Chapter Text
Observe your enemies, for they first find out your faults.
Antisthenes
There are many good things about being court sorcerer of Camelot, the last dragonlord and a trusted counsellor of King Arthur and Queen Guinevere. Not having to worry about being executed for having magic, his own quarters with a view of the courtyard and being able to talk to the dragon whenever he wants, although that last one isn’t always a bonus. One of the bad things though, is that whenever a really dangerous, difficult problem arises, it’s usually his job to deal with it. And this one definitely counts as dangerous, with rumours of raids on local villages, Ismere being occupied again and, most importantly, one name being whispered in the night.
Morgana.
It seems this is one mistake that he’s never going to be able to stop paying for, although he knows it’s not just the threat of that name driving him onwards. For three years, there has been no sign of her, and just as importantly to Merlin, no sign of Aithusa either. It’s as though, having made her choice to leave with Morgana, the white dragon simply vanished off the face of the earth. But the tug on his heart that started three months ago and is still driving him forwards tells a different story, and it’s one that he must know the ending to.
He staggers to the top of the next rise, sliding down the other side to get to the narrow path below, regretting again that he had to leave Kilgharrah at the edge of the snow tundra, however reluctant the great dragon was to continue on with him. It’s understandable, of course. The wind is biting and fierce, and would be difficult to fly through, even if Kilgharrah was willing to carry him. They probably both would have frozen within an hour.
"I wish to find her as much as you do," Kilgharrah said, stretching his wings a little. "But I fear this is as far as I can go."
Ice already crunched underneath their feet, and within a few miles, Merlin knew the landscape would lose all traces of life, fading into the white on white that stretched all the way to Ismere. He shivered just at the thought of it.
"I have to go on," he said, looking up at the dragon and seeing the reservation in the huge eyes. "Morgana will not have chosen this place by accident, but no one comes to Ismere unless they have to. We must know what she is doing out here."
"I know." There was an undercurrent of guilt in Kilgharrah's voice and in the sense of him in Merlin's mind, something that they were both used to by now. "I will wait for you as long as I can, but the king will want to know what is happening."
"Tell Arthur not to worry." The instruction was automatic, the same message Merlin had been sending home for the last three weeks. "And tell him not to come anywhere near this place. If Morgana is truly here, then the last thing we need is for him to fall into her hands."
"I will tell him," Kilgharrah said evenly and Merlin sighed, because he didn’t really expect Arthur to follow that instruction either.
"Fine, but tell him that if he does insist on coming himself against all common sense, he's to bring Eric with him at the very least. Or if Aeldred and his men are still in Camelot, maybe they would accompany him. Or-"
"Merlin." It was not often that Kilgharrah used that exasperated tone on him anymore. "I am sure that the king will know what to do."
Merlin wished he could be so sure, particularly since none of them really knew how powerful Morgana had grown. Instead of saying that, he stamped his cold feet to get some feeling back into them, and gave Kilgharrah a nod of acknowledgement.
"You're right," he said, pulling on his gloves. "If all goes well, I should be able to send word to Camelot in four days."
"I understand." Kilgharrah huffed a breath, warm across Merlin's face for a moment before the cold washed back in.
"Good luck, Merlin."
At least once he gets onto the frozen path he’s a little sheltered, towering piles of frozen snow on either side giving protection from the worst of the wind. In a different land, he can imagine this would be a dried up stream bed, its path still cut through the higher ground on either side and giving travellers an easier route. Here in Ismere, it feels like a giant finger has reached down and traced a jagged line through the landscape, just wide enough for three men to walk abreast. He’s out of the wind, for sure, and the path is flat enough that he’s only got to worry about slipping on the ice, not tripping over a rock hidden in deep snow.
On the other hand, there is no cover here, only the rising slopes on either side of him, and there are no side paths or sheltered caves, and the slopes are too steep to scramble up again, which means the further he goes along, the more trapped he’ll become. He debates for a moment whether he should use his magic after all, just to see the path ahead, but then dismisses the idea, settling for speeding up into a gentle jog instead, hoping it will help to keep him warm.
There’s no way of knowing how Morgana's powers have grown or changed in the last three years, and he’d barely been able to defeat her before. The only thing he has on his side right now is the element of surprise and - he hopes - being able to slip in and out of Ismere before she even knows he was there.
Somewhere in the distance, a wolf howls.
The sound is unsettling, seeming to pass through him, so that no matter how much he tells himself that it’s probably miles away, he still feels the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. He speeds up a little, wishing he'd thought to change the colour of his cloak before stepping out onto the snow. The rough brown wool is as warm as cloth comes, but he feels horribly conspicuous against all the whiteness. Arthur would no doubt lecture him on the art of camouflage if he were here, which would be a nice distraction from the howling wolves and the instinctive fear settling in the pit of Merlin’s stomach.
Not that camouflage would be much help against the wolves. The howls are much closer by, echoing from the snowy slopes around him so that he can’t even tell if it was in front or behind him. If it comes to it, he will have to defend himself, and either hope that Morgana doesn’t sense it or that he’ll be able to flee before she finds him. He hopes he won’t have to decide.
He’s glancing over his shoulder as he turns the next corner, skidding to a stop and realising that Arthur would have berated him for such a simple mistake. In front of him, the wolf is standing in the middle of the path, baring its teeth and growling at him as he holds up his hands instinctively. He stands as still as he can, keeping his eyes on it, hoping he can judge when it’s going to attack. There’s a knife in his belt, and he doesn’t doubt that if he makes a grab for it, the wolf will strike. If he’s lucky, he’ll manage to dodge the first attack, giving him space to draw the knife and hope that he’s quick enough. He’ll only get one chance. It’s only when the wolf doesn’t move, just stands there staring at him, that he realises the mistake was not in failing to look where he was going. The wolf is not the enemy he should be worried about.
The blast strikes him from behind before he can defend himself against it, and he’s thrown into a bank of snow, unable to right himself in time to do more than fall back onto the path on his hands and knees, all the breath knocked out of him and magic buzzing under his skin. Cursing himself for thinking that not using his magic would hide him, he's just managed to raise his head and start to bring his tamped down power to bear, when the second blow catches him in the ribs and he’s flying again, this time hitting his head hard as he tumbles back to the ground.
His last thought as the darkness overtakes him is that if Morgana doesn’t get there first, Arthur is going to kill him.