Chapter Text
The approaching winter was starting to make itself known, as the cool drafts seeped into the large stone rooms, the remaining wooden doors and ripped curtains doing little to preserve the warmth.
The castle of the Fisher King was an eerie place and had not changed since his earlier visit. Very few ventured into such place, despite rumours that the curse had been lifted and that wildlife had slowly started to invade the deserted and swampy grounds that surrounded it. Merlin was certain that the reputation of such place would remain for many years to come; even the bolder men were quickly persuaded to leave at the sight of the wyverns.
Such solitude was welcome, and yet, despised.
The sound of his footsteps constituted resounded in the deserted stronghold, invoking memories from when he ran errands for Arthur in Camelot, tripping all over the place, or as he followed his master around the palace. However, the warm feeling of belonging quickly dissipated as the cold air bit and called him back to his present reality that were the stony walls of the castle in the Perilous Lands.
He was perfectly aware that he had earned every minute of his self-imposed exile. And even if he hadn’t, the fact remained that his return constituted an ill-thought-out idea.
Not that it would matter; the frozen look in his King’s face was burned in his mind forever, the light of magic reflected in his eyes, momentarily out of his command. Even if Arthur hadn’t seen his blazing golden eyes or the physical manifestations of his spell, there was no denying the pull that such act of magic had caused. They were brothers in everything but blood, they shared a destiny. The Once and Future King had felt his warlock’s magic and had known to whom it belonged. It had been so simple, yet heart-breaking.
Arthur’s eyes had locked with his, and Merlin’s hopes of redemption had been thoroughly dashed.
His hand massaged his temple and he slowed his step, in an effort to chase the worsening headaches away.
The wizard strode slowly through the corridors, his once energetic pace gone. Over his slumped shoulders he had thrown a worn midnight blue hooded cloak that he usually wore when he went outside. Beneath it one of his old blue shirts peeked from between the folds. They wouldn’t be enough for the coming cold, making it essential to come by sturdier and warmer clothes sooner rather than later. Therefore, another trip to the closest village would have to be risked in the next few days.
Waking into what had once been a library, Merlin leaned over a book that lay open on the wooden table. Coming upon the disarrayed state of varied literature, among it spell books, had been an incentive to pull himself from his depressed state and make himself useful. He had dusted off the entire room in the old-fashioned way but had to give in to his nature when he saw the state of the furniture; his efforts only being successful at his third attempt. Apparently, the Old Religion was still miffed at him for overstepping his boundaries.
Not for the first time, he wondered what Arthur had done with his possessions. The former manservant didn’t doubt that the King had conducted a search to his room, and most likely had found out his book, his staff and the wooden dragon his father had made him beneath the bed (Gaius was right, it was too obvious of a hiding). Had he burned them?
The water on the bowl next to him stirred when he stood up. Taking a deep breath, Merlin held his hand over the water and pronounced a string of ancient words as his eyes glowed. Curious, he hunched over the table, not daring to disturb the water as it shifted and showed him a different room from where he was standing.
Arthur, leaning over a crib, a small hand curled around his index finger. The smile on his face spoke volumes of his adoration, and his eyes glowed with awe…
The image changed.
His friend no longer bore the look he had reserved to the small child. His features portrayed a guarded coolness. His hands were placed on the round table in front of him, and like most of the other occupants, his red cape clashed against his chainmail.
‘I want him found,’ he said. ‘And brought directly to me. I am the only one who is to deal with him. Understood?’
His knights nodded.
Swirling, the room faded.
Guinevere stood in the physician quarters, not an inch betraying her humble origins.
‘Gaius, surely, you must know something.’
The older man sat on his workbench with his glasses on his hands. A worn book was open before him, as a candle flickered next to it. He looked tired and more the age he actually was.
‘I am sorry, my lady. I do not know. I am not sure that even Merlin knew where to go if he ever was to leave Camelot. He hasn’t contacted me.’
Merlin didn’t have a chance to hear Gwen’s reply when he was pulled out of the vision, gasping. Vision? When did it become a vision? I was only scrying.
He shook his head. If it was possible, the pain that had been hounding him the past weeks had become even worse.
They were looking for him. He was glad he hadn’t gotten in contact with Gaius and put his father figure in an even harder spot. Arthur was by now more than aware of his involvement but apparently had decided to be lenient, which was a relief.
Amhar was alright. The little prince, whom he loved like if it were his own son, was safe. Merlin couldn’t help but smile when he thought of the small child, barely six months old. He drove his parents, Arthur especially, to the brink of insanity as he insisted on waking them every night at ungodly hours, indeed, as the King and Queen had insisted on having their son sleeping in the same room as they. One could easily imagine how cranky Arthur would be in the morning. Merlin even had had the gall of saying that he could be worse than his own son when it came down to have people’s attention. The King’s answer soon followed, in the form of a flying goblet, of course.
In fact, Merlin almost drooled at the sight of the kid. Hadn’t Arthur even said, with a hint of mixed jealousy and amusement, while watching his manservant entertaining his son, that he was spending way too much time with a toddler, and neglecting his chores in the process? Of course, he had added the ‘girl comment’, as the warlock had dubbed it, in the end, and Merlin had replied with his legendary witticism, stating that the Royal Prat was only missing his constant company. Guinevere’s only reaction to the exchange consisted in laughing.
Merlin cleared the tear tracks off his face. It would do him no good to reminisce in the past. The pain of severing ties with all of those he loved was still fresh, and he had goals to accomplish.
For what good could a warlock be to his King if he could barely keep his magic under control?