Work Text:
The sharp point of the serket’s stinger pierced his skin with ease, its venom flooding his veins in seconds. For such giant creatures, their precision was immaculate. His body folded over, forehead grazing his knees as a silent scream clawed its way out of his throat, mouth open wide with barely a whisper escaping.
The pain was immediate and immense, like needles jammed into every inch of his skin. A violent blaze erupting from inside, burning him alive. Every movement encouraged the magically bound chain still tight around him to constrict further, making it all the more difficult to breathe.
This was bad. He had to get out, had to get back to Camelot.
The scuttling of the serkets sent a shiver up his spine. The leaves coating the forest floor shifted with their movements as they danced around him, awaiting the opportune moment to strike again.
Suddenly, something shifted, the deathly fire inside slipping into a gentle warmth. Maybe the venom had unlocked something. Maybe it was his body’s last-ditch attempt at saving itself. All he knew was that for a few seconds he felt nothing but the building of a giant surge of magic.
Back arching and head pointing up to the night sky, his eyes flashed gold as a wave of power echoed all around him. The chain shattered in an instant, bursting away from his body, leaving the shimmering pieces strewn across the dirt. The serkets did not get off any easier. They shrieked as an invisible force drove them backwards, the piercing whine cutting through the silence of the forest. Some shrivelled in on themselves, bodies shuddering against the magic that was too strong for them to handle, whilst the others managed to get away, scattering amongst the trees for safety.
Magic spent; he barely had the strength left to keep his eyes open. His chin dropped to his heaving chest as it struggled to draw in a full breath and his newly freed hands reached for the ground to help steady his failing body. Not that they were much use. His arms buckled instantly like a new-born foal taking its first steps and before he could put a stop to the jarring movement, he was tumbling to the side, the leaves cushioning his fall as the glow of the moon high above him swiftly dimmed.
Walking as if he had indulged in too much mead at the tavern, his feet stumbled over the rocks on his path. Though peering down, there didn’t seem to be any rocks. Maybe he had stumbled over nothing? Over air? Over his own feet? He wasn’t sure.
Honestly, he wasn’t sure how he’d gotten there. He could have sworn it was night-time only a moment ago. The leaves cold against his cheek as he’d laid against the ground, the trees swaying above him in the breeze.
The trees still towered over him now, but the sparseness of the leaves were doing little to block the harsh sunlight. It pierced into the back of his eyes with sharp spikes, making the world before him blur at the edges.
He couldn’t remember pushing himself up from the ground but, looking down, he noticed small specks of dirt coating his palms. He couldn’t remember walking through the night but now, through squinted eyes, he could see the turrets of Camelot in the near distance. He couldn’t remember why everything hurt so darn much but now, as he tried to put one foot in front of the other, there was a niggling feeling somewhere amongst the pain at the back of head that he needed to warn someone about something. Something important.
Greens faded into yellows then into browns, but the brightness never lessened, and the pain never dimmed. A dull chatter filled the air as he staggered forward and suddenly he noticed he wasn’t alone. Figures bustled around him, moving too quickly to focus on. They shouted and laughed and every new sound had him grabbing at his head to keep it from splitting open.
The world lurched to the side but a strong grip on his shoulder seemed to right it easily. It failed to right his insides though and he swallowed hard against the nausea that bubbled in his stomach. His eyes blinked against the brightness above as he peeked up at the face that the hand belonged to, recognising the faded outline of blond curls and a stubborn gaze.
“—ou okay?”
The words swam through the air, only some of the letters making it to his ears. He might have answered. Or— he would have answered, had he known where his voice had disappeared to.
He was grateful to the man though. His feet had started to tingle, the numbness shooting up his legs making it harder to walk. And he didn’t think he would have made it far without the man taking almost all of his weight.
“Lie back, Merlin.” Gaius’ softly spoken words washed over him.
Gentle hands guided him down and his breath hitched as the change in position made his head swim. The pillow scratched at his cheek and, though more comfortable than his previous leafy headrest, it did little to cushion the tightness settling in his limbs.
He blinked slowly, eyes not quite managing to track the man’s movements around the room. The sunlight streaming in through the window was still too bright and if he could feel his arms, he would have attempted to shield his gaze.
Something cold pressed against his forehead and it made him jump, the movement sending painful spasms through his body. A quiet groan lodged in his throat as he tried to curl over into a ball in a weak attempt at protecting himself from the pain.
A part of him knew it was useless— there was no escaping it.
Another part needed to do anything he could to make it stop. He needed it to stop.
This feeling— this dark, inky mess pulling him deeper down into the depths of nothingness, it was familiar. He had been here before, in this agonising in-between state. Not yet claimed by death but no longer assured of his place amongst the living.
Last time he had been dealt such a poisonous blow he had almost lost his way. Even if Gaius hadn’t have informed him of how bad it had ended up, Arthur’s brief hint of concern or the haunted look that had remained in Gwen’s eyes for days would have surely given it all away.
Soft reassurances accompanied the cool cloth as it returned to his forehead and though it couldn’t cure the spike still wedged in the back of his brain, it did help calm the fire still raging across his skin.
The nausea must have returned while he was out because the next time he was aware of anything, it was as last night’s dinner decided to make a reappearance. Someone grabbed him — multiple hands, actually — turning him on his side, tilting his head over the edge of the bed, rubbing soothing circles into his back as foul-tasting vomit splashed onto the floor below.
It clung disgustingly to his tongue and his stomach couldn’t decide whether it felt better or worse after its forceful revolt.
There was movement all around him, voices floating overhead as he scrunched his eyes tight. The awful pounding against the inside of his skull was growing louder, the pain so intense it was getting hard to concentrate on anything.
“—should tell Arthur.”
Arthur. There was something he needed to tell Arthur.
But the thought of opening his mouth to tell anyone anything sent his stomach roiling.
“It’s okay, I’ve got that.” Gwen voice sounded kindly from somewhere in front of him.
He cracked his eyes open with some difficulty and found himself face to face with her crouching down at the side of his bed. Strands of hair had fallen messily out of her braid and were bouncing in front of her eyes as she scrubbed back and forth along the floor. Cleaning up the mess he had made. He didn’t have enough strength in him to feel embarrassed.
He watched her hands move, forwards, backwards, forwards, backwards, the action blurring in front of him. His lower lip trembled as he bit down on it, trying desperately not to ruin Gwen’s hard work.
Noticing him awake, Gwen smiled up at him as she wiped a clean cloth over her hands. The bed dipped slightly as she came to perch alongside him, her fingers moving up to brush his sweat-slick fringe away from his forehead. “Hey.”
Her touch was ever so delicate, as if she was afraid of hurting him further. As if that was possible. There was nothing she could do to cause him any more pain than he was already in.
So, apparently he was wrong there.
Behind the thick layer of agony hanging over him, there was always more just waiting to push through.
It bloomed in the centre of chest, forcing its way past his heart, prising his ribs apart so that they were centimetres away from splintering through his skin. It left his breath sitting stale in his lungs as they struggled to expand against the growing mass of discomfort filling up the space.
He couldn’t feel his fingers, the exhaustion weighing so heavily it had left his extremities cold and numb. If he could move his hands, he would have attempted to prise his eyes open as it seemed they had been glued shut during his latest bout of unconsciousness.
His head spun as it rested against his pillow and the pounding against his skull that had drifted into the background was now returning in full force. He wanted to cry, wanted to scream, wanted to beg for someone to make it all stop.
His skin felt too hot where it was stretched over his aching bones. The sweat gathering on his forehead and in his hair left an uncomfortable itchiness burrowing beneath his scalp. The ache in his head was creeping downwards, sitting behind his eyes and across his neck. The buh-boom buh-boom of his heartbeat pulsed relentlessly in his ears, drowning out all other sounds floating in through the window or the open door.
But underneath all of that, there was something else there. A feeling. Something telling him that he wasn’t alone. They hadn’t said a word, hadn’t even moved an inch, but there was definitely a presence in the room with him. He didn’t have the energy to be afraid so all he could do was hope they were there to help.
Feet shuffled across the floor, but they didn’t belong to the mysterious presence. No, he recognised that sound too well, the swish of the cloak as they moved, the huff of breath as they came to a stop near the head of the bed.
The quiet voice as it instructed: “hold his nose.”
He would have groaned if he’d possessed the strength as gentle hands shifted under the back of his head to raise it off the pillow. His nose was pinched closed and his chapped lips cracked further as they parted involuntarily in his desire to breathe. The edge of a cool vial was tipped against his tongue as the unfamiliar potion trickled to the back of his throat.
It was disgusting. Part of him wish he’d had the energy to choke on it instead of obediently swallowing it down.
Whatever it was, he had little faith that this foul-tasting potion was going to douse the fire still raging inside of him. He could feel the venom’s destructive path as it moved throughout his body, like sludge in his veins. It clung to his joints, his bones, leaving him sore and tired and unable to move.
The room was quiet, just more shuffling as they both made themselves comfortable, until the mystery intruder spoke up.
“What happened?”
Ah. Not so mysterious then. But what was Arthur doing in his room? And why did he sound…off?
“I’m not sure.” Water trickled near his head, then something cool dabbed against his temple. He wasn’t sure when it had disappeared, but he was grateful for its return. “He didn’t come home last night. Sir Leon found him like this in the lower town this morning.”
Silence returned and he found himself drifting.
“Will he be okay?”
He didn’t stay awake long enough to hear the answer.
Morgause’s dark eyes held no sympathy as he writhed on the forest floor, razor sharp chain pushing deeper and deeper through his chest. The whispered words falling from her mouth sent bolts of lightning through his body, blurring his vision and flaying his skin.
Morgana appeared from the shadows, cloak draping behind her as she took her place alongside her fellow witch. Reaching into the darkness she brought forward a thick, grotesque root coated in a black viscous goo that dripped rhythmically onto the shrivelled leaves. Drip, drip, drip.
Her smile widened. Any essence of compassion long since stripped away. She gripped the root tight within her grasp, squeezing and squeezing and squeezing until it let out an ear-splitting scream—
He jolted back into semi-consciousness. Remnants of the nightmarish images clinging to him like a too-heavy cloak, suffocating him. His chest heaved, rising up and down in quick succession as he lay supine against the mattress.
He needed to tell them what happened in the forest. He needed to warn them of the danger they were all in!
If he could just open his eyes.
Everything hurt. He could feel it, the venom, working hard to finish him off. Digging beneath his fingernails and behind his eyelids. Burning him from the inside out. Every muscle in his body tensed firmly, contracting without warning, and before he knew it his stomach was forced to expel its meagre contents.
His throat bobbed as he retched painfully. Again and again and again. But there was nothing left. Just the burning of the potion making a reappearance and pitiful, disgusting dribbles of bile hanging from his lips.
Hands grabbed at him again. Saving him from choking. Whispering soothing words into his ear. Echoes of his friends doing their best to tether him to a world that insisted on fading away.
“What can we do?” Arthur’s firm voice asked from somewhere behind him.
Something wet dabbed at his lips, wiping at his chin. Cleansing his skin.
Shame his insides were still tainted.
“—I’ve tried. I’m not sure what else—”
The grip on his shoulder tightened.
“He’s burning up again.” Gwen commented, cool fingers grazing his brow.
“Must be something—”
Then, someone was crying, quiet sobs softly filling the air.
He wondered if they were weeping for him.
“—might not survive the night.”
It was the last thing he was aware of for a while.
He wasn’t alone.
In fact, he had rarely been left alone since his unsteady return to Camelot. A thought that warmed his heart – if it could still be warmed underneath the inferno.
But something was different this time. The energy filling the room, it was dark, twisted, the smallest hint of magic barely perceptible underneath the pure hatred enveloping it.
“I don’t know how you managed to escape.” Morgana snarled as her venomous words dripped with abhorrence. He could almost picture her standing above him, lips curling in a bitter blend of disgust and delight. “But you’re not going to breathe a word of what happened to anyone.”
His insides turned cold for the first time in hours. Where was Arthur, or Gwen or Gaius? There was nothing he could do, no way to fight off whatever horrors Morgana was going to inflict upon him – he lacked even the strength to open his eyes!
And now—
He had discovered her secret. And she wasn’t going to fail a second time.
Ancient words were whispered under her breath and any oxygen in the room vanished in an instant, an invisible noose pulled tight around his neck, silencing his lungs. A crushing weight pressed against his chest, pushing deeper and deeper as if attempting to re-emerge out the other side of his spine.
It made his head spin and his ears ring, the buzzing growing ever louder as it sent all other pain fading into the background. He had never truly appreciated the act of breathing before and my god, if he got out of this, he was never going to take it for granted again.
His hands twitched under the blankets, franticly determined to grab at his neck, to remove the unseeable barrier across his throat. But they wouldn’t budge. A dark cloud rumbled across his mind; shadows cast over every corner as it slowly but surely the last ebbs of consciousness dimming into nothing.
The door creaked.
He barely heard her gasp over his own desperate attempt at sucking down air.
“Lady Morgana?”
“Gaius!” The sickly-sweet shift in her voice was laughable. How many people had she fooled with this charade. “I heard about what happened. I’ve come to offer my help.”
There was a pause. And if Merlin had been able to focus on anything other than the blessed oxygen now available to him, he could have pictured the scene occurring above him with clear precision. Morgana with her wide eyes and wily smile, Gaius’ barely concealed raised eyebrow as he regarded the girl in front of him.
“—can manage. Arthur is sitting with the King if you wished to join him.”
No more was said. The door creaked again.
A hand gripped his own.
He was fading. Which was a strange thought to have.
To realise the brevity of your own mortality, how fleeting it could be. It should have scared him, should have had him clawing past the poison that had long since taken over. But instead—
"Ic þe þurhhæle þin licsare.”
Everything was numb. His body, his mind. He was floating, finally free from pain.
It had grown dark outside at some point. Even behind closed eyelids he could tell that the day had drifted away.
“Please Merlin—”
The darkness shrouded him. Hiding him away.
Pulling him down into the nothingness.
“—don’t have much more.”
The poison was still there, underneath everything. He could feel it, stealing the last of his soul. But there was no fighting it, not anymore.
He was too tired.
Morgana had won.
"Ic þe þurhhæle þin licsare.”
As the darkness claimed him as its own, one final thought entered his mind.
That he was sorry.
Sorry to have failed to save those he cared about.
He woke slowly, feeling every ache and pain of a freshly healing body.
His fingertips tingled as he wiggled them against the mattress. His toes too. The pounding behind his eyes had settled to a low simmer, as had the previously crushing weight against his chest. He could feel everything—every bone and every muscle and every hair standing on end.
And it felt good, to feel.
No numbness. No darkness. No poison dragging him down.
Just the aches and pains and bone-tiredness from fighting too hard. He was just grateful he hadn’t fought it alone.
His eyes scrunched tight once, twice, before slowly blinking open into a squint. The midday sun lit up the room, streaming in through the window and warming the air.
Its brightness rivalled only by the three faces smiling back at him.