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In the morning, he was waiting in Mordred's room: silent, unwavering, like a shadow. This was what he had to do. He'd seen, he'd seen: Mordred, falling away from the group, his steps slow and hesitant at first; then, as he got farther, picking up speed, quickening. When Mordred had come back, his cheeks were pink, and he was only slightly panting. What skillful acting! Merlin couldn't help but think to himself. He played the part of the perfect knight, following them at close distance, laughing and smiling. But Merlin could feel it in the air: something was beginning to coalesce in the winds, spilling noisily through the leaves to cover the sound of Mordred's beating heart.
He'd turned, just a small bit, for a moment, as if to check. I thought I saw someone. Merlin's ears had perked up at the words. I was wrong. Probably a deer. Merlin remembered the flash of dull green in the midst of the thicket of trees, and then a flash of bright red dashing after it.
Merlin almost missed Mordred shifting in his bed, muttering. The single candle on the ledge of his window flared brightly in the lightening sky, and Merlin hunched into himself. When his eyes flicked back to Mordred, Mordred's eyes were shining gold through the translucent skin of his eyelids.
Then Mordred's eyes opened, and he blinked sleepily. His eyes were blue once more. He blinked again, and then a third time, waking. He saw Merlin, in the corner, standing still.
He shot up. "Merlin," he said, the remnants of sleep making his voice rough. He cleared his throat. "Merlin," he repeated. "What are you doing here?"
"Where's the valerian?" Merlin asked.
Mordred's eyes widened minutely. "What valerian?" he asked.
He probably thought himself a good liar. Of course he did: you had to be a good liar to live as they did in Camelot. But Merlin had been lying for far longer than Mordred's years, and he knew the tells. Mordred winced whenever he had to lie, and there was just a bit of hesitation before his words each time; a small space in-between question and answer from which Merlin could derive everything he needed to know.
He switched tacks. "Where've you been?"
Space. "Nowhere," Mordred said.
"You're lying." Merlin stepped forward. Mordred scooted back in his sheets.
"What right have you to question me?" Mordred asked, something bitter seeping into the words. Merlin pursed his lips, shrugging. He continued to advance until he and Mordred were truly face-to-face. Mordred's face changed from frustration to desperation. "Why are you doing this?" His lip trembled. "Everything I do, you think the worst."
That was his job, just like Mordred's job was to—to—to sit there, and plot.
But he didn't expect anyone else to understand. No: this was Merlin's job, and his alone. "I saw you," Merlin said, quiet. Mordred paled, the first true sign he'd shown of any guilt. "I saw you let a Saxon go."
His blood was simmering under his skin, bubbling in his veins. Their faces were so close together. Mordred looked scared.
"Maybe," Merlin said, dropping his voice even lower, "I should tell Arthur."
Mordred lurched forward, hitting Merlin's forehead. Merlin didn't move an inch. "No!" Mordred cried out, his eyes wide and so very blue. Tears were beginning to develop in his eyes. Merlin felt a vicious sense of satisfaction at the sight.
Mordred pulled back, taking in a steadying breath. It was no help, though, for he still stammered out,"Merlin, she—I—she's a druid—and—and—"
Merlin reeled back, the breath knocked from his lungs.
In the cave, where he'd wanted to stay forever even with the consuming fear of the walls collapsing over both of them like a tomb: I wish I was like everyone else, but ...
You always know, deep down, you're not? They could never be normal; not a pair of monsters. Not someone like Merlin. Not a dead girl like Freya. I wish I was like everyone else. If they were anyone else, love would be so simple.
Because I'm cursed.
Another deep breath. "She's a druid."
A tomb was more than Freya would have ever gotten. More than Freya had gotten. More than Merlin could have given her. Were you born a druid?
"I knew her."
Freya's face, so ... so clear in his mind. Her watery features came into focus, brightening with color: her skin came alive, losing the blue tint of the lake. She tilted her head in the memory, her dirty hair falling in thick strands to the side. Does anyone know you have magic?
Only you. And one other person. He knows, but I'm not sure he understands.
Gaius would never understand. No one would understand. No one could understand. Least of all Mordred.
"She was wounded," Mordred said, and Merlin looked at him, really looked at him. Tears were spilling from the corners of his eyes. "What could I do? Let her be captured?"
The first time he'd seen her, he'd only felt a sense of horror, and then a sense of righteous anger. Someone's going to pay for her?
Uther offers a handsome reward for anyone with magic. He'd wondered, later: if Gaius ever fell on hard times, what would happen to him? If Gaius could stand by and watch it, why wouldn't he do the same himself?
There must be something we can do! When he looked at Mordred's face, he only saw that one day, a sennight after he'd lain Freya to rest. He'd been cleaning Arthur's chambers, and he'd caught sight of himself in the mirror. For a moment, he thought his face was rounder, his nose turning up at the tip, button-like. His eyes were brown instead of blue.
He'd stumbled back. "Freya?" he'd asked aloud. When he'd blinked, she was gone, and he'd looked himself once more.
"She had an arrow in her leg. She cannot walk!"
The first words he'd said to her: Don't worry, I'm not going to hurt you. And the last: I don't want you to go.
Her face, smiling so sweetly at him even when he didn't deserve it—he knew it, he knew it; he deserved nothing good, not a monster such as him, but she loved him, oh, she loved him, and how he loved her for loving him—suddenly twisted in pain. She was lying down, Merlin kneeling over her. There was blood caking his hands. I'm going to make you better, Freya.
He knew how to fix this. He had to. What was the use of being the physician's apprentice if he couldn't fix such a simple thing? And yet.
No, Merlin, the wound's too deep. Please, go.
He had really thought he could save her. No. I'm not leaving you here. He hadn't wanted to leave her—not Freya, not the one, the only one, who could understand him, and—
His voice had been so small when he'd begged her. I don't want you to go.
He swallowed the memories, swallowed the overwhelming wave of guilt, swallowed the sudden feeling of sympathy. He knew what Mordred had thought; he knew the mind of an overconfident, overly-empathetic, naive child; and he knew what he should say.
"You're taking a risk," Merlin said instead.
"I can't let her die." Mordred was breathing through his mouth. Merlin could hear his thoughts even though Mordred wasn't sending them out. Believe me. Please understand. Help me. "She's— someone ..." Mordred hesitated, and then said, "I can't explain."
Believe me.
Did he feel the kind of kinship with her that Merlin had felt with Freya? The kind of kinship Mordred tried to kindle with him? What did he mean by I can't explain? How could he claim to care for someone that he couldn't describe his love for?
Please understand.
But, Merlin thought, his love for Freya was hard to describe, too. When they were together, it was quiet and content just to be with her. Yet when he was with Arthur, or Gwaine, or anyone else, it was like it wanted to burst out of his chest. It was ... it was loud, when he wasn't with her. It was raging, wrathful, miserable. It wanted everyone to know. It beat its wings inside his heart and put him in more pain than he had ever thought possible.
Help me.
He loved Freya, but he could never truly verbalize it to someone.
"Where is she?" Merlin asked. A cave? A forest? Had Mordred at least left her with some food?
"She needs a few days," Mordred replied, quiet. He looked disbelieving, like he really had't expected Merlin to listen. Well ...
Merlin sucked in a breath. Mordred's face stretched wide in alarm, and he leaned forward. "She'll be gone! She means no harm." He took in heavy, panting gasps of air, like a dying man. "Please, you mustn't tell anyone."
Gaius had been so disappointed. Merlin, I want the truth. Did you release the druid girl from the cage?
He was unaccustomed to lying to Gaius. It wasn't often that they had such different views. Of course not!
Where is she now? Why? Why would he tell Gaius; but why didn't he tell Gaius? What if he could have helped—what if—what if—
She's killed already, and she'll kill again. She can't stop herself. He couldn't stop it. He couldn't stop the arrow, not even with his great abilities. What was the use? What was it for if not to save as many people as he could? What was the use if he couldn't save the people he loved?
Please, Gaius. He and Mordred sounded the same when they begged. Where are you going?
To Uther. He couldn't go to Arthur. He couldn't. He couldn't.
I'm begging you! Just give me some time to get her out of the city, please.
I'm sorry. I can't let more innocent people die. He had to.
Mordred was really crying now, wheezing, choking sobs, stealing the breath from Merlin's own lungs. "You know if Arthur catches her she'll be killed." He knew, he knew, he knew. He knew it better than anyone.
I had no choice, Merlin. Uther had to be told. "Please, Merlin, I beg you."
You could never understand. Gaius would never understand. Do you know how it feels to be a monster? Not even Arthur could. To be afraid of who you are? "She's one of us!" Mordred pitched towards Merlin and grabbed his forearms. "Promise me," he demanded, his eyes suddenly wild.
A dream: Somewhere with mountains. A nice field. A farm.
A few fields. With pretty flowers that he could pick for her—Wildflowers. Yes. Wildflowers that she might wear in her hair. And they could be happy with—A couple of cows. Merlin liked cows. They were like horses, a bit. But patterned. And sweeter. And—and they weren't as—as—
And a lake. Freya's face began to take on that blue tint once more. She was ... she was so beautiful, and he loved her. They understood each other. And she was dead. And she was in the lake.
A smile. A lake, where they could swim. And fish! And they could teach their children, if they ever passed on their curse, to swim, and fish, and row boats. And a lake, he had repeated, grinning.
She's one of us!
How could he go to Arthur?
"Your secret is safe with me," Merlin said, trembling. "You have my word."