Chapter Text
Sleep was a fractious, slippery thing, laying over him like a veil. Merlin felt as if the waking world was only a hair's breadth away, and his pain was a sentry stalking the border of his dreams. Yet his eyelids were too heavy to lift, and stirring himself seemed as if it were effort beyond his means. Instead, he lay there, asleep but not, as the night curled onwards towards the dawn.
It was the chilly fingers of sunrise that finally pried him from his torment. Gummy eyes resisted the parting of his lashes, and thirst was an ache in his throat. The table beneath his back was hard and steady, while the blankets still tucked tight around him trapped warm air next to his bare chest.
There was no sodden weight of a bloody bandage charting his belly, which he supposed was a good thing, but it hurt in a sullen, stormy way that suggested even a hint of movement would bring a world of agony down upon him. Under his skin, his magic felt as if it were a turbulent sea, all churning and choppy. It wanted to act, but like Merlin himself, it did not know how.
Cautiously, he rolled his head on his makeshift pillow, a silver dart of surprise arcing through his heart. Arthur's arms were folded on the edge of the table by Merlin's shoulder, his body slumped. Merlin could hear the soft rasp of every sleepy breath and could make out the sandy flutter of his eyelashes. Had he been here all night?
Despite his pain, warmth pooled in his chest at the thought, all fondness. He didn't remember much of when he and Gwaine had staggered back into the Miracle Court: just the general furore of panic. Arthur had been grim and pale, but beyond that, the recollections slipped through Merlin's fingers. Now he looked closer, he could see the frown pleating that brow, even in slumber, and dark shadows stained the skin beneath Arthur's eyes.
With a quiet grunt, Merlin tried to wriggle an arm free from under the blankets. Except, of course, Arthur had been sleeping with one eye open, barely dipping his toes into his dreams. That hint of movement was enough to make him stir, lifting his head to offer Merlin a bleary glare before memory reasserted itself.
'You're awake,' he rasped, leaning back and scrubbing at his face. 'Stay still. Don't move. What is it? Do you need Gaius?' One hand rested on the blanket over Merlin's heart, soothing him like a rider might try and calm a fretful horse. Perhaps, if he were a bit less injured, he would have tried to laugh off Arthur's wide-eyed concern, but he was too tired to feel anything other than pathetically grateful.
'Water?'
Arthur jolted as if he had been stung, stiff joints making him graceless as he staggered towards a jug and cup waiting nearby. Merlin watched him move, noticing how his hand shook as he poured out a measure: exhaustion, stress or both leaving that normally stoic reserve in pieces. He shuffled back to Merlin's side, slipping an arm under his shoulders and bracing his weight before lifting the drink carefully to Merlin's mouth.
'Sip it,' he ordered, tilting the cup at just enough of an angle that Merlin could drink without being drowned. It felt like the elixir of life itself, and the roar of his thirst gradually dulled to a growl. By the time the water was gone, he felt less as if he were about to turn to dust. However, that left his senses free to make their complaints about everything else, from the barb of agony under the bandage to the bruised ache of a battered body.
'How do you feel?' Arthur asked, wincing when Merlin grimaced. 'Bad?'
'Yeah.' He wet his lips, shifting fractionally as his magic twisted, sharper, beneath his skin. 'Like someone stuck a knife in me, and then someone else set it on fire.' He blinked stupidly at the ceiling, his gaze charting the line of the rafters. 'Tired, too. Like I've not slept.'
'No man sleeps well when he's wounded. You should try and get some more rest.'
Merlin huffed a mirthless laugh at that, one that dissolved into a quiet groan of discomfort when the pain bit at him anew. 'You should take your own advice.' There was no point asking Arthur about his anxious vigil; he would only protest anything of the sort, despite all the evidence to the contrary. 'What did I miss? I don't remember much. Did Gwaine and Leon go looking for the one who stabbed me, or did I dream that?'
Arthur settled into the chair at Merlin's shoulder, his fingertips running back and forth along the woven edge of the blanket, restless. It was Merlin who managed to slip his left hand free, catching hold of his wrist in a weak grip. Immediately, Arthur seemed to settle, wrapping Merlin's palm in both of his own: a reflection of how he had braced him when Gaius cleaned the wound. At least this time there was no searing sting of vinegar. There was just Arthur's warmth and his steady explanation.
'You remember right. Gwaine and Leon found him, or his body, anyway. His neck was broken, possibly from the way he fell when Gwaine hit him, though no one is particularly upset about that. As far as I'm concerned, he got what he deserved. However, it means we won't get any answers out of him. There's nothing on the corpse: no incriminating evidence in his pockets. His clothes are plain but serviceable: unremarkable. He's a man of perhaps thirty years old? Dark hair. Dark eyes. No scars.'
'Magic?'
Arthur hesitated, giving his head a minuscule shake. 'I don't know. What makes you ask? Did you sense something?'
'No. There was no time for that. He just – he moved so quietly. That's what I remember. I didn't hear him at all. There was only the knowledge of a shape going for Gwaine and the realisation that I had to stop him.'
'And you did that by putting yourself in his path.' A tiny thread of anger wove through those words. Merlin could hear the desperation honing their edge. 'You couldn't think of any other way? You couldn't use your own magic?'
'In the middle of the street? In Camelot?' Merlin raised both his eyebrows: all the incredulity he could muster. 'Where anyone could have seen?' He was too miserable to even shake his head. In truth, there hadn't been time for his power to surge. It had been so quick. 'Get Mordred to check the body. He'll be able to tell if he was a sorcerer.' He grimaced at the idea of asking the boy to deal with such a task, but it was not as if he could do it himself. 'Or Morgana, if you'd rather.'
Arthur pulled a face as if neither option appealed. 'It doesn't matter. I don't much care about the corpse beyond burying it, Merlin. I'm more worried about you.'
Merlin managed a hum, hating how the edges of his mind were starting to cloud, as if a few brief snatches of wakefulness were all he could manage. 'Put the body by the apple trees. They need feeding.'
There was a moment of tense, baffled silence at his side before a calloused palm brushed aside his fringe and rested against his brow. Arthur's skin felt pleasantly warm, and he wished he could lean into the purposeful caress. An ache had started to bang in his temples, unrepentant. The meek morning light stabbed at his eyes, and he shuffled a bit under the blankets, trying to seek out the fading heat.
'Merlin?' Arthur's hand dropped to his cheek, cupping his face, but he didn't have the wits to respond. All had turned to vapour, and it was Arthur's voice curled over his name that followed him down into the darkness.
This time, there was no half-there awareness of the world around him. Instead, it was as if he was caught in a golden web, not a prisoner but a treasure to be protected. All appeared warm and safe, his pain a distant storm rather than a consuming tempest. Yet slowly, the delicate strands of his cocoon began to fray. A sense of urgency bloomed in his chest, flourishing from a seed until it felt as if the space between his ribs was full of petals and thorns. It followed him back into wakefulness once more, where only the change in the shadows on the ceiling marked the passage of the day.
'There you are.' Gwaine's usually jovial brogue had softened to little more than a whisper, as if he were somewhere holy. 'Thought you were going to sleep the day away.'
'Where's Arthur?' His tongue was thick in his mouth. Fog roiled in his head. His eyes didn't want to focus and burnt like embers in their sockets.
'Bed. We practically had to drag him there, and even then, he made us promise to wake him when you roused.' Gwaine's hand rested on his shoulder, but it felt like a disembodied touch. He could see Gwaine right there, but it was as if he was a broken puzzle piece within the world, out of place. 'Merlin? Are you with me?'
Gwaine shouldn't look like that, his face the colour of snow and his beard stark against his pallor. His brown eyes burned with concern, and Merlin saw him turn a fraction, as if about to call over his shoulder for aid.
'No, don't.' He clutched at him, desperate. 'Something's wrong. Help me sit up.'
'I don't think –'
'Now!'
The whole room pulsed, though Merlin wasn't sure if it actually happened or if it was merely the ache in his head. He was used to funny feelings, but they had never been quite like this, not a shroud of dread but a blade, something pointed and honed. This wasn't about the house, or Camelot, or even Arthur. It was about himself.
'All right. Easy now. Easy!'
The blankets tumbled into his lap as Gwaine helped him upright, his strength making up for Merlin's lack. His body throbbed and keened at the shift of position. Sweat popped at Merlin's temples and along his back, making him shiver. Nausea cast a greasy pall across his tongue, and he swallowed hard, trying not to shake as he swung his legs over the edge of his makeshift bed.
'What? No, no, no. Sitting up is one thing. You can't stand!' Gwaine swore, scurrying around the table as if he planned to pin Merlin in place. His hand was outstretched to stop him, but something he saw in Merlin's face made him recoil.
Dimly, Merlin heard Gwaine call out for the others: a desperate plea for help, for Gaius, for someone to come and share in this unexpected burden, yet he barely paid it any mind. Instead, he slithered off the table, breathing hard as the pain thumped through him, beating its incessant drum. No logic drove him. He could not explain his desire to stand up, but the moment his bare feet touched the flagstones, the world went white.
Magic: it painted its flavour upon every breath and leapt through his veins like lightning, brimming with potential. Something sticky welled up between his toes, painting his skin, but he could not spare a thought for it. Not when he could feel the power down in the earth. It made him think of the first time he had opened the strange book of spells – the one nobody else could read. Back then, he had spoken of two great rivers meeting. He had called the Miracle Court the place where magic lived; now he realised just how right he had been.
He had felt the same thing before, at tumbled stone circles and sacred sites: little pools of power waiting to be used. But there, underneath Camelot itself, there was an ocean of it – as much a part of the earth as soil and stone. It was a living, beating heart, and now it reached out to aid him. Vaguely, he understood that he was not strong enough to bear it, yet it did not drown him in its flood. Instead, a tendril grew from its surface, arching upwards towards him, warm and welcoming. It climbed his leg like a vine, splaying out over his skin before plunging deep into the meat of him.
Pain pulled every muscle taut, scouring and scraping. He clenched his jaw and his fists. The table at his back supported his weight as his knees shook and his legs threatened to give way. It hurt, but some part of him knew it was necessary. With every passing moment, the sharp, panicked feeling deep within him began to ease, and the muted voices all around him started to make sense.
'You foolish boy!'
He had no idea where Gaius had come from, and he blinked three times, struggling to find his focus. Arthur was by his left elbow, his grip on Merlin's arm tight, practically holding him up. Gwaine was to his right, his hands braced around Merlin’s shoulder to keep him steady. The old healer wielded a herb knife with quick proficiency, slicing away the sodden bandage and peeling it from his skin.
'You have wrought all your hard work yesterday to ruin through your own stubborn nature! You should learn to do as you are told. You should –' His voice trailed off as he peeled back the cloth, his snowy eyebrows beetling upon his brow as he stared.
Merlin tilted his chin, blinking blearily at the mark on his skin. He had not really got a good look at it yesterday, but he knew enough about healing to understand that it should be red and puffy, the flesh seared from his frantic efforts. It should not look like that, old and silver, bar the thin threads of gold that wove through it like elegant embroidery.
'Oh.'
Gaius gaped at him, apparently torn between shock and genuine outrage. Arthur's fingers pressed gently against the wound's edge, making him twitch, but it didn't hurt nearly as much as it probably should. Instead, it felt bruised, as if he'd received a solid punch rather than a knife blade.
'What just happened?' Gwaine asked, his voice thin and strained.
'Never mind that.' Gaius lifted the hem of his robe a fraction, and Merlin glanced down at the floor, realising that he stood in a pool of tacky blood. It was his: his magic recognised it, but it had not been spilt today. It was from yesterday. Gwen had mopped it up, but it was as if the stones remembered and had drunk their fill. It had acted as a conduit: something to forge a connection to the power below the house. He could feel it in the back of his head like a whisper: a new, permanent part of himself.
'Merlin, look at me.' Gaius' hand was firm on his chin, turning his head this way and that as he examined his eyes. 'Can you speak?'
He wet his lips, scraping together his scattered wits. He felt as if he were a strand of cobweb, unmoored, at the mercy of the breeze. Focusing took a great deal of effort, but he managed it, ducking his head in a fractional nod. 'Yeah.'
'Then tell me what happened.'
'Don't know.' He screwed his eyes up tight, blocking out the sight of a room that wobbled at its edges. 'I really need to sit down.'
Someone eased him down onto a stool, careful hands bracing his weight and holding him steady as if they thought he might shatter to pieces. Arthur hunkered down at his side, and the comforting rasp of a blanket settled over his shoulders like a cloak. He looked up to see Lancelot pulling it tight beneath his chin, encouraging him to grip it with weak fingers. Leon was there too, hovering with the air of a man who longed to help but didn't know what to do for the best. Mordred stood by Gaius' side, watching Merlin with hawkish intensity.
'The house... I sensed it do something. More than usual, I mean,' Mordred explained at last, for which Merlin was grateful. He could speak, but he didn't have much strength to spare, nor the words to describe what had happened. 'It was helping,' he promised, 'but I've never felt it so urgent, before.'
'I had a funny feeling. A bad one. I don't know why. I only knew I had to be on my feet.'
Gaius made a disgruntled sound, but he remained a steady figure amidst all their panic: a source of wisdom, despite his ire. Gnarled fingers reached for the discarded bandage, revealing the stain on its inner surface. Wounds leaked all sorts of strange fluids as part of their natural healing, but the mucky greenish black was not what anyone wanted to see on their dressings. 'This morning you were brewing a fever. I had hoped it was a passing thing, but this? It is an obvious indication of infection sealed inside the wound.'
Merlin gagged a little at the sight. 'I only know I needed to stand up. There's a pool of power under the house here. Deep down. It reached out. Did ... whatever it did.'
'The blood.' Mordred wrinkled his nose, gesturing at the rusty smear on the flagstones. 'It's a very powerful way of forging connections.'
'Guinevere cleaned it up.' Leon shifted where he stood, shaking his head in confusion. 'I saw her do it.'
'You did, and she got most of it.' Mordred sounded frantic in his urge to explain. 'But some of it soaked in, beyond the reach of water and soap. The stone remembered. I know it seems sinister, but I promise it's not. It's just the way magic works sometimes. Every time a mage casts a spell, they are giving up part of themselves to the raw power of the world. And whenever an enchantment comes to fruition, the world gives something back. People always talk about the price of magic, but the druids taught me it's not that. Not really. It's an exchange.'
'Are you saying that the house took some of Merlin's blood, and so it healed his wound in recompense?' Lancelot crouched down by the edge of the stain, which already seemed to be shrinking back into the stone.
'No.' Merlin's denial felt parched on his lips. 'It didn't heal me. I did that. Probably. The blood ties me closer to the house and the power deep beneath it. It allowed a connection to form. That's all.'
He shivered under the blanket, moving to draw his knees up to his chest and grunting in discomfort when pain gnawed at his side. Part of him longed desperately for the comfort of a real bed, and it was Gaius who spoke up on his behalf, his voice neither querulous nor deferential.
'What matters is that the wound is healed. It is possible that Merlin awoke in such a state of distress because his power sensed the infection within him and sought to drive it out.' He frowned, his fingers twitching restlessly before he continued.
'Such a thing was beyond the reach of most mages, even before Uther's Purge. However, it could be that the source of magic beneath the house helped, gifting Merlin with some strength in his time of need. Yet there is more to healing than merely sealing the breach. He should rest. Let me check you over, my boy, and then someone will help you to a proper bed.'
'I'll do it,' Arthur promised, his hand resting lightly on the nape of Merlin's neck: a there-and-gone-again touch. 'What do you require, Gaius?'
The atmosphere in the room changed, uncertainty ebbing away as the knights found their resolve. They were, each of them, men of purpose: good at facing the problem in front of them and saving their doubts for a better time. Right now, Merlin was far from at his best, and they were all eager to help him.
'Lie back down on the table if you can, Merlin. I just want to check for swelling and assess your general health.'
Slowly, he eased himself upright, doing as he was told. His entire body jittered, as if he had received a terrible fright. His teeth kept chattering, and even the table offered little respite as he reclined on its harsh plane.
He listened with half-an-ear to Arthur giving the others instructions, wishing it felt less like his head was stuffed full of icy fog. He could just make out Arthur encouraging everyone to try and carry on as normal if they could, though there was an urgency to his voice that Merlin couldn't pin down.
Lancelot promised to meet with the servants and put their minds at ease: even the Miracle Court probably hadn't been able to hide the frantic chaos of their concern. Leon swore he would inform Morgana and Gwen, quietly, of this latest development. As far as Merlin could make out, they were back at the castle, though possibly not happy about it. Gwaine promised he wasn't going anywhere, and Arthur didn't try and force him. Instead, they spoke between themselves, leaving Merlin to Gaius' tender mercies.
'Can you describe how you feel?'
Merlin licked his lips, squinting up at the rafters. 'Bruised,' he decided at last. 'Thirsty. Cold. Tired... ow!'
'My apologies.' Gaius eased the strength of the gentle pressure he had applied over the wound, giving a quick nod. 'Bruised seems about right. The scar itself, despite its unusual appearance, is sound. If I was unaware of the circumstances, I would think it was an injury you had received years ago. Underneath, the tissue is firm and a touch swollen. It will probably remain so as your body heals the last of the damage more fully, which will take time.'
One eyebrow twitched upwards, all threatening promise, and Merlin smothered a wince. He was rarely a cooperative patient, but if he was honest, he did not feel up to much more than lying around in bed and sleeping. He doubted that Gaius had anything to fear from him overdoing it.
'Rest is best. Drink plenty of water, as well. If you need me, I am only a few steps away.' Gaius smiled at Merlin's baffled frown. 'It seems the house decided the healing rooms were simply too far off for comfort. Another of those strange doorways has opened between this room and your old bedchamber in my tower.'
'That's... useful.' Merlin sighed, far too tired to try and puzzle through the Miracle Court and all the little secrets that came to light day-by-day. He was tempted to ask if there was anything else he should know, but honestly? He was too exhausted to care. Whatever the house had done to help him heal had worn him out, leaving him hollow and weak.
'Can you manage?' Gaius asked, watching with beady eyes as Merlin struggled to sit upright. It hurt, but less than before. Now, he was like a newborn foal, all wobbly legs and uncertain steps, which only faltered a little less when Arthur appeared at his side, bracing him with that steady, dependable strength.
'Come on. Let's get you somewhere comfortable. Mordred, can you go ahead of us and open the doors? Make sure the fire in Merlin's room is lit, too.'
It would be. The house would see to that, but it was obvious Mordred wanted to feel useful, and Merlin hid a weak smile as he darted off to do as he was bid. Gwaine walked a bit behind them, ready to lend his support, but the stairs were only wide enough for two. Merlin braced his weight on the banister, clenching his jaw tight as he inched ever upwards.
'All right?' Arthur murmured, not bothering to hide the worry in his voice. 'I can carry you, but I might make things worse.'
'No, it's fine.' Merlin wrinkled his nose. 'I can manage.'
'It's not about "managing", Merlin.' Arthur sighed, but he didn't say anything else. Perhaps he could picture their positions reversed, or maybe he simply didn't have the energy to argue. He looked as tired as Merlin felt, worn down to the bone. He was also, Merlin realised belatedly, wearing only a sleeping tunic and breeches. He had vague memories of Gwaine saying they'd managed to convince Arthur to go to bed, but from the looks of him, he had barely slept.
A sigh of relief caught in Merlin's chest when they finally made it to the little antechamber that had become his home. He lay on his mattress like a landed fish, wincing as a knot of pain gnarled in his side, then slipped loose again. Gwaine had followed them, and he dragged Merlin's blankets up to his shoulders, tucking him in before resting a hand on the crown of his head, all gruff and fond.
'Didn't get a chance to say thanks,' he managed, his smile cracked at its edges. 'There's not many who'd jump in front of a knife for me.'
The corner of Merlin's lips twitched. 'More now than there were before you met us,' he pointed out, nestling deeper into his pillow and letting out a little sigh. 'You don't have to thank me.'
'Think I do, mate. Get some sleep, yeah? Let the Princess keep an eye on you.'
'He needs rest, too.'
'And maybe he'll get it now that you're right next door.'
There was a clank as someone set down a jug of water and a cup on his bedside table, but he couldn't peel his eyes open to see who it was. Soft voices, locked in a quiet discussion, blurred from focus as sleep began its assault.
And there, deep beneath the foundations of the house, he could feel the rhythm of power – a throbbing, pulsing sensation that matched his own heartbeat perfectly: forever connected by what had come to pass.