had manipulated him and the whole court of Camelot to get him to drink from the poisoned chalice. She had found Arthur in his attempts to save him and led him to almost plunge to his death in the caves. She wanted him dead and she was ruthless and she was powerful, maybe not as powerful as him, but far more experienced and that was what counted.
His skin prickled uncomfortably, and he knew that she was near. It was her magic he was feeling, amplified in some way.
He slipped off the horse and tied her to a nearby branch loosely. It would not do for her to be involved, he would go as well or better on foot.
As he began to walk, the first snowflakes of the year drifted down through the canopy of the trees and he tugged his arms in close to his sides.
The further he went, the heavier the flurries of snow fell until it felt as though he was walking in a blizzard and his footsteps began to crunch as he walked.
Water soaked through his jacket and his shoes and he cursed under his breath as he continued. Merely watching him freeze to death seemed a little simple for her tastes. Just when he was about to start back, the snow all but stopped and he found himself in the middle of a clearing. A familiar young woman stood opposite him, holding a pouch in her hand dangled above an open flame.
“Merlin,” she said, inclining her head to him slightly. He blinked at the unexpected sign of respect for him. “You came.”
“I did,” he agreed, rubbing at his arms to try and regain some warmth.
“There are no spies of Camelot here,” she said, “I will not be offended if you use magic to warm yourself.” He looked at her suspiciously for a second before muttering the words of that incantation. Slowly the unpleasant feeling of cold wetness left and heat flooded him. “You should not be afraid to utilise your talents for such things. Uther’s law cripples you.”
He chose not to answer; the statement was too close to his own opinion for him to be comfortable discussing it with this woman who he knew to be an enemy.
“You would never renounce the Prince,” she said, and Merlin knew that it was not a question. “I am sorry for that. You have the makings of a truly great sorcerer. I have never seen your like, Merlin, and I have been alive many years.”
“Change Arthur back,” Merlin commanded.
“You have to have something to bargain with Merlin… and I have everything,” she smiled. “But I will give you a choice.”
“A choice?” he asked, unwillingly, but the words spilled out of his mouth despite himself. Any choice that Nimueh had to give him could not be a good one. “That doesn’t sound appealing.”
“The time was you would have fallen over yourself to help me, Merlin,” she said with a small, wicked grin.
“I didn’t know who you were or what you wanted, then,” Merlin replied tightly, forcing himself to take a step closer. The pouch in her hand was the totem; he felt it as certainly as his own heartbeat, and the fact that she was holding it over the flame. That meant that one of the choices would mean that Arthur went free. “What’s the choice?”
“Quite a simple one,” she said with a small toss of her hair. Merlin wondered how he could have ever thought of her as beautiful. Her face was more lined, and there was darkness to her eyes that he had not seen before. It was then that he realised that the spell he had used to see Arthur must also be working on Nimueh. The beauty he had seen before was merely a glamour. He almost laughed at her vanity, but then he saw the Prince’s fate swinging gently over the candle flame and he held his amusement in. “One you’ve made before, in fact… any number of times.”
“What is it, Nimueh?” he asked. She laughed.
“You should learn patience, Merlin. That is one of the key requisites for magic: patience. So many spells depend on timing and frame of mind. You could recite one for days and it will not work until you are almost ready to give up… Patience is essential.” He nodded.
“I don’t have the time for patience,” he pointed out, “so tell me what the choice is.”
“Your life for the life of your Prince,” she said abruptly, finishing toying with him. “If you agree to submit to me then I will let him regain his identity.”
“He might still die…” Merlin protested.
“That is up to Arthur and Uther, not you,” she smiled. “You came here to save him, and I can give you that.”
“But I have to let you kill me?” Merlin asked. She tilted her head to one side.
“Do you think the exchange unreasonable? A life for a life… that is the way the balance of magic works… it will not be the first time someone has died for Arthur, and I can guarantee that it would not be the last.” She paused. “Your time is running out, Merlin. The execution will no doubt be soon. Uther can never suffer a sorcerer under his roof for long.”
“Yes.” Merlin did not even have to think about it before he gave his answer. If that was the choice, the only choice available to him, then he would take it.
“Yes, what?” she asked.
“Yes - my life for his,” he said with a nod of his head, “but I have to know that you kept your word first.”
“A life for a life, I would not alter that.” She nodded. “I have your word?”
“Why do you need it? I’m here - I’m at your mercy,” Merlin pointed out.
“There is more to magic than the balance… and more to surrender than mere words… You promise me your life in return for Arthur’s?”
“I promise it.”
“Your word is binding, Merlin,” she told him.
“My life for his, you have my word.” He said, and as he spoke he could feel his magic rushing through him and he saw Nimueh smile. Her hand dropped lower and the pouch caught light. There was a blinding flash of light as the fire caught it and when Merlin blinked the afterimage from his eyes all that was left were white ashes falling from her hand.
“How do I know that Arthur’s himself again?” he asked. She beckoned him over, stepping to one side to reveal a stone bowl mounted on a plinth.
He crossed over warily and peered down into the bowl. It was full of water and, despite the temperature and the snow all around, the surface remained unfrozen. Nimueh passed a hand over it, muttering under her breath. Merlin opened his mouth to ask her the spell before remembering that it would not do him much good.
On the surface of the water below him images appeared: he could see the guards in their uniforms leading out a prisoner. He wondered for a moment, why he could no longer see Arthur as himself, had the spell worn off or was it some reaction of his magic with Nimueh’s. He did not have time to ask, though as he caught sight of Uther and the Prince - who was not the Prince - on the balcony of the castle, watching. Then, as the prisoner began to climb the steps to the dais on which the executioner stood, he fell to his knees, his face contorted in shock and - perhaps - pain, as did the Prince. Their bodies seemed to glow, a pulsing white light like that of the totem as it was destroyed, spreading out from their centres to the tips of their fingers. Merlin watched impotently, leaning closer to the surface of the water as the guards turned, their swords drawn towards the prisoner and Uther called to them from the balcony that the sorcerer was attacking his son. They stepped closer to Arthur, the real Arthur, the shining tips of their swords darting forwards.
Merlin let out a shaky breath, wanting to call out, feeling despair beginning to take him. There were words on the tip of his tongue, magic words and ordinary words, but he was nothing but a passive observer. In this he had to trust Arthur to protect himself. He had made the choice, but it had all been for nothing, they would kill Arthur before he got a chance to speak.
But none of the guards moved, all motionless in terror before the obvious magic and, before anyone could react, it was Prince Arthur who stood before them, looking slightly shocked, and the prisoner who stood at Uther’s right, looking terrified.
He could not help but smile as Arthur pulled himself upright and graced the guards with his most scathing look.
***
Merlin had done it. The amazement that accompanied that thought as Arthur stood up was quickly overcome by the knowledge that all the guards and knights in the square were pointing their weapons at him. He glanced upward and saw his father staring in confusion and disbelief at Percival, standing where he had thought his son would be.
It took the King less than half a second to demand that the prisoner be taken back into custody and both he and his son be brought into the throne room. Arthur heaved in internal sigh of relief before striding between the lines of guards in the direction of the throne room. There had been a moment of panic where he had thought his father would refuse to be swayed and execute him anyway.
He had his father’s attention, now he only had to prove his identity. In his own body, that should be a lot easier. There was enough time to share a look with Gaius of relief and mutual joy in Merlin’s obvious success. As soon as he had dealt with the situation within the castle, he would ride out to look for him. There was no way he would leave anything to chance with sorcery. If Nimueh got to Merlin before he did - he had no doubt that Merlin would have been unable to overwhelm her on his own - then his manservant was most likely dead.
He caught sight of Morgana looking puzzled and worried in the crowd and inclined his head to her with a smirk. She blinked at the action and her eyes shot to Percival who was standing, flanked by guards, in front of the throne. His smile grew at that, she had finally figured it out.
“Will someone please explain the meaning of this?” Uther demanded and Arthur stepped forward, but he was beaten to it.
“Sorcery, your highness,” Gaius said, stepping towards the king.
“I can see that!” Uther snapped back, sitting back down in his throne. “But who is behind it.”
“If I might, your highness,” Gaius bowed deeply and Uther waved him forward. There was a hushed conversation, which Arthur strained his ears to hear - not that he was eavesdropping. The only word he caught was a name Nimueh and he saw the look on his father’s face as it was spoken. There was pure hatred there, and it was as though all the hate the King had for every magic user was poured together for this one sorceress. He had known that his father knew her, when they stood on the battlements discussing his actions in the cave, but Uther had tried to put him off: to know the heart of one sorcerer is to know them all, and it looked as though she was the one who had started it all.
After a few minutes of discussion, Arthur began to reacclimatise himself to his body. His fingers reacted as he hoped they would, his stance felt comfortable and familiar, unlike when he had stretched Percival’s back out in order to stand straight. On the other side of the hall, Percival stood, also flanked by guards and the way he was fidgeting implied a similar sensation. Arthur almost smiled at that. They were the only two people in the room who knew what it felt like to be someone else. Their eyes met, and the shared knowledge was evident. Percival looked guilty, which he was, Arthur reminded himself. He had refused to step forward and explain what had happened. But, having faced the executioner, with mere moments to spare, Arthur had a little more understanding of the fear that had frozen the man. It was not like a battle or a fight to the death, where you lived by your skill, your luck and everything was up to you. There was none of the heat of pumping adrenaline, nor the rush of coming face to face with death and defying him: it was cold and hopeless. All choice was taken out of your hands and you had to resign yourself to ignominy and disgrace along with the axe. He could see that resignation in Percival’s eyes as they looked at each other, and he wondered if Percival could see the relief in his own.
Their gaze was broken as his father stalked back to his throne, Gaius walking a respectful step behind in a manner Arthur had not yet quite been able to instil in Merlin. As the King sat down he looked between Arthur and Percival carefully, looking them both up and down. Arthur drew himself up as best he could, while Percival forced himself to glare stubbornly at the King.
“I have no choice,” he said, leaning back and resting one elbow on the arm of his throne. Arthur winced, this was not going to be a decision he would enjoy, he could tell from the frown pulling at his father’s forehead. He dropped his gaze to the floor, waiting silently. He could see Percival’s feet shifting nervously to one side. “There is no proof of your identities, and I cannot risk the future of the Kingdom without it. Therefore…” he paused.
“My son is the foremost warrior of Camelot. He is the champion of the tournaments. I see no other choice in this instance than to have this matter settled by combat.” Arthur’s head jerked upwards, his mouth falling open.
He could see Percival’s face, devoid of colour, out of the corner of his eye. The boy had no idea how to use a sword; he had been able to tell that just from walking in his body. His muscles were built from manual labour not training.
“Father… I hardly consider a fight against an untried and untrained peasant an honourable one.” He argued, something in him deciding that, while he had sworn to kill Percival, if he did so, it would not be like this, never like this. This was no better than the execution block; it would be like a cat playing with his meal before he ate it.
“You wish to drop out? Do you fear that you will lose?” Uther asked, ignoring how Arthur had addressed him.
“No, but…”
“Then you will fight.” Uther waved his hand and the matter was concluded. Arthur drew in a deep breath, trying to contain his irritation. He caught Morgana’s eye and noticed how displeased she looked. She glared at him and he knew that she was warning him not to kill Percival. She had always seen through to the heart of things more quickly than anyone else he knew. He did not question her knowledge, just raised one eyebrow almost imperceptibly. Let her take that how she would. Not that he had any intention to kill the man anymore, though he would be well within his right. The boy had been enchanted into the situation and it was as little his fault as it was Arthur’s. Nimueh had caused these problems and it should be Nimueh who paid. And there were more pressing matters on his mind. Merlin was out there somewhere, having solved the main problem, but Arthur did not doubt that he had got himself into trouble in the process. Merlin gravitated to trouble more often than not; his motto appeared to be ‘why do something simply if I can risk my life?’ He hoped the idiot had managed to get out of there without doing something stupid like challenging the sorceress.
He reminded himself that there was no need to worry just yet. There was no way Merlin could have returned to Camelot quite that quickly and even if he was in trouble there was no way out, now. The guards surrounded him on all sides, watching every move he and Percival made. His father stared down at him in judgement. If he ran it would be a sign of guilt and they would kill him there and then. He could not leave Camelot without an heir… not even for a stupid, self-sacrificing manservant who kept inconveniently saving his life.
He looked away from Morgana’s piercing gaze, trying to avoid the accusation in her eyes.
“Yes father,” he said, bowing slightly.
“The challenge will take place immediately,” Uther commanded. “Prepare yourselves.” Arthur bowed again, and Percival followed his example before they were both led out of the room.
***
The armoury seemed smaller with all the guards in it, and if felt strange to watch someone who was not Merlin pulling the heavy chainmail over his head and fastening on his plates and sword belt. He kept one eye on Percival as he waited, watching him go through the same routine, but a lot less smoothly than Arthur did. It was clear to anyone watching which of them was really the Prince. The challenge was nothing more than Uther’s desire for him to prove himself. He raised his chin and set his shoulders firmly, keeping his face as blank as he could.
“Good luck,” Arthur said, not looking directly at Percival as he did so. The other man laughed nervously, shifting round to look at him. The servant dressing him glared as he had to readjust the straps on his armour.
“Make it quick,” he said, simply. Arthur looked at him then and blinked at what he saw. There was none of the petulance he had seen earlier, but a fierce determination to do what had to be done and an acceptance of what was going to happen. “I’d prefer this to what they do to sorcerers.”
“You are no sorcerer,” Arthur said, not mentioning the request.
“No… but that doesn’t really matter now, does it?” Percival asked. They lapsed into silence as Arthur’s sword was pressed into his hand and they were freed from the servants.
Side by side, they faced the door, and Arthur knew that Percival was almost vibrating with fear and adrenaline.
“Keep your strikes focussed, dodge what you can and look at me, not the blade. If you look at the blade you’re reactions will be slower,” he advised under his breath. Percival nodded dumbly, staring at the door in front of them as though it was about to turn into a dragon and breathe fire at him. “Keep your head up…” he whispered again as the door swung open and the guards on either side of it indicated that they should follow them down the corridor.
The halls of the castle seemed longer than ever as Arthur walked solemnly along them. Merlin had still not come back. He had no doubt that his errant manservant would have found him immediately if he had, just to check that everything had gone according to plan, and he was feeling the beginnings of concern.
They finally rounded the last corner and they were outside again, blinking at the sunlight.
It felt right to be back in his armour, to be back in his body in his armour, with a sword at his side. The combat was nothing more than a farce, but there was a part of him revelling in the feeling of being him once more. He wanted to grin as widely as Merlin did when he thought he was being clever or funny but he could not afford to do that. There was too much left to do.
The pair of them were led out into the courtyard - the tournament arena was not set up and from the look of it, the only preparation for the fight had been to clear away the execution block. Uther clearly expected him to kill his opponent.
He shut his eyes as the guards left them and they walked alone to their positions. He had half expected Percival to run when the King had announced the trial by combat, but the young man stood opposite him more firmly than half of his knights had their first time against him. He was reminded briefly of Lancelot, who had managed to overcome him and who he fully intended to instate as a knight proper if he ever returned to Camelot.
But where Lancelot had been in full control of his sword, earnest to prove himself, Percival, although he could see that same edge of determination in his eyes, that he would not dishonour himself, was holding the sword like it was a snake about to bite him. He had clearly barely even seen one before, and never seen one used.
Arthur cast his father, who stood statue-like on the balcony above them, a wary look. The King’s face was impassive and Arthur wanted to ask him what humiliating this man would do, when none of this was even his fault. But he knew he would never ask, and if he did, he would never get an answer.
Morgana was beside him, biting her lip with worry and behind her stood her maid, not looking at the fighters, but scanning the crowds, looking for someone Arthur was certain was not there. But there was no time for other concerns, even an untrained fighter could kill you with one well-aimed blow. He pushed all other thoughts from his mind and concentrated on the farce of a battle to come.
He drew his sword and fell into his attack position automatically, the tip of the blade pointing directly at Percival, his hand firm on the hilt, his body turned to the castle, though his eyes were glued on Percival’s face. His opponent, for that was how he had to think of him, looked at his blade in terror before pausing and switching his attention to Arthur. The Prince smiled slightly at that, and noted how Percival’s hands switched on the sword, so he held it with more confidence, taking his lead from Arthur. He was a quick study.
“Begin,” his father’s voice boomed down from the balcony and Arthur forced himself to move forward.
Percival was unsure on his feet, even in his own body and every swing of his sword was obvious in the move of his shoulders. Arthur winced as he swung wildly at his shoulder, there was no finesse to his movements at all and he managed to block the swing easily. That was how it went for several strikes, Percival swinging and Arthur defending himself, not pushing the offensive. He knew, without looking, that his father was twitching with impatience, longing for him to finish the job, but he could not bring himself to do it.
It took him a few seconds before he knew what he was going to do. Percival, still learning fast, aimed a blow towards Arthur’s neck and, with more control than Arthur had thought he possessed, switched the direction of the blade halfway to instead aim it at the Prince’s stomach. Arthur dodged easily, but he smiled at the action anyway.
He dove into a series of moves designed to disorientate an opponent. Any of his knights could have followed them easily, blocking, until he finished the combination up with a hard blow to Percival’s cheek with his sword hand.
As he had expected, Percival went down, tumbling to the floor. But before Arthur could place the sword against his throat, he had pulled himself back to his feet. His sword was feet away from him, and Arthur could see his eyes darting towards it. His movements were sluggish and ungainly, probably partially due to the unfamiliar chainmail.
Percival made a dash for his weapon, and Arthur followed him, slower than he normally would, waiting until he had the sword firmly in his hand before he attacked again. Percival managed to stop several of the blows, but a couple got through and Arthur marked his cheekbone with a thin slice.
The second time he disarmed him, he lay the tip of the sword against the hollow of Percival’s throat as quickly as he could, bringing the blade round in a blur of silver that his opponent clearly thought would kill him, but paused a hair’s breadth away from his skin.
“My son,” Uther’s voice called down. “The sorcerer is yours to kill.” Arthur drew his sword back, almost as if he were about to strike, before tossing it away.
“He’s not a sorcerer, Father,” he said, projecting his voice so it rang around the courtyard. “And I will not kill a man who is without defence.”
His eyes locked on his father’s and he could see the rage in them. Beside him he could hear Percival’s mutterings of disbelief. “He is as much a victim of this as I was, and I will not have his blood on my hands.” Morgana was smiling at him, but he had no time to glance at her. Gaius was hurrying towards them both, his physician’s case in his hands and a worried look on his face.
“Has Merlin returned?” Arthur asked as soon as the Court Physician was within hearing distance. Gaius shook his head, looking at Percival curiously. “It’s good to see you’re back to yourself again, though, sire.” The older man muttered as guards came forwards to seize Percival from both sides.
“I don’t want to die like this…” the young man muttered as he looked at the Prince. Arthur nodded.
“I know,” he looked at the guards. “I’ll talk to my father when I’ve brought Merlin back.”
“I hope he’s okay,” Percival said, with a sad smile. Then the guards pulled him away.
Arthur slid his sword back into his scabbard and set off for the stables, ignoring the fact that his father was no doubt on his way to have a serious discussion about the treatment of sorcerers at that very minute.
“I’ll bring him back,” he told Gaius, who had fallen into step beside him.
“Yes, sire,” the man said, but he did not sound convinced. They reached the door of the stable and Gaius paused. “Nimueh is very powerful, sire…”
“She won’t kill me, Gaius,” Arthur said with complete certainty. Merlin though, he was not too sure about.
***
On to Chapter 9
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