by GR Griffin
♦☼♦
The second Arthur could feel the rays of the sun trickling down upon his skin, warming his body and reviving his rested soul, he jolted awake. His eyes snapped open violently; his body inhaled a breath of air too quickly. The Dragon’s beside him were dozing in a peaceful slumber. Arthur cast a glance over to the gash on Aithusa’s side, relieved to find it had almost healed with Kilgarrah’s help. All she needed now was more rest and Aithusa would be fine. Merlin, however, Arthur could not guarantee that he would be fine, and that truly scared him. Merlin’s life hung in the balance of a dangerous quest that was heavily dependent on time and location. Time was short – the location was huge. It was hardly comforting. Leaping up onto his feet, Arthur stumbled towards the edge of the Crystal Cave rubble.
The Cave had collapsed in on itself after the destruction. All that remained were remnants of what it once was. It was less than an echo, less than a ghostly picture of its initial wonder. The sight was horrific. Knowing what the Cave once looked like, how beautiful it had been, made this sight more horrific. This Cave had once been the pride of the Ealdor people, the sacred place of Albion. It was a treasure that could not be replaced; it was now gone. Where the grand open mouth once lay was nothing but piled rocks. Desecrated; destroyed – it threatened to damp his stinging eyes once more. Then he thought of Merlin and everything paled into the background until all that was left was a raw urgency.
He began pushing rocks aside from each other, rolling them counter-productively apart to glance between the hidden cracks and stone beneath. Some were too big to move, others so tiny there seemed no point in even looking underneath them. One thing was certain; the rocks had created an elevated platform over where the cave once was. Beneath the first layer of rock was…rock, and beneath that was…more rock. If the Mortius Flower was really here, then Arthur doubted it would still be intact.
How could such a delicate flower still be present in this total chaos around?
He refused to answer that pessimistic question, striving to continue his search. Convinced he’d find nothing in the patch of rocks he’d surveyed, Arthur ploughed forwards through more of the rubble. Kneeling, he began to systematically and methodically lift each rock an arm’s span away. As he did, he meticulously studied the area around him. It didn’t take long for him to become extremely vexed. Moving each rock aside to reveal another was mundane and an idle way of searching. As his eye scanned the area to reveal the vast area of rubble, it was clear that continuing to look in this manner was not only slow but impossible. It would take days in itself just to assess the nature and stability of the surfaces he was walking upon! He’d never find it at this rate.
It was then, when he thumped a rock with his hand in frustration that his eyes drifted towards his right and spotted something rather peculiar. In the distance, still in the rubble, there was what looked like a pathway. A pathway downward, still in tact and no doubt leading inside to the heart of the Cave. Wrestling with his sanity, he stared fixatedly at the pathway. It was steep and stooped downwards rapidly – there was no guarantee once he had gotten down there that he would be able to get back up. But it was a chance to get into the heart of the Cave – surely if anything had been preserved it would be deep underground rather than on the surface? Swallowing-hard, he took a step towards the pathway, ensuring to memorise its location in his mind. Then he swiftly darted back to the Dragon’s.
“Kilgarrah!” he said, prodding the beast with his hands. The Golden Dragon leisurely opened his eyes, seeming unhappy that it had been disturbed from the period of peaceful rest. Dubious as the whether the Dragon was fully aware and awake, Arthur ignorantly prodded it once more, only this time it was more insistent and had a little bit more force to it. Immediately he realised his mistake and leapt back as the Dragon growled. Locking eyes with Arthur, the growl faded and Kilgarrah propped itself onto his feet expectantly. The Dragon didn’t even need to ask to know that Arthur required his assistance.
Throwing a hand behind him vaguely, Arthur spewed words from his mouth.
“I’ve found a passage, it leads down into the Crsytal Cave,” he explained, ignoring the disbelief and concern etched onto the scaly face. “I believe it will lead me into the centre of the cave, where there’s a far better chance of finding this flower. But it’s too steep. I can’t climb it.” Glancing back to the long, large tail of the Dragon, Arthur finished his request. ”I need your help.”
Establishing Arthur’s plan, Kilgarrah frowned. This plan was dangerous, that much was apparent.
“Do not be so rash on this decision Arthur,” he warned, voice low and full of that strange omniscience Dragons seem to instinctively posses. “The cave is no longer a stable place. If you enter, there is no way of telling when the rubble above will give way. You could be crushed in seconds, with only one narrow passage as an unlikely escape.”
Put it like that and it really did seem impossible. Pretending to ignore the warning, the evident disagreement with this plan, Arthur strode forwards passionately.
“I can’t just abandon Merlin! Dangerous or not, I have to at least try.”
The Dragon followed behind him towards the pathway resignedly, making no verbal response to the words. It was enough, a confirmation he would agree to Arthurs demands. The passage was narrow and steep like Arthur had said. It bled out into darkness, with no indication of what lay down in its depths. The rocks were jagged and unevenly sloped downwards – the whole thing seemed perilous and extremely lethal. Kilgarrah was certain a human would not survive falling down this slope, nor would they survive attempting to climb it. Arthur silently gazed at the gateway into the Cave. It was their final chance; they had to give it a shot! Turning to the Dragon who seemed far less impressed with the plan than hoped, Arthur gestured to the treacherous pathway.
“Look it’s not so…” drawing his eyebrows together incredulously, he attempted to enact a persuasive passive face. “…bad.” Kilgarrah snorted and saw right through it. Façade aside, Arthur had to do this. Unclenching the fists he didn’t know he’d been holding, Arthur sighed.
“I can conjure a source of light to guide me through the Cave, I’ll only be in there a few hours. Besides, if we feel anything is unsafe I’ll race straight back to the pathway and you can get me out.” The optimism brimmed from his voice, and was hard to absorb.
Reluctantly, Kilgarrah held out his tail. Arguing with the Once and Future was futile. He may not be a Dragonlord or able to have full control over a Dragon, but Kilgarrah respected him enough to listen. Even more so, his kin was at risk. Arthur was the only chance for Merlin, so whatever needed to be done had to be. Arthur wrapped his arms around the tail, clinging onto the scaly skin tightly. Slowly, the Dragon steered his great tail towards the edge of the pathway. They shared one final look. Arthur nodded determinedly – a signal to continue. Kilgarrah said nothing and continued to lower his tail. Seconds later, Arthur was plunged into a new darkness. He could feel ground beneath his feet and let go of the golden tail.
Then he was alone, in a new darkness.
♦☼♦
“So let’s think- what do we already know about this thing?” Gwaine gestured towards the weapon on the ground whilst circling it pensively. The pair had left for Iaonam when the sun had barely risen over the sky. Somehow they’d escaped the settlement inconspicuously, without notice or speculation. Iaonam was nothing but ruins, a large area of smashed up rocks, boulders and occasional areas of grass surrounded by the large Iaonem forest. They had walked a little past the crushed Iaonam caves and to a small, discrete clearing that was partially covered by the vegation around.
The woman with dark hair beside Gwaine lowered herself to her knees to inspect the weapon from a safe distance. Gwaine gazed over at her, watching the subtle expression pass over her face. Tilting her head curiously she frowned. A peculiar expression framed her eyes; one Gwaine was certain meant her words were not going to be comforting.
“It’s been tampered with. It
possesses dark magic, see the magical symbols on the curves of the gun.” Topia beckoned Gwaine to come and sit beside her, eyes never leaving the weapon. Squinting, Gwaine attempted to make out the symbols she was speaking of. He was not the most knowledgeable on Druid symbols or anything Druid really, but he could see some very faint markings that bore no resemblance to Human tongue.
“You think maybe Morgause enchanted it back at Camelot?” Gwaine asked, crouching down beside the Clan leader, hand cupping his bearded face.
They shared a glance which quickly became an intense stare. Her turquoise eyes met his caramel eyes. It was no secret that Topia was a very beautiful, striking woman. As Clan leader she had a tough, determined exterior that was a contrast against her radiant smooth skin. Her eyes were captivating and Gwaine pretended that she hadn’t caught his eye from the day the Clans arrived in Iaonem before the Battle of Breguoin. Despite wanting to divert his gaze, Gwaine found he couldn’t. His eyes were fixated on her face, the way the small beads of sunlight filtered through the trees above to sketch patterns on her face. To his relief, a voice called out from behind them.
“Ah, there you two are!” Elätha remarked, appearing from behind the curtain of trees and vines. As he pushed his way through he noticed the proximity of the pair, and raised his eyebrows. Topia leapt up onto her feet and averted all her attention to the weapon. Gwaine remained where he was, feigning nonchalance rather well – until the Clan Leader continued with a coy smile.
“Gwen said I’d find you here,” pause. His eyes glinted mischievously and Gwaine tilted is head as if to say ‘I dare you’. Elätha did. “on your date-”
Standing, Gwaine shot the older man a look that could most probably kill if he’d found the right spell. Unfortunately Gwaine didn’t know any spells, so that was out of the question. Elätha grinned humourously, seemingly pleased by the reaction. Eyes darting towards Elätha who was still grinning like a child, Topia regained composure.
“-A date-?” her eyes moved towards Gwaine.
“-No, it was just to stop people following us up here!” Gwaine deflected, rather poorly if the next voice was anything to go by.
“You, date – you honestly think we’d miss this after what happened last time?” A curly haired male chimed from behind Elätha. Beside him a tanned, handsome male shrugged innocently; the smirk on his face counteracted the gesture.
“What happened last time?” the dark haired woman asked promptly, the words testing Gwaine’s patience further.
And again, Arthur had promised not to tell that bloody story! He really was going to murder Arthur when he returned, Once and Future or not. After imagining precisely twenty-one different ways to kill Arthur Pendragon, Gwaine decided it was time to communicate with the real world before things escalated out of control and the story was retold.
“Nothing.” he retorted gruffly, glowering at his two friends. “And it’s not a date-”
“-Then why did you say it was-?” Topia begun; there was something unfamiliar in her expression.
“-Just. Forget it.” Pointing towards the gun, Gwaine grimaced. “There are more important things to discuss here.”
“Right you are.” Topia said, face unusually flushed. Her eyes were bright with confusion and curiosity all at once. It was difficult to tell whether these emotions were directed towards the weapon or towards the rugged man beside her. Somehow, she managed to convince the group that it was strictly for the gun.
“It’s plausible that Morgause was behind this.” She agreed. “But it would have to be a powerful spell,” wiping a strand of dark hair off her face, Topia sighed in perplexity. “There are very few who could conjure magic of this caliber and darkness.”
“Morgause was powerful,” Elätha confessed with darkness to his voice. “According to Balinor, she was a very gifted witch indeed. Not like Emrys, but very talented. I have no doubt that she could have done this.”
Humming in agreement, Leon took a step forwards to observe the gun.
“It makes sense considering she’s been working at Camelot for years. She worked on the magical extractors, on removing the Naiimen Barrier, something like this,” He picked it the gun. The he put it back down once he saw everyone visibly flinch away in his peripheral vision. “This is child’s play for her.”
“I don’t understand why she would strive to make something that would persecute her own kind.” Topia seemed unnerved and distressed by all of this information, evidently knowing less about Morgause than the others.
Turning to her over his shoulder, Gwaine frowned. The words unsettled him, particularly in light of his conversation earlier with Guinevere. This weapon had been made to do just that – to hurt and physically torture a Druid. Merlin’s condition was deteriorating rapidly.
“Gaius said he’s been having fits, unable to control his magic. The more he uses magic the weaker he gets, but he’s no longer in control of his magic.” The memory of Merlin’s violent outbursts yesterday triggered animation in Gwaine. He too got to his feet and began pacing rather maladroitly. Topia’s eyes widened and she responded cautiously.
“That’s the interesting thing, because a normal illness does not affect a Druid’s magic at all, it only attacks the body.” Her explanation caused him to pause in his tracks; realisation hit him hard in the face. He staggered backwards before regaining his balance. When he was sure his feet wouldn’t betray him, he focused attention on the woman.
“You don’t think there’s a cure.”
Bowing her head at the admission, Topia refrained from any verbal response. But her body language was enough to deduce that he was right. She couldn’t be right about this though. Gaius had said the Mortius Flower would heal Merlin. There was a chance. Shaking his head dismissively, Gwaine swallowed-hard, attempting to regulate his heartbeat.
“The Mortius Flower can reverse the effects.” Leon said confidently, not daring to gaze over at Topia. “It contains a special antitoxin proven to-”
“-That is true.” She eventually concluded, cutting Leon off from his scientific, knowledgeable deductions. “Yet this flower, it is very rare. I know the Once and Future will do his best to find it, but I do not know of one Druid who ever has found one for over a hundred years.” The words struck Gwaine hard in his stomach, then his chest, and suddenly his legs were a little unsteady. Lance moved forwards in concern to support him. The facts weren’t promising at all.
Elätha lowered himself to the ground to inspect the gun, not reacting to the dismal words.
“There’s a strange marking around the bullet hole,” he called up to his friends who huddled around the weapon. Around the mouth of the gun, there was a slight discolouration of the metal around it. The metal was chipped and looked as if it had been burnt. Only there were no signs of charring. Leaning over Elätha’s head, Topia’s eyes flashed ochre. In a split second the metal instantly changed colour. The odd marking became illuminated in dark black for all to see. It swept around the entire bullet hole ominously. Reaching out, Elätha stroked his fingers over it. He winced as his fingers met a strange slime.
He wiped it on the grass beside him swiftly. Topia narrowed her eyes, examining the substance. Leon was now leaning close into the weapon opposite her.
“It seems like this was activated once the gun was fired.” He muttered, hesitantly leaning over to touch it.
“It looks a lot like…” gazing up to Elätha, Topia frowned. A crease formed between her brows. “Naemon magic.”
“So it’s not a myth?!” Leon exclaimed in fascination.
“It can’t be; that’s impossible.” Elätha snapped a little too flippantly for the rest of them to ignore.
“What’s Naemon magic?” Gwaine asked, feeling as if he was missing out on important information. Raking a hand through a strand of dark braided hair, Topia reluctantly began to tell the tale.
“It was said that many millennia ago, when the Naiimen lived in Albion, that there was a dark order of forces; the Naemon. The Naemon p
racticed dark magic, magic that blackened the land and sucked the life from its surroundings, even the users themselves. It was a relentless evil. This evil threatened to destroy the Naiimen legacy, everything the Naiimen had strived for. They fought for Albion. Years later, the Naiimen vanquished the Naemon for good.” Gwaine sensed there was a ‘but’ to this story. It seemed he was correct. Elätha shuffled uncomfortably on the ground.
“Many believed that the Naemon continued to live, that they sheltered themselves away from the Naiimen. Over centuries their practices dwindled and became nothing but a whisper. But the Naemon traditions were passed down to a select few who acquired these dark spells.”
“What does that mean for Merlin?” Lancelot asked quickly, concern etched onto his face.
“Nothing,” Topia replied softly, obviously troubled and attempting to conceal it. “…and everything.”
“We can’t prove that the Neoman magic actually survived.” Elätha bellowed suddenly, clearly fazed by all of this.
“How do you explain this then?” the woman’s voice rose in pitch and volume, alarming them all. The undertone of panic was enough to fluster the atmosphere around. “Observe. This,” she picked up some of the dark slime and smeared it over the tips of her fingers. “This is magic. This is magic pushed to its limits cruelly without care, this is magic stretched and tortured, this is magic decomposing from sheer exhaustion.” Pause. The group blinked at her strange analogy. “You can’t feel it…”