Post by Arctura on Jul 22, 2014 20:40:13 GMT
Hold on to your hats, ladies and gents, because some major shit will go down.
Gone will be the usual sickeningly sweet Merthur and reminiscing of the glory days. Someone (or something) has it out for our boys.
Will they make it to the seer alive and unscathed? Or will it be the end of their journey?
After almost a week of being with just Merlin, seeing other people throws Arthur off. Usually so good with others, as a king should be, he finds himself oddly shy. Luckily for him, two thousand years of traveling have made Merlin an expert at ingratiating himself with strangers.
They enter the village quietly, hands hanging loosely at their sides to show that they are relaxed and unarmed. They walk past rows of small cottages, and the few people outside eye them warily.
"Maybe we should just go around.” Arthur whispers, sounding like Merlin when they went on hunting trips and he spotted something suspicious. Arthur had always chalked it up to his manservant’s fearfulness, but he should have known better than to doubt Merlin’s instincts.
Merlin assures him, “It’s alright, Arthur. Trust me.” And he does, because if Arthur has learned anything, it’s that he can count on Merlin to save their arses.
They keep walking, until Merlin finally stops outside the largest home, situated near the center of the village. As though he’s been waiting for them, a man leaves the cottage and walks toward them. He’s older, middle aged, and he’s smiling, though Arthur can sense the unease behind it.
“Welcome, strangers. What brings you to our village?” The man says the words oddly, as though he’s said them many times before, as though he’s seeking a specific answer.
“In these dark times, we come in friendship," Merlin answers.
The man smiles again, and this time, it seems genuine. “It’s been a long time since we’ve had people pass through. Even longer since we’ve had any trouble, which I'm grateful for. What can I help you with?”
“You may not remember me, but I passed through here long ago. I spoke to a man named Riley Walts."
"Riley was my younger brother," the man says, deeply forlorn, "He died in winter, four years ago. My name is Jacob."
"It's good to meet you, Jacob. My name is Merlin, and this is my friend Arthur. We wish to trade. It’s been a long time since we’ve had anything other than rabbit and nuts to eat. We were hoping someone could spare some bread or vegetables.”
The man smiles. “I think I may be able to help you." He offers his hand, and Merlin shakes it, smiling gratefully. Jacob reaches his hand out to Arthur as well, and Arthur shakes it politely, though he finds that he can’t get his mouth to move, his glibness left behind in his old life, it appears.
“Welcome, Merlin and Arthur. We are lucky here. We’ve managed to grow a good crop of wheat and corn, and a good selection of vegetables. Harvest has just started, and we’ve had a good year. What do you have to offer?”
“Do you have a need for clothes?”
He opens up one of the bags they collected at the last village, and Jacobs eyes light up as he smiles at them. “Merlin, you may just be my new best friend.”
…
Thirty minutes later, they leave the village with bags lighter in clothes but heavier with bread, carrots, corn, and even a few precious apples. Merlin had to trade three of their jackets and two pairs of boots so Jacob’s family could be warm when winter came. But as they sit around their fire that night, eating their winnings, it’s totally worth it.
…
After a quick breakfast of leftover dinner, Merlin leads them on. They didn’t get that far the other day, due to their late start and frequent stops, so he wastes no time. As they walk, he mentions to Arthur how lucky they are, ignoring the yawns of the king, who’d read long into the night (however adorable they are).
“This portion of the world was mostly uninhabited when the last war started. There was no reason for bombs to drop here. Most of these villages existed even before the war. Some of them have lived this way for centuries, so their villages and farms were already here when the world started to die. They were already used to this life. Without the bombs and the pollution that the major cities experienced, most of these villages were untouched. Things still grow here. There are parts of America and Europe that weren’t so lucky. There are places on Earth where things still don’t grow.”
Arthur frowns.
“It’s sad to think that the world has changed so much. But seeing villages like Jacob’s…well, it makes me hopeful."
“A bit like Ealdor.” Merlin remarks, pain erupting in his chest at the thought of his hometown and his late mother, Hunith.
“It is.” Arthur agrees. Seeing the warlock’s sadness, he adds, “You couldn’t have made your mother prouder, you know.”
“You couldn’t have either, Arthur.”
...
The clouds grow darker all day, until mid-afternoon when the sky opens up. Thunder rumbles afar and lightning severs the sky. Five minutes into the storm, the two of them are soaked to the bone. Merlin mutters a quick spell and their clothes become dry and stay that way.
Arthur laughs. It’s almost like they’re encased in a bubble. Rain hits the ground all around them, but Merlin and Arthur stay dry as can be.
Three hours later, Arthur starts to notice that Merlin is breathing heavily, sweating slightly, and his skin looks pale.
“Merlin?” He places a hand on Merlin’s shoulder. The spell stops suddenly at Arthur’s touch, and the rain begins to hit them.
Merlin apologizes and effects the spell once more. The rain stops hitting them, but their clothes stay wet this time.
“Merlin, stop,” Arthur says gently, gripping the other man’s shoulder. The rain hits them once more as the spell fades. “The magic is no doubt wearing you out.”
“It’s fine, Arthur. Really.” He is curious as to why he can’t sustain a simple charm, but then he remembers.
As they keep walking, he doesn’t try the spell again.
...
That night, they find a second village, even bigger than the first one. The people here are more used to travelers, and the greeting they receive is gracious from the start. Merlin speaks to an elderly man named Victor. He takes a strong liking to Merlin, who he says reminds him so much of the son he and his wife Ella lost to a harsh winter five years ago.
After trading some clothes for more vegetables and bread, Victor and Ella invite them into their home. Merlin and Arthur contribute a rabbit they killed earlier that day, and the rabbit goes into a delicious stew that Ella prepares for them. They even manage to pull together a dessert from some leftover berries and apples and a sweet bread that Ella makes using spices from their small garden.
They sleep under a roof that night, in a small area partitioned by a curtain that used to belong to the couple’s son. It’s dry and warm and more than Arthur dared to wish for these days. As they lie together, listening to the rain drum loudly against the roof, Arthur smiles.
“What is it?” Merlin questions when he notices the look on his face.
“This is nice,” Arthur says sincerely, and Merlin smiles back.
“Yeah,” he agrees, “Back before the war, something like this would have been impossible. People rarely left their homes, too afraid to interact with strangers.”
“Perhaps things aren’t so bad after all?” Arthur suggests.
“Maybe,” Merlin says quietly, but Arthur can tell he doesn’t really mean it.
Five minutes later, Arthur falls asleep with his arms around Merlin.
Ten minutes later, the rain begins to fade.
Fifteen minutes, the rain ceases altogether.
When they wake the next morning, the sky is still dark, but the rain has stopped, and Arthur feels like things may be looking up. Turns out he couldn’t have been more wrong.
...
Arthur begins to realize that something’s wrong when Merlin starts shivering. It’s dark out, but it’s still early afternoon, and the breeze is humid and warm. Arthur finds himself taking off his outer jacket, even as Merlin takes an extra jumper out of his bag and puts it on.
The shivers subside for about an hour. Then Merlin heads into the woods to find lunch, and when he comes out twenty minutes later dragging three rabbits behind him, he’s shivering again.
Arthur starts a fire and begins cooking the rabbits, and Merlin only shivers more.
“Come closer to the fire,” Arthur commands. The shivering doesn’t stop. Arthur offers Merlin a bit of rabbit and vegetables, but Merlin refuses.
The king chews thoughtfully on his food, staring at Merlin the whole time, and the food settles like a rock in his stomach.
As they continue on, the sky grows darker, and Merlin breaks into a sweat. Immediately, Arthur makes him remove the jumper. He finds that they must also rest more often. They stop beside a lake, and Arthur fills their water bottles (“Arthur, they’re just plastic canteens.”) and tries to get Merlin to drink some. But Merlin shakes his head and turns away.
“Merlin, you have to drink.” Arthur says calmly, evenly, his face not once betraying his disappointment and confusion.
He doesn’t answer.
“Merlin, please,” Arthur finally begs, his desperation growing by the second. The warlock turns to him, reluctantly taking the bottle and drinking a few sips before handing it back to him.
...
The next day, Merlin only gets worse. He grows quiet. He continues to shiver, face pale and sweaty, and when Arthur reaches out a hand to feel his forehead, he’s upset to find that Merlin’s burning with fever. Upset, not surprised. He’s no physician, but even he can recognize a fever, having been its victim many a time.
They stop at a few villages they pass along the way, but they're all small and have very little in terms of medicine. One villageman claims to have medicine, but says that they have nothing he'd be willing to trade it for. Arthur's ready to fight him for it, to do whatever is necessary, going as far as to draw out Excalibur, but Merlin calms him down and urges them forward.
A woman offers to trade them an herbal fever remedy in exchange for their last rabbit. Arthur is skeptical, but desperate, and agrees. He allows himself a glimmer of hope when Merlin's fever eases that night, then feels his heart break as he wakes the next morning as bad off as the day before.
They travel slower, stopping more often as Merlin doesn’t have the energy to keep moving. He eats and drinks only when Arthur makes him, telling him that he needs to keep up his strength to fight whatever’s wrong with him.
...
It’s their sixth night after leaving Camelot. Arthur lies down besides Merlin and asks him if he can heal himself with magic. After a few whispered spells, Merlin shakes his head.
“I can’t. Arthur…I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”
He sounds so young and afraid, and Arthur’s heart aches for him. He pulls Merlin closer as he begins to shake; the use of magic only succeeded in weakening him more.
“How much longer, Merlin?”
“Two days. Three at the most.”
Arthur considers what he has just asked, and for one terrified moment he’s afraid Merlin’s just told him how much longer he thinks he has left.
“Three days until we get to Windermere, right?” Arthur checks.
Merlin pauses, as though he’s only now considering the implication of what he said. But in the end, he nods in agreement.
Arthur’s relieved and he wraps his arms around Merlin tightly. “No fears. We’ll be there soon. ‘S just a small fever. It’ll pass.” Won’t it?
...
Traveling the next day is torture. The sky remains dark, clouds still threatening a storm that has yet to come.
Merlin grows listless, forgetful. They stop for breaks more and more often. They don't pass anymore villages, but Arthur knows they won't be able to help him anyway.
When Arthur wakes Merlin from a short nap that afternoon, telling him gently that they need to keep moving, Merlin doesn’t know where they are. It takes him a few minutes to find the right direction again.
...
That night, things only get worse. Merlin begins to toss and turn in his sleep, and Arthur wakes to find the ground shaking beneath them. Thunder rumbles in the distance, and rain finally starts to fall.
“Merlin!” Arthur sits up and tries to shake Merlin awake, but he won’t respond. The rain begins to fall harder, and a flash of lightning briefly brightens the sky. “Merlin, wake up! Wake up!” He shakes him harder, desperate now, as the thunder rumbles closer. “MERLIN!”
Finally, Merlin bolts upright, and when his eyes open Arthur sees gold, and he feels a jolt pass through him: strong, but painless.
“Arthur?” Merlin looks at him, eyes fading back to blue, and the rain lets up slightly. He’s shaking uncontrollably, and Arthur pulls him close, rubbing his arms firmly, willing him to calm down.
“What’s going on?” Arthur asks, and he can’t keep his voice from shaking.
“I was...having a nightmare,” Merlin answers.
“Well, it’s over now. You’re safe.”
“I know.” Merlin says, and the thunder stops. The rain slows and eventually stops, too. The sky remains dark, like it has been for four days, but at least the storm is past. And that’s when Arthur realizes they’re in trouble.
It’s just like before, when Malus first spoke through Merlin.
“You’re safe,” Arthur repeats, even though he knows it’s a lie. It’s Arthur’s worst fear, coming to life.
Merlin is losing control of his magic.
...
Two days later, Merlin can barely stand, and Arthur hasn’t seen the sun in so long he can barely keep track of what time of day it is. And he still has that damned shiver no matter how many layers he wears, Arthur thinks.
On their ninth night after leaving Camelot, Merlin collapses against a tree and can’t get up. As the rain begins to pour and thunder resounds in the distance, Arthur wraps his arms around Merlin from behind and holds on tight.
“…I….” Merlin hasn’t spoken in almost two days – has done nothing but nod, or shake his head, or moan – and his voice sounds tired and broken and Arthur can’t stand it. He wishes there was something he could do to help him, but he just doesn’t know what. If Merlin can’t heal himself with his magic, then what can Arthur possibly do for him?
“I’ve got you,” Arthur says reassuringly, and Merlin shudders in his grasp.
“Arthur…I’m…I’m not going to make it.”
Arthur’s heart falls into his stomach.
“Don’t be so dramatic, Merlin. You’re going to get there just fine.” He puts as much force into the words as he can.
“I’m not…you need to leave me. I can’t…I can’t control it. My magic, it…is infecting me somehow...Malus...please, Arthur. You need to go.”
The king chokes down a sob that escapes his throat. “No, Merlin. No. It’s going to be okay. Go back to sleep. We’re almost there.”
Soon enough, with a few more reassuring sentiments, the shivers abate and the weather calms down. Arthur laughs, and it comes out almost hysterical. That’s when he realizes how tired he is. He passes out.
...
When Arthur wakes the next morning, the sun is out. Gray clouds are scattered across the sky, but the sun is bright, trying its best to dispel the gloom. Arthur smiles for the first time in days.
“Merlin, wake up. The sun is shining.” Arthur shakes him, and the warlock shifts slowly. When he opens his eyes, Arthur sees a clarity in them he hasn’t seen in a long time.
“So it is.” Merlin sighs.
...
Arthur gets Merlin to eat a bit of food and drink some water, and as Merlin eats, he begins to put the pieces together. Somehow, he had helped Merlin heal last night. When he had wrapped his arms around him, Merlin must have taken strength from him. It explains why Arthur had felt so tired after Merlin fell asleep: Merlin had used Arthur to heal himself.
What if he could help Merlin? What if he could get him to use his strength to heal himself? Just enough to get them to the seer’s village?
“Merlin?”
The man looks up from the apple he’s eating.
And then he realizes that Merlin would never agree to that. Merlin would never hurt him to save himself, no matter how much Arthur begged.
“Nevermind.”
Merlin seems better now, anyway, and Arthur thinks that maybe they’ll be lucky.
But by mid-afternoon, what little strength Merlin gained from Arthur is gone. The dark clouds envelop the sky as the inevitable storm rolls in. As the rain starts to fall yet again, Merlin collapses.
Arthur bends down and lifts him into a sitting position. He offers him water, but Merlin shakes his head. I’m not an invalid, he claims, and Arthur just rips the top off a bottle of water and holds it to Merlin’s lips, who finally succumbs, taking a few gulps before turning away.
The all too familiar thunder booms closer. “Come on, Merlin. We need to go.” He puts his hands under Merlin’s arms and heaves him to his feet. Merlin stands for a second before his legs crumble beneath him.
“Dammit,” Arthur curses. He bends down next to Merlin. “Which direction, Merlin? Are we almost there?” Merlin looks up at him, but his eyes won’t focus.
“Look at me. Merlin, look at me.” He grabs Merlin’s face between his hands, and he feels a gentle pull in his body. He gasps as he feels his own energy flow up from his chest, through his arms and into Merlin’s body. When Merlin finally blinks and says his name, Arthur forces himself to let go.
“The river,” Merlin whispers, so quiet Arthur can barely hear him over the thunder, and he points to their right. “Follow the river. Upstream. It’s not…far. Soon.”
“Perfect,” Arthur gasps, forcing back the wave of nausea that overtook him when he pulled away from Merlin. “Let’s go.” And he kneels in front of Merlin and puts his arms behind his back. Merlin understands, and he wraps his arms around Arthur’s neck, and Arthur grabs onto Merlin’s legs and stands. He carries him on his back and follows the river.
How odd that Fate decides to put us back in the same situation? Except, this time it’s me who’s carrying the fatally wounded other half. Damn it all.
Don’t worry yourself, Arthur, he has magic.
...
Three hours later, Merlin begins to convulse, and Arthur can’t hold him anymore. His legs give out from under him and they collapse to the ground. Rain spills from the sky, the wind howls, and Arthur starts to panic as Merlin thrashes against him. Arthur kneels over him and grabs his shoulders, but he can barely hold onto him. He manages to get one hand on Merlin’s shoulder, before being flung back a few feet. Even in his delirium, Merlin is still alert; he understands Arthur is trying to heal him by sacrificing his own strength, and he won’t allow it.
“No! Arthur, you must stay away.” There’s panic in Merlin’s eyes now, fear about what he’s done, about what he can do, but Arthur doesn’t care.
“It’s alright. Let me help you.” He reaches his other hand up and cradles Merlin’s face, but the warlock grabs his arms and wrenches them away with a scream.
“No! I’m not going to hurt you, Arthur. I won’t do it.”
“Merlin…please,” Arthur begs, a rare action made common since his return. It is a pitiful sight to see the king in such distress, tears on his face mingling with the downpour.
Merlin persists with much vehemence, and Arthur almost gives in. Almost. Coming to his senses, Arthur all but latches himself onto the other man and wills himself to hold on, no matter what. He feels terrible, Merlin continuing to claw at him, but it will be worth it. Arthur breathes heavily as the world spins around him, like he’s been to the tavern and has had one too many. He struggles to keep focus on the miserable man before him.
He gathers up what energy he has left and shakes his head, answering Merlin’s silent plead. “I’m sorry, Merlin. I can’t lose you.” He lightly kisses him, and Merlin doesn’t even try to stop him this time. Arthur feels the energy drain out of him faster as Merlin gets greedy. He quickly catches Arthur as he falls to the ground.
“Arthur?”
Arthur ignores him and grabs his wrist, lifts up his own shirt, and places Merlin’s hand over his heart. Merlin’s eyes widen in horror at what he’s being asked to do.
He says frantically, “Dear god, how..can I? No…”
“Merlin, don’t be such a girl. Do as your king commands.” Arthur says, but it doesn’t sound light-hearted or firm. If anything, it sounds fearful. “It’s going to be okay.”
Even after all these years, the warlock doesn’t disobey a direct order, however empty it may be. He laughs weakly to hide the sobs. “Of course, my lord. Whatever you say.”
Merlin rationalizes that if he takes enough to get to reach the seer, Arthur will be alright. Seeing the gears turn in the other man’s head, Arthur encourages him. “That’s it. Use your head for once.”
The jest is half-hearted, but effective and is rewarded by the token glow of Merlin’s eyes. The thunder roars, the lightning strikes nearer, and Arthur feels his energy pour into Merlin. He smiles gratefully and lets himself fall forward. As his vision fades, he knows Merlin grabs his shoulders, but he can’t really feel it. In the back of his mind, he hears him scream.
“Arthur! Oh god, no, what have I done? You prat...I’m so sorry, Arthur! So sorry…”
Then, darkness overcomes him, and all he hears is a loud thunderclap, ringing in his ears.
And a cruel laugh.
...
Arthur returns to the world of the living slowly, Merlin’s distressed voice echoing in his head. He opens his eyes and finds himself in a moderately sized dwelling, bright sunlight beaming through the windows to illuminate his surroundings. Dozens of mats cover the floor, but with a cursory glance, he discovers he’s the only one in the room. He rubs at his stiff neck, wondering where he is and how he got here.
The last thing he remembers is being in that field with Merlin, forcing him to use his strength to heal himself. He remembers collapsing in his arms, remembers Merlin begging for forgiveness. Then, everything goes dark.
As he studies the room, he unearths hazy memories of Merlin’s voice: the words he heard before he woke up. Merlin telling him that he is going to be alright, telling him he loves him. He recalls the words as though he heard them in a dream, or perhaps in his sleep.
When Arthur feels his stomach growl he wonders just how long he’s been out - probably for days considering how utterly tired he feels. Though his muscles ache, and he’s covetous of food and water, he feels fine. It’s nothing a good walk and a decent meal won’t cure.
To test his strength, Arthur hefts himself up to his feet and finds relievedly that he can stand. He eases his way to the door and steps outside. After a week laden with grim, stormy skies and unconsciousness, the bright sunlight hitting his eyes is welcome but painful, and he shields himself from further disorientation. Eventually, his eyes adjust enough that he can look around.
He’s in a village akin to the ones they’ve passed on their journey. The cottage he leaves is set apart from the rest, bigger than most of them and situated near the banks of a river. He hears the laughter of children far off in the distance, and he hasn’t heard the sound in so long that it actually brings tears to his eyes. There were always children playing in the Camelot’s citadel.
Then, he spots Merlin, curled up alone on a boulder staring out across the water, and it’s like there’s nothing else in the world. Arthur walks closer to him, but Merlin’s so deep in reflection that he doesn’t register Arthur until he’s right behind him.
“Have you ever seen such a lazy excuse for a servant?” Arthur jokes, and Merlin jumps off the rock so fast it puts Gwaine’s ale record to shame.
“Arthur! You’re okay!”
“Of course I’m okay,” Arthur says with a smile at the look of joy and relief on the warlock’s face and pulls him in for a hug. He’s alive, walking and breathing and healthy.
“You must have so many questions,” Merlin says with a small laugh, and Arthur nods in agreement. He has so many questions he doesn’t know where to start. Eventually, he asks the question that’s been weighing on his mind for nearly a week.
“I don’t understand what happened. How did you get sick? And how did I heal you?”
“I don’t know for sure, but while you were...healing, I thought of something,” Merlin replies, calm now, “When Malus first clawed his way out of the earth, it felt like he was…latching onto me. Like he was using my magic to help himself. Then later you said that he used me speak to you.”
Arthur shudders at the memory. How could I possibly forget?
Merlin continues, “I can’t know for sure, but it felt like that brief contact with Malus’ magic caused a reaction in my own magic. It poisoned me.”
“Magic sickness?” Arthur asks with a raised eyebrow that could give Gaius a run for his money. “I didn’t know that was possible, Merlin.”
“Well, it’s similar to what would happen if you got sick. Only instead of my body being sick, it was my magic. My magic turned against me; it took what strength it could from me in order to heal itself from the taint Malus left behind.
This ‘magic sickness’ is often used to subdue powerful sorcerers when no other means is effective. I say that it’s a last resort, because the enchantment itself takes some tricky spellwork and rare ingredients. Malus, however, only needed to reach out to me, but Its magic corrupts instantly. Like Kilgharrah said, Malus is the essence of evil.”
Arthur nods in understanding. “It left you weak and feverish. But how did you lost control of it?”
“Yes. My magic took on a life of its own to protect itself. I was too weak to fight it. It took me over, which is why, when you tried to help me...”
“You couldn’t stop yourself,” Arthur suggests firmly. He wants Merlin to know that this wasn’t his fault; that he had no control over what he did to him.
Merlin wants to say that it doesn’t change the fact he hurt him, but he holds back. He had time while Arthur was recovering to mull over the events. It really did not matter anymore; the king is alive. If he had spent the last two thousand years fretting over what-ifs, he never would have lived.
Needing a change of subject, Merlin says with a half-smile, “You know where we are?”
Arthur looks around, suddenly remembering. “Yes, now that you mention it, I had been wondering.”
“We made it, Arthur. We made it to Windermere.”
“The seer’s village. But how did we get here?”
“You’ll have me to thank for that,” says a female voice Arthur’s never heard before, and he turns around to find a young woman, maybe nineteen or twenty, with dark brown hair and eyes so deep they can only be described as purple. “Welcome to my village, Arthur Pendragon. I’ve been expecting you.”
...
They settle down at the river’s edge, and the girl with the violet eyes tells them her story.
My name is Sybil. When I was born in the village twenty years ago, my parents named me Evelyn. I haven’t gone by that name in a long time.
Winters are hard here. About fifteen years ago, a particularly harsh one brought a bad strain of influenza. Many people in the village died, including my father. I was very young, three, maybe four years old. I don’t recall anything about him. As far as I can remember, it’s always been my mother and I: two women against the world. My mother, Aileen, raised me to be self-reliant. She gave birth to me late in her life, and she was always afraid she might die and I wouldn’t be ready to face the world on my own.
I never had much of a childhood. My mother was the village doctor. “Healer” might be a more appropriate term. She taught me everything she knew. We’ve never had much in the way of modern medicine and vaccines, but our village has been here a long time, and my mother came from a long line of healers. They studied Eastern medicine, focused more on herbs and roots - natural remedies. We’ve always been ill-equipped for the stronger diseases, but my mother was very good, and she taught me everything I know. I was assisting her with patients at six; with childbirth by nine. She was well-respected, and loved by everyone.
Five years ago, we had another bad winter, and the same strain of influenza hit us hard. My mother and I did our best, but she was old, and dealing with all the sick…it was inevitable. I lost my mother to the same disease as my father.
I was orphaned at the age of 14, but I knew how to take care of myself, and the village helped me with what they could in exchange for my healing services. I was never as well loved as my mother. She just had this way with people, you know? I was always a quiet child, moody, much more like my father. But they needed me, and I did my best for them.
Three months after my mother died, I started to have visions. Small things at first. What time it would rain the next day. The fact that rabbits were getting at the garden, which was why we were losing so much of our crop. They were just feelings at first - strong feelings I would have throughout the day about one thing or another. I could never explain how I knew any of it, but I eventually learned that I could trust these feelings.
Then I started having dreams. I’d see who was going to get sick next and what they were going to get sick from. I dreamt of a mild case of stomach flu one night, and the next day half the village was throwing up from tainted meat they’d eaten the night before.
The dreams were helpful at first. I could stock up on medicines I needed ahead of time, know when I would need to ask one of the older women to help with childbirths, things like that.
But then one night I dreamt about things happening in another village. People arguing, fighting…killing each other. I didn’t know any of these people, but the dream was so horrible…so real. I woke up shaking, covered in sweat, and I knew that what I had seen was real…and there was nothing I could do about it. I went about my day as normal, tried to forget about it. But then the next night I had another dream. An earthquake…a whole village swallowed by the earth.
I stopped sleeping. I was terrified of those dreams. I hated watching terrible things happen, knowing there was nothing I could do to help all those people. My healing got sloppy. The villagers saw that I was struggling. I started training Margaret, one of the older women in our village, and she started taking over most of my responsibilities.
The village talked about me. How I had lost my touch. How I couldn’t get over the loss of my mother. How I screamed in my sleep. I went without sleeping for so long I lost track of the days.
And then one day I had a vision while I was awake. One minute I was walking next to the river, and the next I was on my knees, watching a mother and her daughter die in agony. When I came around, half the village was watching me. Margaret says I was screaming and crying, begging for the vision to stop. She gave me a sleeping draught, and I had the first dreamless sleep I’d had in months.
But when I woke up, everything had changed. I could see it in the eyes of the villagers, the way they looked at me…like I was crazy. No one trusted me anymore. Parents stopped bringing me their sick children. Pregnant mothers turned to Margaret for advice. Margaret made sure I still got my share of the food, but I could tell that many of the villagers didn’t think I should have it. They talked about me when they thought I couldn’t hear them, but my visions showed me what they really thought. I had failed them. I was weak. I was nothing like my mother.
Three weeks later, I had my most vivid dream yet. I saw one of the young boys wandering away from the village, and watched him die at the hands of a monstrous bear. I woke up screaming. I grabbed my shotgun without thinking and ran for the woods. Some of the villagers heard me and followed. I found the boy just as the bear was poised to strike, and I killed it just in time.
The villagers were stunned…but grateful. Maybe it was because I was finally able to do something with my visions. Maybe it was because I could finally accept them. Whatever the reason, my dreams became less intense, my visions more bearable. The villagers began to trust me, and I started healing again.
Years later, they still compare me to my mother. Except now they tell me I’m clearly her daughter. They apologize for doubting me. I use my dreams and visions to help my village. Some of the village women started calling me Sybil, after the great prophetess, and the name stuck. I left my old name behind me. Evelyn was a naïve little girl, a girl who no longer exists.
Three weeks ago, I began to have dreams about you, Merlin. A week later, I began to dream about Arthur. I saw visions of your days in Camelot, of all the good you did for Albion. I saw all the good you’ve done in the years since, Merlin. I began to feel as if I knew you both personally. Somehow I knew it was only a matter of time before I finally met you, and I ached for the day to come.
I watched Arthur come back to life. Watched you visit Camelot. And then that…that thing crawled Its way out of the Earth. I knew then…I knew that you two were the world’s hope. That you would find your way to me. That I was meant to help you. Two nights ago, I saw Arthur collapse in Merlin’s arms. I put Margaret in charge and left right away. I followed the growing storm and found you the way I’d seen you in my vision. I told Merlin who I was. I promised him that I would save you, Arthur. Merlin carried you himself, and I led you here. It was a combination of Merlin’s magic and my mother’s medicine that saved you.
I believe that there’s a reason I’ve been given these visions. Not just to help my village, but to help you both. To help you save the world. Rest for awhile. Tonight, I will tell you what I know about Malus.
Gone will be the usual sickeningly sweet Merthur and reminiscing of the glory days. Someone (or something) has it out for our boys.
Will they make it to the seer alive and unscathed? Or will it be the end of their journey?
As the World Comes to an End: Part III
After almost a week of being with just Merlin, seeing other people throws Arthur off. Usually so good with others, as a king should be, he finds himself oddly shy. Luckily for him, two thousand years of traveling have made Merlin an expert at ingratiating himself with strangers.
They enter the village quietly, hands hanging loosely at their sides to show that they are relaxed and unarmed. They walk past rows of small cottages, and the few people outside eye them warily.
"Maybe we should just go around.” Arthur whispers, sounding like Merlin when they went on hunting trips and he spotted something suspicious. Arthur had always chalked it up to his manservant’s fearfulness, but he should have known better than to doubt Merlin’s instincts.
Merlin assures him, “It’s alright, Arthur. Trust me.” And he does, because if Arthur has learned anything, it’s that he can count on Merlin to save their arses.
They keep walking, until Merlin finally stops outside the largest home, situated near the center of the village. As though he’s been waiting for them, a man leaves the cottage and walks toward them. He’s older, middle aged, and he’s smiling, though Arthur can sense the unease behind it.
“Welcome, strangers. What brings you to our village?” The man says the words oddly, as though he’s said them many times before, as though he’s seeking a specific answer.
“In these dark times, we come in friendship," Merlin answers.
The man smiles again, and this time, it seems genuine. “It’s been a long time since we’ve had people pass through. Even longer since we’ve had any trouble, which I'm grateful for. What can I help you with?”
“You may not remember me, but I passed through here long ago. I spoke to a man named Riley Walts."
"Riley was my younger brother," the man says, deeply forlorn, "He died in winter, four years ago. My name is Jacob."
"It's good to meet you, Jacob. My name is Merlin, and this is my friend Arthur. We wish to trade. It’s been a long time since we’ve had anything other than rabbit and nuts to eat. We were hoping someone could spare some bread or vegetables.”
The man smiles. “I think I may be able to help you." He offers his hand, and Merlin shakes it, smiling gratefully. Jacob reaches his hand out to Arthur as well, and Arthur shakes it politely, though he finds that he can’t get his mouth to move, his glibness left behind in his old life, it appears.
“Welcome, Merlin and Arthur. We are lucky here. We’ve managed to grow a good crop of wheat and corn, and a good selection of vegetables. Harvest has just started, and we’ve had a good year. What do you have to offer?”
“Do you have a need for clothes?”
He opens up one of the bags they collected at the last village, and Jacobs eyes light up as he smiles at them. “Merlin, you may just be my new best friend.”
…
Thirty minutes later, they leave the village with bags lighter in clothes but heavier with bread, carrots, corn, and even a few precious apples. Merlin had to trade three of their jackets and two pairs of boots so Jacob’s family could be warm when winter came. But as they sit around their fire that night, eating their winnings, it’s totally worth it.
…
After a quick breakfast of leftover dinner, Merlin leads them on. They didn’t get that far the other day, due to their late start and frequent stops, so he wastes no time. As they walk, he mentions to Arthur how lucky they are, ignoring the yawns of the king, who’d read long into the night (however adorable they are).
“This portion of the world was mostly uninhabited when the last war started. There was no reason for bombs to drop here. Most of these villages existed even before the war. Some of them have lived this way for centuries, so their villages and farms were already here when the world started to die. They were already used to this life. Without the bombs and the pollution that the major cities experienced, most of these villages were untouched. Things still grow here. There are parts of America and Europe that weren’t so lucky. There are places on Earth where things still don’t grow.”
Arthur frowns.
“It’s sad to think that the world has changed so much. But seeing villages like Jacob’s…well, it makes me hopeful."
“A bit like Ealdor.” Merlin remarks, pain erupting in his chest at the thought of his hometown and his late mother, Hunith.
“It is.” Arthur agrees. Seeing the warlock’s sadness, he adds, “You couldn’t have made your mother prouder, you know.”
“You couldn’t have either, Arthur.”
...
The clouds grow darker all day, until mid-afternoon when the sky opens up. Thunder rumbles afar and lightning severs the sky. Five minutes into the storm, the two of them are soaked to the bone. Merlin mutters a quick spell and their clothes become dry and stay that way.
Arthur laughs. It’s almost like they’re encased in a bubble. Rain hits the ground all around them, but Merlin and Arthur stay dry as can be.
Three hours later, Arthur starts to notice that Merlin is breathing heavily, sweating slightly, and his skin looks pale.
“Merlin?” He places a hand on Merlin’s shoulder. The spell stops suddenly at Arthur’s touch, and the rain begins to hit them.
Merlin apologizes and effects the spell once more. The rain stops hitting them, but their clothes stay wet this time.
“Merlin, stop,” Arthur says gently, gripping the other man’s shoulder. The rain hits them once more as the spell fades. “The magic is no doubt wearing you out.”
“It’s fine, Arthur. Really.” He is curious as to why he can’t sustain a simple charm, but then he remembers.
As they keep walking, he doesn’t try the spell again.
...
That night, they find a second village, even bigger than the first one. The people here are more used to travelers, and the greeting they receive is gracious from the start. Merlin speaks to an elderly man named Victor. He takes a strong liking to Merlin, who he says reminds him so much of the son he and his wife Ella lost to a harsh winter five years ago.
After trading some clothes for more vegetables and bread, Victor and Ella invite them into their home. Merlin and Arthur contribute a rabbit they killed earlier that day, and the rabbit goes into a delicious stew that Ella prepares for them. They even manage to pull together a dessert from some leftover berries and apples and a sweet bread that Ella makes using spices from their small garden.
They sleep under a roof that night, in a small area partitioned by a curtain that used to belong to the couple’s son. It’s dry and warm and more than Arthur dared to wish for these days. As they lie together, listening to the rain drum loudly against the roof, Arthur smiles.
“What is it?” Merlin questions when he notices the look on his face.
“This is nice,” Arthur says sincerely, and Merlin smiles back.
“Yeah,” he agrees, “Back before the war, something like this would have been impossible. People rarely left their homes, too afraid to interact with strangers.”
“Perhaps things aren’t so bad after all?” Arthur suggests.
“Maybe,” Merlin says quietly, but Arthur can tell he doesn’t really mean it.
Five minutes later, Arthur falls asleep with his arms around Merlin.
Ten minutes later, the rain begins to fade.
Fifteen minutes, the rain ceases altogether.
When they wake the next morning, the sky is still dark, but the rain has stopped, and Arthur feels like things may be looking up. Turns out he couldn’t have been more wrong.
...
Arthur begins to realize that something’s wrong when Merlin starts shivering. It’s dark out, but it’s still early afternoon, and the breeze is humid and warm. Arthur finds himself taking off his outer jacket, even as Merlin takes an extra jumper out of his bag and puts it on.
The shivers subside for about an hour. Then Merlin heads into the woods to find lunch, and when he comes out twenty minutes later dragging three rabbits behind him, he’s shivering again.
Arthur starts a fire and begins cooking the rabbits, and Merlin only shivers more.
“Come closer to the fire,” Arthur commands. The shivering doesn’t stop. Arthur offers Merlin a bit of rabbit and vegetables, but Merlin refuses.
The king chews thoughtfully on his food, staring at Merlin the whole time, and the food settles like a rock in his stomach.
As they continue on, the sky grows darker, and Merlin breaks into a sweat. Immediately, Arthur makes him remove the jumper. He finds that they must also rest more often. They stop beside a lake, and Arthur fills their water bottles (“Arthur, they’re just plastic canteens.”) and tries to get Merlin to drink some. But Merlin shakes his head and turns away.
“Merlin, you have to drink.” Arthur says calmly, evenly, his face not once betraying his disappointment and confusion.
He doesn’t answer.
“Merlin, please,” Arthur finally begs, his desperation growing by the second. The warlock turns to him, reluctantly taking the bottle and drinking a few sips before handing it back to him.
...
The next day, Merlin only gets worse. He grows quiet. He continues to shiver, face pale and sweaty, and when Arthur reaches out a hand to feel his forehead, he’s upset to find that Merlin’s burning with fever. Upset, not surprised. He’s no physician, but even he can recognize a fever, having been its victim many a time.
They stop at a few villages they pass along the way, but they're all small and have very little in terms of medicine. One villageman claims to have medicine, but says that they have nothing he'd be willing to trade it for. Arthur's ready to fight him for it, to do whatever is necessary, going as far as to draw out Excalibur, but Merlin calms him down and urges them forward.
A woman offers to trade them an herbal fever remedy in exchange for their last rabbit. Arthur is skeptical, but desperate, and agrees. He allows himself a glimmer of hope when Merlin's fever eases that night, then feels his heart break as he wakes the next morning as bad off as the day before.
They travel slower, stopping more often as Merlin doesn’t have the energy to keep moving. He eats and drinks only when Arthur makes him, telling him that he needs to keep up his strength to fight whatever’s wrong with him.
...
It’s their sixth night after leaving Camelot. Arthur lies down besides Merlin and asks him if he can heal himself with magic. After a few whispered spells, Merlin shakes his head.
“I can’t. Arthur…I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”
He sounds so young and afraid, and Arthur’s heart aches for him. He pulls Merlin closer as he begins to shake; the use of magic only succeeded in weakening him more.
“How much longer, Merlin?”
“Two days. Three at the most.”
Arthur considers what he has just asked, and for one terrified moment he’s afraid Merlin’s just told him how much longer he thinks he has left.
“Three days until we get to Windermere, right?” Arthur checks.
Merlin pauses, as though he’s only now considering the implication of what he said. But in the end, he nods in agreement.
Arthur’s relieved and he wraps his arms around Merlin tightly. “No fears. We’ll be there soon. ‘S just a small fever. It’ll pass.” Won’t it?
...
Traveling the next day is torture. The sky remains dark, clouds still threatening a storm that has yet to come.
Merlin grows listless, forgetful. They stop for breaks more and more often. They don't pass anymore villages, but Arthur knows they won't be able to help him anyway.
When Arthur wakes Merlin from a short nap that afternoon, telling him gently that they need to keep moving, Merlin doesn’t know where they are. It takes him a few minutes to find the right direction again.
...
That night, things only get worse. Merlin begins to toss and turn in his sleep, and Arthur wakes to find the ground shaking beneath them. Thunder rumbles in the distance, and rain finally starts to fall.
“Merlin!” Arthur sits up and tries to shake Merlin awake, but he won’t respond. The rain begins to fall harder, and a flash of lightning briefly brightens the sky. “Merlin, wake up! Wake up!” He shakes him harder, desperate now, as the thunder rumbles closer. “MERLIN!”
Finally, Merlin bolts upright, and when his eyes open Arthur sees gold, and he feels a jolt pass through him: strong, but painless.
“Arthur?” Merlin looks at him, eyes fading back to blue, and the rain lets up slightly. He’s shaking uncontrollably, and Arthur pulls him close, rubbing his arms firmly, willing him to calm down.
“What’s going on?” Arthur asks, and he can’t keep his voice from shaking.
“I was...having a nightmare,” Merlin answers.
“Well, it’s over now. You’re safe.”
“I know.” Merlin says, and the thunder stops. The rain slows and eventually stops, too. The sky remains dark, like it has been for four days, but at least the storm is past. And that’s when Arthur realizes they’re in trouble.
It’s just like before, when Malus first spoke through Merlin.
“You’re safe,” Arthur repeats, even though he knows it’s a lie. It’s Arthur’s worst fear, coming to life.
Merlin is losing control of his magic.
...
Two days later, Merlin can barely stand, and Arthur hasn’t seen the sun in so long he can barely keep track of what time of day it is. And he still has that damned shiver no matter how many layers he wears, Arthur thinks.
On their ninth night after leaving Camelot, Merlin collapses against a tree and can’t get up. As the rain begins to pour and thunder resounds in the distance, Arthur wraps his arms around Merlin from behind and holds on tight.
“…I….” Merlin hasn’t spoken in almost two days – has done nothing but nod, or shake his head, or moan – and his voice sounds tired and broken and Arthur can’t stand it. He wishes there was something he could do to help him, but he just doesn’t know what. If Merlin can’t heal himself with his magic, then what can Arthur possibly do for him?
“I’ve got you,” Arthur says reassuringly, and Merlin shudders in his grasp.
“Arthur…I’m…I’m not going to make it.”
Arthur’s heart falls into his stomach.
“Don’t be so dramatic, Merlin. You’re going to get there just fine.” He puts as much force into the words as he can.
“I’m not…you need to leave me. I can’t…I can’t control it. My magic, it…is infecting me somehow...Malus...please, Arthur. You need to go.”
The king chokes down a sob that escapes his throat. “No, Merlin. No. It’s going to be okay. Go back to sleep. We’re almost there.”
Soon enough, with a few more reassuring sentiments, the shivers abate and the weather calms down. Arthur laughs, and it comes out almost hysterical. That’s when he realizes how tired he is. He passes out.
...
When Arthur wakes the next morning, the sun is out. Gray clouds are scattered across the sky, but the sun is bright, trying its best to dispel the gloom. Arthur smiles for the first time in days.
“Merlin, wake up. The sun is shining.” Arthur shakes him, and the warlock shifts slowly. When he opens his eyes, Arthur sees a clarity in them he hasn’t seen in a long time.
“So it is.” Merlin sighs.
...
Arthur gets Merlin to eat a bit of food and drink some water, and as Merlin eats, he begins to put the pieces together. Somehow, he had helped Merlin heal last night. When he had wrapped his arms around him, Merlin must have taken strength from him. It explains why Arthur had felt so tired after Merlin fell asleep: Merlin had used Arthur to heal himself.
What if he could help Merlin? What if he could get him to use his strength to heal himself? Just enough to get them to the seer’s village?
“Merlin?”
The man looks up from the apple he’s eating.
And then he realizes that Merlin would never agree to that. Merlin would never hurt him to save himself, no matter how much Arthur begged.
“Nevermind.”
Merlin seems better now, anyway, and Arthur thinks that maybe they’ll be lucky.
But by mid-afternoon, what little strength Merlin gained from Arthur is gone. The dark clouds envelop the sky as the inevitable storm rolls in. As the rain starts to fall yet again, Merlin collapses.
Arthur bends down and lifts him into a sitting position. He offers him water, but Merlin shakes his head. I’m not an invalid, he claims, and Arthur just rips the top off a bottle of water and holds it to Merlin’s lips, who finally succumbs, taking a few gulps before turning away.
The all too familiar thunder booms closer. “Come on, Merlin. We need to go.” He puts his hands under Merlin’s arms and heaves him to his feet. Merlin stands for a second before his legs crumble beneath him.
“Dammit,” Arthur curses. He bends down next to Merlin. “Which direction, Merlin? Are we almost there?” Merlin looks up at him, but his eyes won’t focus.
“Look at me. Merlin, look at me.” He grabs Merlin’s face between his hands, and he feels a gentle pull in his body. He gasps as he feels his own energy flow up from his chest, through his arms and into Merlin’s body. When Merlin finally blinks and says his name, Arthur forces himself to let go.
“The river,” Merlin whispers, so quiet Arthur can barely hear him over the thunder, and he points to their right. “Follow the river. Upstream. It’s not…far. Soon.”
“Perfect,” Arthur gasps, forcing back the wave of nausea that overtook him when he pulled away from Merlin. “Let’s go.” And he kneels in front of Merlin and puts his arms behind his back. Merlin understands, and he wraps his arms around Arthur’s neck, and Arthur grabs onto Merlin’s legs and stands. He carries him on his back and follows the river.
How odd that Fate decides to put us back in the same situation? Except, this time it’s me who’s carrying the fatally wounded other half. Damn it all.
Don’t worry yourself, Arthur, he has magic.
...
Three hours later, Merlin begins to convulse, and Arthur can’t hold him anymore. His legs give out from under him and they collapse to the ground. Rain spills from the sky, the wind howls, and Arthur starts to panic as Merlin thrashes against him. Arthur kneels over him and grabs his shoulders, but he can barely hold onto him. He manages to get one hand on Merlin’s shoulder, before being flung back a few feet. Even in his delirium, Merlin is still alert; he understands Arthur is trying to heal him by sacrificing his own strength, and he won’t allow it.
“No! Arthur, you must stay away.” There’s panic in Merlin’s eyes now, fear about what he’s done, about what he can do, but Arthur doesn’t care.
“It’s alright. Let me help you.” He reaches his other hand up and cradles Merlin’s face, but the warlock grabs his arms and wrenches them away with a scream.
“No! I’m not going to hurt you, Arthur. I won’t do it.”
“Merlin…please,” Arthur begs, a rare action made common since his return. It is a pitiful sight to see the king in such distress, tears on his face mingling with the downpour.
Merlin persists with much vehemence, and Arthur almost gives in. Almost. Coming to his senses, Arthur all but latches himself onto the other man and wills himself to hold on, no matter what. He feels terrible, Merlin continuing to claw at him, but it will be worth it. Arthur breathes heavily as the world spins around him, like he’s been to the tavern and has had one too many. He struggles to keep focus on the miserable man before him.
He gathers up what energy he has left and shakes his head, answering Merlin’s silent plead. “I’m sorry, Merlin. I can’t lose you.” He lightly kisses him, and Merlin doesn’t even try to stop him this time. Arthur feels the energy drain out of him faster as Merlin gets greedy. He quickly catches Arthur as he falls to the ground.
“Arthur?”
Arthur ignores him and grabs his wrist, lifts up his own shirt, and places Merlin’s hand over his heart. Merlin’s eyes widen in horror at what he’s being asked to do.
He says frantically, “Dear god, how..can I? No…”
“Merlin, don’t be such a girl. Do as your king commands.” Arthur says, but it doesn’t sound light-hearted or firm. If anything, it sounds fearful. “It’s going to be okay.”
Even after all these years, the warlock doesn’t disobey a direct order, however empty it may be. He laughs weakly to hide the sobs. “Of course, my lord. Whatever you say.”
Merlin rationalizes that if he takes enough to get to reach the seer, Arthur will be alright. Seeing the gears turn in the other man’s head, Arthur encourages him. “That’s it. Use your head for once.”
The jest is half-hearted, but effective and is rewarded by the token glow of Merlin’s eyes. The thunder roars, the lightning strikes nearer, and Arthur feels his energy pour into Merlin. He smiles gratefully and lets himself fall forward. As his vision fades, he knows Merlin grabs his shoulders, but he can’t really feel it. In the back of his mind, he hears him scream.
“Arthur! Oh god, no, what have I done? You prat...I’m so sorry, Arthur! So sorry…”
Then, darkness overcomes him, and all he hears is a loud thunderclap, ringing in his ears.
And a cruel laugh.
...
Arthur returns to the world of the living slowly, Merlin’s distressed voice echoing in his head. He opens his eyes and finds himself in a moderately sized dwelling, bright sunlight beaming through the windows to illuminate his surroundings. Dozens of mats cover the floor, but with a cursory glance, he discovers he’s the only one in the room. He rubs at his stiff neck, wondering where he is and how he got here.
The last thing he remembers is being in that field with Merlin, forcing him to use his strength to heal himself. He remembers collapsing in his arms, remembers Merlin begging for forgiveness. Then, everything goes dark.
As he studies the room, he unearths hazy memories of Merlin’s voice: the words he heard before he woke up. Merlin telling him that he is going to be alright, telling him he loves him. He recalls the words as though he heard them in a dream, or perhaps in his sleep.
When Arthur feels his stomach growl he wonders just how long he’s been out - probably for days considering how utterly tired he feels. Though his muscles ache, and he’s covetous of food and water, he feels fine. It’s nothing a good walk and a decent meal won’t cure.
To test his strength, Arthur hefts himself up to his feet and finds relievedly that he can stand. He eases his way to the door and steps outside. After a week laden with grim, stormy skies and unconsciousness, the bright sunlight hitting his eyes is welcome but painful, and he shields himself from further disorientation. Eventually, his eyes adjust enough that he can look around.
He’s in a village akin to the ones they’ve passed on their journey. The cottage he leaves is set apart from the rest, bigger than most of them and situated near the banks of a river. He hears the laughter of children far off in the distance, and he hasn’t heard the sound in so long that it actually brings tears to his eyes. There were always children playing in the Camelot’s citadel.
Then, he spots Merlin, curled up alone on a boulder staring out across the water, and it’s like there’s nothing else in the world. Arthur walks closer to him, but Merlin’s so deep in reflection that he doesn’t register Arthur until he’s right behind him.
“Have you ever seen such a lazy excuse for a servant?” Arthur jokes, and Merlin jumps off the rock so fast it puts Gwaine’s ale record to shame.
“Arthur! You’re okay!”
“Of course I’m okay,” Arthur says with a smile at the look of joy and relief on the warlock’s face and pulls him in for a hug. He’s alive, walking and breathing and healthy.
“You must have so many questions,” Merlin says with a small laugh, and Arthur nods in agreement. He has so many questions he doesn’t know where to start. Eventually, he asks the question that’s been weighing on his mind for nearly a week.
“I don’t understand what happened. How did you get sick? And how did I heal you?”
“I don’t know for sure, but while you were...healing, I thought of something,” Merlin replies, calm now, “When Malus first clawed his way out of the earth, it felt like he was…latching onto me. Like he was using my magic to help himself. Then later you said that he used me speak to you.”
Arthur shudders at the memory. How could I possibly forget?
Merlin continues, “I can’t know for sure, but it felt like that brief contact with Malus’ magic caused a reaction in my own magic. It poisoned me.”
“Magic sickness?” Arthur asks with a raised eyebrow that could give Gaius a run for his money. “I didn’t know that was possible, Merlin.”
“Well, it’s similar to what would happen if you got sick. Only instead of my body being sick, it was my magic. My magic turned against me; it took what strength it could from me in order to heal itself from the taint Malus left behind.
This ‘magic sickness’ is often used to subdue powerful sorcerers when no other means is effective. I say that it’s a last resort, because the enchantment itself takes some tricky spellwork and rare ingredients. Malus, however, only needed to reach out to me, but Its magic corrupts instantly. Like Kilgharrah said, Malus is the essence of evil.”
Arthur nods in understanding. “It left you weak and feverish. But how did you lost control of it?”
“Yes. My magic took on a life of its own to protect itself. I was too weak to fight it. It took me over, which is why, when you tried to help me...”
“You couldn’t stop yourself,” Arthur suggests firmly. He wants Merlin to know that this wasn’t his fault; that he had no control over what he did to him.
Merlin wants to say that it doesn’t change the fact he hurt him, but he holds back. He had time while Arthur was recovering to mull over the events. It really did not matter anymore; the king is alive. If he had spent the last two thousand years fretting over what-ifs, he never would have lived.
Needing a change of subject, Merlin says with a half-smile, “You know where we are?”
Arthur looks around, suddenly remembering. “Yes, now that you mention it, I had been wondering.”
“We made it, Arthur. We made it to Windermere.”
“The seer’s village. But how did we get here?”
“You’ll have me to thank for that,” says a female voice Arthur’s never heard before, and he turns around to find a young woman, maybe nineteen or twenty, with dark brown hair and eyes so deep they can only be described as purple. “Welcome to my village, Arthur Pendragon. I’ve been expecting you.”
...
They settle down at the river’s edge, and the girl with the violet eyes tells them her story.
My name is Sybil. When I was born in the village twenty years ago, my parents named me Evelyn. I haven’t gone by that name in a long time.
Winters are hard here. About fifteen years ago, a particularly harsh one brought a bad strain of influenza. Many people in the village died, including my father. I was very young, three, maybe four years old. I don’t recall anything about him. As far as I can remember, it’s always been my mother and I: two women against the world. My mother, Aileen, raised me to be self-reliant. She gave birth to me late in her life, and she was always afraid she might die and I wouldn’t be ready to face the world on my own.
I never had much of a childhood. My mother was the village doctor. “Healer” might be a more appropriate term. She taught me everything she knew. We’ve never had much in the way of modern medicine and vaccines, but our village has been here a long time, and my mother came from a long line of healers. They studied Eastern medicine, focused more on herbs and roots - natural remedies. We’ve always been ill-equipped for the stronger diseases, but my mother was very good, and she taught me everything I know. I was assisting her with patients at six; with childbirth by nine. She was well-respected, and loved by everyone.
Five years ago, we had another bad winter, and the same strain of influenza hit us hard. My mother and I did our best, but she was old, and dealing with all the sick…it was inevitable. I lost my mother to the same disease as my father.
I was orphaned at the age of 14, but I knew how to take care of myself, and the village helped me with what they could in exchange for my healing services. I was never as well loved as my mother. She just had this way with people, you know? I was always a quiet child, moody, much more like my father. But they needed me, and I did my best for them.
Three months after my mother died, I started to have visions. Small things at first. What time it would rain the next day. The fact that rabbits were getting at the garden, which was why we were losing so much of our crop. They were just feelings at first - strong feelings I would have throughout the day about one thing or another. I could never explain how I knew any of it, but I eventually learned that I could trust these feelings.
Then I started having dreams. I’d see who was going to get sick next and what they were going to get sick from. I dreamt of a mild case of stomach flu one night, and the next day half the village was throwing up from tainted meat they’d eaten the night before.
The dreams were helpful at first. I could stock up on medicines I needed ahead of time, know when I would need to ask one of the older women to help with childbirths, things like that.
But then one night I dreamt about things happening in another village. People arguing, fighting…killing each other. I didn’t know any of these people, but the dream was so horrible…so real. I woke up shaking, covered in sweat, and I knew that what I had seen was real…and there was nothing I could do about it. I went about my day as normal, tried to forget about it. But then the next night I had another dream. An earthquake…a whole village swallowed by the earth.
I stopped sleeping. I was terrified of those dreams. I hated watching terrible things happen, knowing there was nothing I could do to help all those people. My healing got sloppy. The villagers saw that I was struggling. I started training Margaret, one of the older women in our village, and she started taking over most of my responsibilities.
The village talked about me. How I had lost my touch. How I couldn’t get over the loss of my mother. How I screamed in my sleep. I went without sleeping for so long I lost track of the days.
And then one day I had a vision while I was awake. One minute I was walking next to the river, and the next I was on my knees, watching a mother and her daughter die in agony. When I came around, half the village was watching me. Margaret says I was screaming and crying, begging for the vision to stop. She gave me a sleeping draught, and I had the first dreamless sleep I’d had in months.
But when I woke up, everything had changed. I could see it in the eyes of the villagers, the way they looked at me…like I was crazy. No one trusted me anymore. Parents stopped bringing me their sick children. Pregnant mothers turned to Margaret for advice. Margaret made sure I still got my share of the food, but I could tell that many of the villagers didn’t think I should have it. They talked about me when they thought I couldn’t hear them, but my visions showed me what they really thought. I had failed them. I was weak. I was nothing like my mother.
Three weeks later, I had my most vivid dream yet. I saw one of the young boys wandering away from the village, and watched him die at the hands of a monstrous bear. I woke up screaming. I grabbed my shotgun without thinking and ran for the woods. Some of the villagers heard me and followed. I found the boy just as the bear was poised to strike, and I killed it just in time.
The villagers were stunned…but grateful. Maybe it was because I was finally able to do something with my visions. Maybe it was because I could finally accept them. Whatever the reason, my dreams became less intense, my visions more bearable. The villagers began to trust me, and I started healing again.
Years later, they still compare me to my mother. Except now they tell me I’m clearly her daughter. They apologize for doubting me. I use my dreams and visions to help my village. Some of the village women started calling me Sybil, after the great prophetess, and the name stuck. I left my old name behind me. Evelyn was a naïve little girl, a girl who no longer exists.
Three weeks ago, I began to have dreams about you, Merlin. A week later, I began to dream about Arthur. I saw visions of your days in Camelot, of all the good you did for Albion. I saw all the good you’ve done in the years since, Merlin. I began to feel as if I knew you both personally. Somehow I knew it was only a matter of time before I finally met you, and I ached for the day to come.
I watched Arthur come back to life. Watched you visit Camelot. And then that…that thing crawled Its way out of the Earth. I knew then…I knew that you two were the world’s hope. That you would find your way to me. That I was meant to help you. Two nights ago, I saw Arthur collapse in Merlin’s arms. I put Margaret in charge and left right away. I followed the growing storm and found you the way I’d seen you in my vision. I told Merlin who I was. I promised him that I would save you, Arthur. Merlin carried you himself, and I led you here. It was a combination of Merlin’s magic and my mother’s medicine that saved you.
I believe that there’s a reason I’ve been given these visions. Not just to help my village, but to help you both. To help you save the world. Rest for awhile. Tonight, I will tell you what I know about Malus.
