Chapter Text
In Merlin’s more-than-humble opinion, having feasts is a royal pain. There’s all this chatter and commotion about serving nobility and making sure they can all stuff their faces on enough turkey and greens and potatoes to feed an entire village, wiping the whole place spotless, cleaning the nooks and crannies of the throne room, fixing up all of the rooms and assigning servants and tending fires and collecting wood and hot water and a thousand other miscellaneous details that only the Cook can organize, because she's the only one in this huge castle who can remember these sorts of details.
Though feasts do have one redeeming quality - the leftovers. When the feasts draw to an end, at least, the servants can stuff themselves on the remains, and boy is that definitely Merlin’s favorite part of the evening.
While they’re in session, though, Merlin would prefer to be pretty much anywhere else. Being a servant in the middle of hundreds of mouth-smacking nobles is just smelly, and mostly inconvenient. Case in point: having to serve Arthur Pendragon. Politely.
Merlin’s trying to eavesdrop on the King, thank you, but Arthur just isn’t making that easy. Instead of allowing his servant downtime, like a good master, he waves one lazy hand over his shoulder right as Uther's saying something important. Merlin, who’d had his eyes narrowed intently in the King's direction, gives a full-body jolt. It’s only due to his excellent reflexes and superb ability as a manservant that he stops the wine from sloshing over the brim of the cup he has clenched in two hands. He scurries to Arthur’s side, head bowed subserviently and everything.
“More wine, sir?” he asks in a perfectly deferential tone, trying to prevent his tongue from curling in on itself at the taste of the words. Ugh. Subservience. To be frank, he doesn’t know how George exists. Is it even possible to be this polite all the time?
“Yes,” Arthur says curtly. Not even a please, but then that's to be expected - his eyes, too, are fixed on the conversation between Uther and his uncle.
Merlin dips his head and tops off his water glass, just a tad too full, so that when Arthur picks it up he’ll definitely get some on his gloves.
From Arthur’s side, Morgana requests some as well, her eyes not even deigning to meet Merlin’s under the pretence of being Uther’s prideful ward. Merlin nods and fills hers the perfect amount. But before he can reclaim the jug, she grabs his jacket beneath the table – immediately, he lessens the flow of wine, so that he has an excuse to stay bent next to her mouth – and whispers “I do not like this.”
Merlin withdraws his pitcher and shrugs almost imperceptibly. He doesn’t either, but there’s not much they can do.
“And there is no choice but to conclude, my Lord – though ultimately the decision is yours, of course – that the outer villages must fend for themselves. Especially during this season of Celhain, the enemies of Camelot are ruthless, brimming with the need to strike.” Agravaine’s fist pounds lightly on the table to emphasize his point. “It is sad, but we simply cannot spare any warriors for their aid.”
“I see,” Uther says neutrally. An furrow etches between Morgana’s brows as Merlin retreats back into the shadows at Gwen’s side.
“Besides, sir, they are peasants,” Agravaine continues, waving a hand in the air, as if to dismiss the problem of the starvation of mere peasants from their minds. “Surely they can survive another winter without aid. They have done so countless times in the past.”
Gwen bristles. Beside him, Merlin can see her knuckles whitening around the jug she holds. Her lips are pursed in fury. Swallowing his own anger, Merlin bumps his shoulder against hers.
“I only fear that they will resort to magic to save their families,” Uther grimaces, staring with distaste at his wine cup. “They have done so before, and I would not put it past them to do so again. They do not understand the dangers of sorcery. Such simple-minded folk think only of the next harvest.”
“But surely, several scattered sorcerers in outlying villages cannot do too much harm? They do not possess much strength in body or mind, surely they could not grow frightfully powerful in magic during the course of one cold season.”
Uther takes a long sip of wine, then uses the back of his hand to wipe his lips. When he sets down the cup, he is staring Agravaine coolly in the eyes. Merlin suppresses a shiver - his gaze reminds him of that of a Manticore, calm and predatorial. “I do not underestimate magicians of any caliber. You would do well, brother, to remember the grave import of this law. I will not take any risks in this vein. We send a small contingent within this fortnight.”
“Of course not. But, Sire, surely the near-certain risk of invasion outweighs the paltry chance of sorcery arising -”
“Do you challenge my judgment?” Uther asks, voice almost softly, his gaze turning snakelike as he looks Agravaine dead in the eyes. “Tell me, brother, do you think I would err in these matters?”
“Of course not,” Agravaine stutters quickly, bowing his head obsequiously. “I only meant to, er, suggest -”
Uther leans back in his chair, still fixing Agravaine with his commanding gaze. “Powerful sorcerers can come from any walk of life. This is why its corrupting power is to be so feared. Given your...background, you of all people must understand, Agravaine. You would do well to remember this.”
Agravaine’s lips twitch as though he’s hiding a sneer. Fortunately for the placement of Agravaine’s head atop his spine, Uther does not appear to notice. “I understand.”
Satisfied, Uther sits back, waving a goblet at the heaps of food in front of them. “Come now, let us set this matter aside. Enjoy the feast, Agravaine, because in several days we return to the trials of raising a kingdom!”
Merlin’s the one shaking, now. He’s not entirely sure what’s wrong with him, whether it’s anger over Uther’s disregard for his people – people that could so easily be Merlin's people, or his mother’s, his village, his Ealdor – or numbing fear of discovery. It’s Gwen’s turn to tap her head against his, letting him derive momentary comfort from the contact.
He must’ve closed his eyes while trying to rein in his breathing, because when he comes to again Arthur’s staring at him with something akin to concern in his eyes. Though he looks away quickly when he spots Merlin returning his gaze.
“Well,” Arthur begins, stretching dramatically in his seat, “I am afraid I am quite tired. I must wake early to report the grain and corn counts for the days of Celhain festivity, so I will retire now. Father,” he says, inclining his head respectfully. “Lord Agravaine. Come along, Merlin, I need a bath.”
With no small amount of gratefulness, Merlin accompanies Arthur from the feast. As they leave, the hall fills with the sound of Morgana dismissing herself and Gwen as well, the eating and the drinking and singing and boasting and Agravaine’s insidious words like poison in the heart of Camelot.
Emrys.
Through a thick haze, Merlin’s consciousness blinks and stirs. He can’t tell if he’s awake or asleep. Everything around him is kind of thick, all syrupy and hard to move through. But it’s not the slowness of exhaustion that coats his limbs; rather, some strange external force. That alone makes him think he’s probably asleep. He’s conscious of the fact that he’s sleeping, through. Strange. Typically, when he’s dreaming, he has no idea of the fact - he just spends mindless time racing through the fields of Ealdor with Will or hiding in the vaults of Camelot with Freya or trying desperately not to smack Arthur for some stupid comment and succeeding only for the sake of propriety or pulling on ropes that bind him to the pyre.
Emrys.
Oh. Someone’s calling his name. His “real” name, the magic one. No one’s supposed to know who he is, though. Isn’t there some distance limit on mindspeak? Maybe it’s that Druid boy again, the one Morgana loved. But...no, the voice sounds different. Deeper, more adult. Even though years have passed since Merlin last saw the young green-cloaked sorcerer, there’s no way his voice grew that deep. Unless he’s using a voice-masking spell, but Merlin’s willing to wager a week’s worth of stable-mucking duty that magic can’t cloak mannerisms through mind-speak. Mind-speak is, according to the Druids, intimate and familiar. Being able to deceive would kinda ruin the point.
Emrys.
Perhaps he should respond to the mysterious voice. Gaius would kill him, though. Responding to a mysterious calling in the middle of the night, and on top of that to a name no one is supposed to know? Yeah, sounds like the type of thing that would clot Gaius’s arteries with stress faster than the fried potatoes from Cook's kitchen.
Emrys.
Now the strange voice is begging. He should definitely say something back, Merlin thinks blearily. People don’t beg him often. Not unless it’s really important, like life-or-death things. This is probably what this is about. Someone, somewhere, is about to die. Uh, how does he go about mind-speaking, again?
Hi, Merlin thinks vaguely, and suddenly there’s relief flooding his brain. The sheer force of the emotion nearly buffets him over. Well, as over as he can get in this strange bleary nothingness that surrounds him on all sides. Which is to say, not much movement at all.
You are Emrys?
The voice sounds far away and vague. Also faded. Like the speaker’s talking to him from far away but also underwater. Or a fish with surprisingly good vocal cords and lungs, ones that work aboveground. How would you even talk with lungs that don’t process oxygen? You need to have air rubbing together to make sound. Although technically you could talk underwater too - he and Will spent enough time splashing and hollering underwater in the lake near Ealdor to work that out - but that would make audible speech much more difficult. Less vibrations between water particles and all that.
Emrys?
Here, Merlin says apologetically, abruptly realizing that he never responded to the strange person’s initial pleas. Why can’t he think straight? Who are you?
My apologies, Emrys. I am Dalven, says the voice, a note of sincere regret audible in their mind-link. I come with a warning. The Fires of Idirsholas have been lit. The Knights of Medhir march for Camelot.
Merlin understands none of those words. Well, he understands most of them individually, but most of the proper nouns go way over his head. Uh, thanks. What...who are the Knights? And what’s this about a fire?
Camelot is in grave danger.
While the meaning grows clearer, the voice fades. Merlin has to squint and concentrate to distinguish one word from the next. What do you mean?
You must learn about the Fires of Idirsholas, Emrys. Extinguish them.
Merlin starts to get the feeling that Dalven's not hearing a word he's saying. Like reading a letter intended to join a conversation that was written beforehand. Prerecorded sentences that don't make sense in context. Can’t you just tell me how to put them out?
I am afraid that this is not knowledge that I possess. I can only bring to you a warning.
Merlin blinks rapidly, trying to work through both the confused fugue and his head and the near-inaudibility of the other’s muddled words. Huh, that was coherent answer. How do you know all of this?
I contacted you as soon as I could, the voice responds, nearly inaudible. Back to being disjointed, then. We ride ever closer to Camelot.
What...we? Why are you here? he shouts, desperate for some sort of cohesive response.
But it is too late - the voice is gone.
Merlin wakes with a start, heaving for breath. His lungs feel as though they’ve been inundated with salt water, air stinging and sharp as he inhales. For a second, Merlin panics about friction and never being able to talk again ever, until fresh air smacks him in the face unpleasantly. Cold air, too. Merlin scrambles up and out of bed, eyes frantic and flitting in the darkness. Is he awake? He feels awake, but he’s put up with enough magical shenanigans to know that his senses can’t always be trusted. And given that strange message, he really needs confirmation.
Merlin all but barrels down the steps, bare feet slapping painfully against the cobbled stone. On top of the small bed in the corner, Gaius is snoring gently. Merlin walks over to him, footfalls a bit quieter, and pokes him in the stomach.
Gaius snorts. Briefly, Merlin feels bad about waking him at this hour of the night, until he doesn’t. His brain is mostly full of panic and less full of reason. “Gaius,” he hisses, then taps the man on the nose. “Gaius!”
“What?” Gaius snorts irritably, blinking awake. Then, his bleary eyes fix on his apprentice. “Merlin!” he says in exasperation. “Heaven’s sake, Merlin, it’s the dead of the night! What could possibly call you to wake me up so early?”
Merlin fidgets. “How do you know it’s the middle of the night? There aren’t any windows, Gaius, it could just as easily be midafternoon.”
“Call it the intuition of an old man,” Gaius grumbles crossly at the overly-cheerful face of his apprentice. “Come off it, Merlin. What’s wrong?”
Merlin takes a moment to ponder his words. Gaius snorts again. “Gods help me, he’s thinking. It must be serious.”
“Hey, I think plenty.”
“Oftentimes, all too late to avoid trouble, but yes,” Gaius concedes with a shake of his head. “We haven’t got all night, Merlin, spit it out.”
“Someone spoke to me,” Merlin says quietly.
Gaius waits expectantly, but no further words are forthcoming. When it becomes clear that Merlin doesn’t know what else to say, Gaius rolls his eyes. “I should hope you’re not hard of hearing, you’ve got two ears and they’re large enough.”
“Not...with my ears.”
All traces of humor vanish from Gaius’s face, along with any vestiges of fatigue. “Mindspeak?” he asks, searching Merlin’s face in the hope that his suspicions are incorrect.
Merlin nods, playing with his hands. At least he doesn’t have to pretend to be cheerful around Gaius with the anxiety gnawing in his stomach. “A man who called himself Dalven. A Druid. He said something about the Fires of Ishirdalos.”
Gaius’s face turns deathly pale, and that’s Merlin’s cue to start panicking, too. “The Fires of Idirsholas?” Gaius asks slowly, every note in his voice begging for Merlin to refute him.
“That’s the one,” Merlin confirms quietly. “And the Knights of Mider, or something.”
“The Knights of Medhir,” Gaius corrects him absently, eyes wide and unseeing in sunken sockets. “This is not good.”
“So I gathered. What is that, Gaius? What Fires are they, how do we put them out?”
“The Fires of Idirsholas cannot be extinguished through any ordinary means,” Gaius explains gravely. “They were lit once, long ago, with sorcery. The Knights of Medhir are tied to its flames. They are an unstoppable, magical force.”
“Well, how do we stop them? I mean, if they were riding around before and they’re not terrorizing people now, then someone must’ve gotten rid of them before.”
A long pause, during which Gaius fiddles extensively with the sleeves of his robes. “I do not know.”
Merlin swears in his head. “Does the library have anything?” he asks desperately.
Gaius shakes his head. “The books that might have contained the answer were burned.”
“In the Purge,” Merlin sighs. “I have to check. There must be something.”
“Merlin,” Gaius says in that tone of voice, like he’s teaching his apprentice the difference between hemlock and nightshade, like there’s an obvious answer his student should be getting instantly - one’s green and one’s purple, for example. “There is one who would know the answer.”
Merlin’s face closes off instantly. “I’m not asking the dragon, Gaius. He will be of no use.”
Gaius leans over the table to earnestly meet his apprentice’s gaze. Merlin looks away. “If you do not, Camelot would fall.”
“Someone else has to have the answers,” Merlin bites, crossing his arms defensively. “I refuse to see that selfish beast again.”
“You can search, Merlin, but not for long. You will find no one else with his knowledge.”
Merlin stands abruptly and crosses to the door in several quick strides. Without a sound, he leaves, ignoring the sound of his mentor calling his name as he goes.