Chapter Text
Merlin pillowed his forehead on his arms where they rested against the round table. His tunic was rucked up around his ears once more, giving Gaius space to work as he prodded at Merlin's back. The taut skin throbbed and ached, now, the pain gathering as the bruise began to bloom. His lungs felt as if they had been rattled loose in the cage of his ribs, and even the admiration of the knights didn't do much to alleviate his misery.
'That kind of blow would have knocked most men to their knees!' Elyan nudged Merlin's elbow, offering him an oatcake from the kitchens, still warm from the oven. The fire in the hearth leapt up the chimney, stoked high to belt heat out into the room. He, Morgana and Mordred all needed it. Their brush with the realm of the dead had left them all grave cold.
'It would have been bad,' Mordred said around a full mouth, not even apologising when Gwen gave him a look. 'There was stuff desperate to get in. I could feel it. I didn't realise something nearly managed it.'
'I'm not sure that's what it was.' Merlin rolled his shoulders and groaned as another wave of discomfort thudded through him. 'I don't think it wanted to break the ward.'
'No, it just wanted to break you.' Arthur's clipped words betrayed his fear, his annoyance a poor mask for his uncertainty. He had bundled Merlin inside, practically dragging him up the stairs before demanding that someone get Gaius. It had been Lancelot who had leapt to answer his command, rushing through the archway downstairs and into the healing rooms. Gaius had wasted no time in following him back to the Miracle Court, and now he gave a thoughtful hum as he feathered gentle hands over the camber of Merlin's ribs.
'Nothing appears to be broken, and despite the brutality, I think Merlin may be right.' There was a clink as he reached into his bag, pulling out some salve that smelled like comfrey. It was unpleasantly cool against Merlin's skin as Gaius gently spread it over the bruise. 'I've seen this mark before, many years ago.'
'And? What does it mean?'
'That, I am afraid I cannot say. I was travelling in Mercia in my youth. There was an ancient stone circle, so old no one could recall who might have once worshipped there. I can remember thinking it strange, at the time, how the stones were covered in moss and lichen, smoothed by the wind over the years, but the carving still looked fresh. The details were impressive. Perhaps that is why I recall its shape.'
'What does it look like?' Merlin demanded. It wasn't as if he could see his own spine, after all. 'How big is it?'
'About the size of my palm,' Gaius decided after a moment's thought. 'As for the mark, it is a triangle with a spiral inside. At the centre of that, there is a crescent moon on its back.'
'That's one of the symbols of the triple goddess,' Mordred piped up. 'Not the triangle, just the moon. I don't know what the rest of it means.'
It was Percival who walked over to Arthur's desk, grabbing a piece of parchment and pulling a sharpened stick of lead from his pocket. 'I can sketch it. Maybe then we'll be able to find out more. You must have been given it for a reason.'
'By someone, or something, that dwells beyond the grave.'
Merlin looked up at Morgana. She sat on a chair in front of the fire like a queen upon her throne, a fur draped over her lap and another wrapped around her shoulders. Colour had returned to her cheeks, but worry lingered in her green eyes. Now and then her gaze flickered to Arthur where he paced behind Gaius as he worked, prowling like a wolf on patrol. Yet she did not hold her silence, pressing on as she attempted to explain.
'What we did in the garden brought the veils between various worlds closer, but for an entity to reach out like that? It speaks of desperation. We shouldn't dismiss this. There is something powerful at work.' She plucked at the fur over her knees with worried fingers. 'Maybe I was foolish to suggest we try and talk to Jethro.'
'No, you were not, My Lady.' Leon spread his cloak over the back of his chair before settling in his seat. To someone who did not know him well, he appeared completely at ease. Yet when Merlin turned his head, he could see the faint lines of weariness that etched his face, as if he had begun to struggle under the burden of their trials. 'He gave us much to consider: confirmation of our doubts, which we sorely lacked.'
'Now we can be certain that it is Sir Locke who is the king's right hand in all this,' Percival added, not looking up from his work. The lead in his grasp rasped across the parchment: a subtle susurrus. 'And from what Jethro said, someone had reason to silence him after his failure.'
'Immediately after, which means we were being watched.' Gwaine sounded as if he spoke through clenched teeth. 'I didn't see anyone, but I wasn't exactly searching the shadows. I had to get Merlin somewhere safe.'
'For which I'm grateful.' Merlin eased back, wrinkling his nose as his tunic stuck to the salve on his shoulder blades, clammy and cool. He was tempted to sprawl in his chair, easy and comfortable. Instead, the ache in his bones meant he had to perch on the edge of the seat.
Worse, his magic felt painfully aware of the place that the blow had landed. It prickled and itched, pooling under his skin like molten metal. Part of him was desperate to scratch at it, and he clenched his hands into fists atop the table. 'Talking to Jethro was the right thing to do. As for whatever happened... It might not be as sinister as it looks. Percy, when you're done with that sketch, put it on the lectern. Maybe the library knows something more.'
'Yeah, okay. I won't be long.'
A tentative silence fell over the room as everyone sank a little deeper into their own thoughts. Gaius settled in a spare seat, apparently content to bear witness to whatever they could uncover, and Arthur ceased his pacing to stare out of the window behind his desk. Merlin could not be sure where his considerations lay. Did he remember what they learned from Jethro, turning it all over in his mind? Or was he more focussed on Merlin and the strange mark on his back?
Percival's stride echoed across the floor like an executioner's drumbeat, or perhaps that was just Merlin's dour fancy. He did not want to be another problem put on Arthur's plate. They were all worried enough about Uther's plots and the shadowy threat of Rýne. More mysteries were the last thing any of them needed.
He felt how the magic of the Miracle Court hitched like fabric snagged on a briar, focussing on the sketch Percival offered. The carved dragon flexed its wings, and the room filled with the rough rasp of the tomes upon the shelves.
Every single one of them shuffled towards the edge, offering themselves up in answer.
'What does that mean?' Lancelot asked, shaking his head in confusion. 'I don't understand. The symbol can't be in all those books, surely?'
'No.' Merlin cuffed a hand through his hair. Beyond the window, the world had faded into darkness. They had not even had dinner yet, and still he felt like he could curl up in bed and sleep the night away. Tiredness pinched at his eyes and buzzed in the corners of his mind. Clearly holding up that ward for Morgana had been harder than he'd thought. 'No, it means we've not really asked a question. We've shown it a symbol, that's all. If Mordred's right, and part of it represents the Triple Goddess...'
'Then every book on magic has its relevance.' Morgana nodded in sudden understanding, easing aside the furs that clad her and getting to her feet.
'She's strongly tied to sorcery,' Mordred explained. 'At least, that's what the druids say.'
'So we ask it questions.' A delicate golden gleam bloomed in Morgana's eyes as her hands skimmed the wood of the platform. The lectern did not need a mage to wield its power. It would have given its answers to anyone, but Merlin watched as some of the books began to retreat, easing back into their rightful place. Morgana's brow twisted in a frown, her teeth putting a dent in her bottom lip, and she twitched in shock when all the volumes retreated with a slam.
'What did you ask it?' Mordred demanded.
'At first, who or what the symbol represented. Then, I wondered what it might mean if someone bore that mark.' She rested her fingertips against her collarbones: a nervous flutter hastily stifled. 'It did not seem to like that question.'
'Are you all right?' Gwen got to her feet, resting a hand on Morgana's elbow and dimpling when Morgana offered up a smile.
'Yes. It didn't hurt me. It was just a very blunt refusal. I'm not sure if the library doesn't know, or if it does not wish to tell us.'
'Wonderful,' Merlin muttered. 'All right, go back to what the symbol means. Maybe we'll get some answers.'
'We'll help,' Arthur decided, breaking away from where he was propped against the wall as the shelves grudgingly obliged Morgana's efforts and spilt forth their secrets. There was not so much as a tremor in his fingers as he pulled the closest tome free, parting its covers as he settled in his chair. The knights were no different, and Merlin smiled to see their ease. Once, most of these men would have shied away from the notion of magic. Now, they welcomed it with open arms: another tool in their arsenal, or in this case, another mystery to solve.
Of course, just because the Miracle Court had told them which books were useful, it did not mean their answers were easily unearthed. The crescent moon on its back was mentioned frequently: a symbol carved, it seemed, into the consciousness of the druids. Yet what had found its way onto his flesh was more than that, and it was not until dinner had come and gone that Merlin discovered even a glimmer of possibility.
'Thresholds.' He ran his finger carefully down the edge of the page, his eyes scanning the small passage he had unearthed. It was barely more than a tiny paragraph: an old catalogue of ancient sites. Perhaps this was the stone circle Gaius had mentioned, the one where he had seen a similar symbol once before. 'That's all I've got. It seems as if it's related to doors or boundaries.'
Across the table, Lancelot nodded. 'I've found similar mentions of it. In days gone by, the druids may have used it as a mark of transition. A way to imply something is changing from one phase to the next, perhaps? It's not very clear.' A frown clouded his dark eyes. 'People contradict each other. It is almost as if whoever wrote this book had heard little more than rumour as to its purpose.'
'I expect you will find many such accounts. Even before the Purge, people held different beliefs about magic: how it came about, how it could be used...' Gaius sighed, his spectacles sparkling in the candlelight as he peered over their golden rims. 'Most of the druids pass down their stories around a campfire. Little is written down any longer, and much has been lost. I am afraid all I have been able to discover is that the mark is ancient. There are records here of it being found by the Romans upon their arrival. Often carved into the lintels of stone circles, or onto large, flat pieces of rock on the ground.'
'That was centuries ago,' Arthur murmured, awe softening his voice.
'It is the "Old" Religion,' Merlin pointed out, relieved when Arthur shot him a look, half chiding, half amused. It seemed he had at least managed to shed some of his concern, though he suspected it continued to simmer beneath the surface.
'Druids have existed as a people for more years than anyone really knows.' Mordred looked proud of that fact. Perhaps he did not currently live with them, but he had been born among their number. In many ways, he was still one of them, and it was clear that their continuing existence brought him comfort. Maybe they no longer thrived, but they survived: defiant in the face of Uther's tyranny. 'You said thresholds? What I've found is all about doorways.'
'It's the same thing, surely?' Gwen asked. 'Isn't it?'
'All doorways could be called a threshold between one room and the next,' Morgana acknowledged, 'but not all thresholds are doorways. At least, not literal ones.' She leaned over Mordred's shoulder, her curls tumbling forwards as she read what he had found. 'It's not much, is it? Just scraps and whispers.'
'Could it have been something to do with the magic you used to speak with Jethro?' Percival had not picked up a book to aid them. He was not as strong a reader as Elyan, though he was endeavouring to learn. Merlin could hardly blame him for ceding the task to others who did not have to struggle to pick apart a sentence. 'You said then that the enchantments lingered on the edge of things: one world and the other.'
'A threshold,' Gwaine added, clapping Percival's shoulder companionably. 'Maybe it was just a warning? You know, like "Don't push your luck?" It could be we're worrying about nothing.'
He sounded so hopeful, and Merlin wished that he could have Gwaine's cheerful faith. On the one hand, he could perhaps believe that whatever had occurred had been meant for Morgana, and he had taken the brunt of the blow because he was guarding the wards, but he had not been alone in that effort. The same bruise had not been inflicted upon Mordred.
Then, there was the way his magic swarmed beneath the bruise like insects, spitting and seething at its presence. It made him want to claw at his skin, but he couldn't reach. At some point, an ache had unfurled in his temples, and the desire to sleep pressed down on his shoulders. The words in the book in front of him kept swimming in place, and he let out a ragged sigh as he acknowledged his own defeat.
'It can wait until tomorrow,' he decided at last, his voice rougher than he intended. 'I'm going to bed.'
He noticed the worried looks around the table as he got to his feet, barely able to acknowledge their soft wishes for a good night's sleep. Gaius murmured something and Morgana replied, but he could not make out the words. It was as if he had stuck his head in a bucket of hot water, all muffled and distant. The warmth of Arthur's room folded him in a loving embrace, and he managed to struggle out of his boots rather than collapsing face-first into the pillows.
'Merlin.'
He stumbled as he tried to turn, almost falling over his own feet. He had not realised Arthur had followed him, and he uttered a faint, rasping hum as a warm hand skimmed across his brow and drifted down to cup his jaw. One thumb scuffed the crest of his cheekbone, and a kiss to the tip of his nose made him smile, all fondness.
'It's early,' he pointed out. 'You should probably stay with the others.'
'I'll return to them in a moment,' Arthur promised, his blue eyes intent. 'Are you well? You don't seem – quite right.'
Merlin eased back, slumping down to sit on the bed. 'I'm just tired. I didn't think holding the line with the wards was that much of a strain, but maybe I was wrong.'
'Or it's whatever happened to you.' Arthur pursed his lips, glancing over his shoulder towards the closed door. 'Perhaps I should stay with you – make sure nothing goes wrong.'
'Arthur, no.' He grasped his hand, giving it a reassuring squeeze. 'I'll be better in the morning. Besides, I don't think the Miracle Court will let any harm come to me. I'm safe here.'
The look he received carried deep shadows of reluctance. He knew that expression well. Uncertainty made Arthur bad-tempered. The prince had been raised to fight – to act – but there was nothing he could do, and Merlin refused to have Arthur spend another night in worried vigil over him.
He reached out, taking Arthur's hand and scuffing a kiss over his knuckles. 'Go,' he urged. 'I swear I'll be all right.'
Arthur's sigh whispered between them: the world's most grudging surrender. He offered a tiny shake of his head, stepping forward to help Merlin ease his jacket off his shoulders. Nimble fingers picked at the laces of his tunic, and he raised his heavy arms so Arthur could peel it off. At least he had shed the light chain mail when he returned from the castle. Even the act of shuffling out of trousers seemed beyond him; armour would have been impossible.
He sagged back to the pillows like a landed fish, humming in appreciation as Arthur pulled the quilt up over his shoulders. Part of him wondered when this bed had become his and Arthur's, rather than Arthur's alone. The thought was a slippery one, skimming out of his reach. He barely felt the brush of Arthur's lips against his temple, and the sound of the door closing followed him down into his dreams.
He could not say how long he slept before the darkness faded to shades of grey, a forest enrobed in twilight melting into view. The trees clustered in the distance, but they did not encroach. Dead leaves covered the clearing in which he stood, ankle-deep, and a low mist plucked at his breeches with wraith-like fingers.
There were three doors, their archways standing in empty air. He could have walked around them if he so chose. There were different carvings on the lintels: a triangle, a spiral, and a crescent moon on its back. The fragments of his mark held separate, parts of a greater whole.
Merlin looked behind him, noticing how the trees bowed their branches despite no wind stirring the air. Moonlight and shadow skimmed across his vision, but the sky above him was clear, with only stars pricked amidst its dark canvas.
Nothing here was as it seemed.
Part of him knew that he still slept, safe in the bower of Arthur's bed, but this was like no dream he had ever experienced. Normally, those were vague snatches of images and feelings. Here, every breath steamed in front of his face, and the cry of an owl ghosted through the air. He could taste the wet, clinging mist. Everything was so detailed, and he knew better than to dismiss it out of hand.
Between his shoulder blades, the constant burn of his magic had eased. Now, there was a faint, comforting warmth that seemed to pool through his ribs and down into his belly. This was where he was meant to be, but what was he supposed to do?
His first instinct was to try the doors in front of him, but each one was locked tight, resisting his efforts to ease them from their frames. Walking around them changed nothing, and he huffed out an aggravated breath as he folded his arms across his chest.
The snap of a branch under someone's foot made him twist, searching the shadows for any sign of life. He had thought he had only the starlight for company. Now, he was not so sure.
A swirl in the mist, and three figures stepped into the clearing. Unease traced icy fingers down Merlin's spine, and he canted his weight back, unsure if this was about to turn into the kind of dream where he needed to run. At first glance, the people were the same. Robes of slate grey and black clad their bodies, long hems hiding their feet and sleeves concealing the hands beneath. Each wore a mask of sorts: animal skulls settled over their faces.
One was a deer, its white antlers scratching at the sky. The tines were decorated with chains of flowers as its blank eye-sockets stared at him: all indifference. The second was a ram, the curl of its horns painted bright gold. Sigils and symbols embellished the bone, but Merlin could make no sense of them. The last was a wolf, unadorned – nothing but a bare skull and the watchful presence that lurked beneath it.
He did not even know if they were human – these watchers. None of them spoke. Instead, they simply stood there as if waiting to see how he would react. Behind him, the doors loomed in his awareness: impassable. There was no forward or back. There was only this place and this moment.
A threshold. A choice.
The ram did not flinch as he stepped closer, nor retreat when he gripped the skull's nose, easing it gently upwards to reveal the face beneath. Not a monster, after all. Just a young woman, watching him with a gleam of mirth in her gaze.
'Brave boy,' she praised, soft and sweet. 'Most who find themselves here have already awoken by now, fleeing our presence the only way they can.' She hitched her shoulders in a shrug. 'But then, none of them were Emrys.'
He narrowed his eyes, suspicious. Mordred had told him that was the name the druids called him. He had mentioned something about prophecy, the same as Kilgharrah, but Merlin had been content not to know the details. They were not his beliefs, after all. What mattered to him was keeping Arthur safe. Everything else was secondary. Now this girl stood in front of him, no more than sixteen summers, and spoke it in such low, prideful tones.
'Who are you?'
She pulled a face, wrinkling her nose. The thick kohl around her eyes made her pallor all the more striking. 'Names are such tricky things; I have so many. You could have heard them all, and still you would not know me.'
'And your friends?'
The two others reached up, tipping back their masks, and Merlin frowned in confusion. It was the same woman, but not. The one on the right had skin a little darker than Gwen's, while the girl on the left carried a scatter of ginger freckles across the bridge of her nose. One had eyes so brown they were almost black, while the other's were bright, ice blue. Yet the person behind the face was the same. His magic sang that truth in his ear, and he let out an unsteady breath.
'He understands,' the freckled girl murmured. 'He sees the truth of it, though he does not much like it. Most people bow to a goddess.'
Merlin folded his arms across his chest and met her frigid eyes with a stare of his own. Her lips twisted, making her look cold and cruel. Her mask had been the wolf, and he wondered just how separate or joined the triple goddess considered herself. Was she actually three individuals, closely bound, or was she one entity with different facets? Something told him that sages had been arguing over that answer for centuries, and that perhaps he was better off not knowing.
'Why did you bring me here? Why did you put that mark on my back? What does it even mean?'
'So many questions.' The woman with the deer skull smiled, but it did not reach her eyes. She watched him as if he were a problem to be solved, or a mystery in need of an answer. It was not exactly a kind scrutiny. It reminded him of the cool way Uther sometimes observed Arthur: all disapproval. 'Tell me. Do you think you can stop what is coming? Do you have the strength to stand against the one who would destroy everything you hold dear?'
'Who?' His first thought was of Uther and his plots, but deep in his gut, he knew that was not right. Camelot's king may consider himself all powerful, but even he had his limits. 'Rýne?'
'His name means nothing to us. He is the serpent with a bull's blood in his veins. A desecrator. He seeks to dig out the heart of magic and keep it for himself. He must be stopped.'
Merlin closed his eyes. It was that or roll them in their sockets. Of course a goddess would speak in cryptic riddles. How could he have hoped for anything otherwise? Still, her description did sound like Rýne – a man who ripped apart holy sites, hoping to unearth the power beneath.
'He has not succeeded,' he pointed out. 'The Isle of the Blessed, the Aldorbeam.... He failed, both times.'
'Because there was so little left for him to find!' The girl with the ram's horn let her mask fall to the floor, her hood tumbling back as she stepped forward, crowding into Merlin's space. The top of her head only came up to his sternum, but he knew not to underestimate her. Physically, she may be small, but her power was like a storm-ravaged sea, all wildness and fury. 'The magic has been fading for centuries. Withering, as those mages who wielded it became lost to their own greed. The world fell out of balance, and so the power retreated to where it was safe.'
'Then, Pendragon and his so-called Purge.' The wolf's lips pulled back, revealing the jagged edges of her snarl. 'He thinks he has destroyed magic, but he is a fool. He has only ushered its retreat. You cannot remove magic from the world any more than you can block out the sun!'
'It waits.' The deer tilted her head, the chains of daisies around her horns fluttering. 'It waits for you, Emrys. Though we shall see if you're strong enough to bear it.'
'He will be.' The wolf turned away. 'He must be. We have given him all he needs.'
'You've given me nothing!' Merlin dropped his hands to his sides, letting out a tattered groan of annoyance as the wolf-woman simply returned the shadows. The deer followed her, all steady grace, looking over her shoulder before melting into the darkness. At last, there were only the three doors at his back and the girl with the ram's skull in front of him. Her hair, now free of its hood, was bright white, but it was the look in her eyes that held Merlin in place. If he did not know better, he would think it was sympathy.
'You are right,' she murmured at last. 'There are many prophecies in this world. Many paths. They wax and wane, so speaking of them would do us little good. Yet there are some things you need to know. Not about the future, nor the dangers you face. Instead, you must understand the truth about yourself, Emrys.'
'Merlin.' It was not much – a petty victory, but he would rather claim the name his mother had given him than the one the druids thrust upon him.
She inclined her head. 'Merlin. Every lock needs a key, and each set of scales a fulcrum. You are more than a man. You are made for magic itself. Its vessel and its conduit. I know you have always wondered why, even among sorcerers, you are different. That is the reason. When you are ready, you will be the one to return magic to Albion. You will call it forth, and you will be the foundation on which it stands anew.'
Merlin scoffed, shaking his head. 'I don't – Why me? I'm just a peasant from Ealdor.'
'No. You are so much more. This is your destiny. Yet there is one who seeks to take your dutye from you. The one you call Rýne has honed himself in blood and desecration. He has made himself a challenger, though the gift was never his. If he succeeds, the magic will flow through his hands. He will hoard it for himself, and he will only hasten the world's decline. He will plunge Albion into a war from which it may never recover.'
She held up a hand to stem Merlin's protests, pursing her lips and shaking her head fiercely. 'My time runs short. You are more than magic's conduit, Merlin. You are its guardian. You must not let Rýne gain that which he seeks, but there is more. Magic can never die; it merely recedes. Ebb and flow. The same can be said for whomever becomes its keeper.'
Her eyes glowed in the darkness: otherworldly. 'Should that be you, you will become immortal. Perhaps your strength may wax and wane, but you cannot perish in any way that truly matters. You will always return to this world – through all the long years that lie ahead. If it is Rýne who seizes that power, then he will be unstoppable – eternal – and all existence will feel his selfishness and wrath.'
'What?' Ice drenched Merlin's skin as her words sank through him: a whittled blade. He wanted to call her a liar, but it was as if there was something in him that recognised her truth. It hummed in the columns of his bones, all mournful acknowledgement, and he felt his heart stutter in his chest.
'That's...' He pursed his lips tight, blinking against the sharp bite of frightened tears that stung his lashes. 'No. There must be another way.'
'I am sorry.' Sympathy weighed down her words. 'Others would have hidden it from you, to be discovered in your own time. They would have had you make the decision blindly, only to suffer later. I would not wish that pain upon you.'
Even in his shock, Merlin could hear how it sounded as if she spoke from experience. A small part of him wondered if, once, she had been mortal. A normal girl, unaware of what her future held. Or had she always been this way: something that lived between worlds, walking the planes of existence and tangling her fingers in the strands of fate?
'One more thing,' she whispered, scooping her mask up from where it lay on the ground and looking down into its blank eye sockets. 'Every door needs a lock, and every lock needs a key. That is what you are. What you have always been. The mark on your back merely awakened that power. Rýne has no such blessing in his gift. He can only force his way in.' She nodded, just once, as if she had said her piece: a glimmer of hope and a word of warning all at once. 'Goodbye, Emrys.'
Wakefulness was like a bucket of water to his face, leaving him trembling upon the pillows. His breath rasped in his lungs as his heart heaved beneath his ribs. An uncomfortable sweat drenched his skin, and the burden of the blankets felt like a shroud. Arthur was curled up next to him, snoring softly, but even his comfortable weight did not bring Merlin any ease. Not when the dream haunted his mind with its vapours.
He longed to claim it was just an illusion summoned into being by his exhaustion, but even if he could convince himself of it, his magic told a different story. It hummed beneath his skin, all shimmering resonance. The meeting had been real, and there was truth in every word uttered there.
He chewed his lip, staring unblinkingly up at the canopy. Sleep would not return to him; not now. He could not even imagine making the effort to reach for his dreams again. Nervous energy thrummed within him: a desperation to prove the goddess wrong in her grim proclamation, and he couldn't do that lying here on his back.
Moving carefully, he eased out of bed, creeping from between the sheets like a thief. He dressed as quietly as he could, noticing how his magic glimmered around him, easing the rustle of cloth and the shuffle of his feet. If Arthur awoke... Merlin did not think he had the strength to speak of it. Not now. Not yet. He felt as if there was a rock lodged in his throat, threatening to choke him. Panic was a noose, and he could do nothing to loosen it. No, far better that Arthur got the rest he needed, and Merlin sought more answers.
Easing open the door, he tiptoed across the top of the stairs to the library. The fire was banked in the grate, though it crackled to gentle life as he entered the room. Candles, too, found their flames, spreading their glow. On their shelves, the books rustled like a flock of starlings at their roost, and a tiny puff of smoke curled from the nose of the dragon upon the lectern. The room awoke for him, and Merlin pursed his lips as he reached a decision.
He rested his hand upon the dragon's head, giving his words a little magical nudge as he committed his whispered request to the tranquil air.
'Show me everything you know about Emrys.'