Title: Salt and Ice

Fandom: BBC Merlin

Rating: 13+

Disclaimer: BBC Merlin does not belong to me, just this story/fanfiction.

Warnings: Hurt/Comfort, Swearing, Blood/Gore later on. . .

Main Pairing: Merlin/Mordred, Merdred

Full Summary: Merlin is de-aged by a sorceress and left as an innocent five-year-old. It's down to the Knights and Arthur to protect him in his younger, vulnerable state. But with interfering Druids, the looming threat of Morgana, and dangerous suppression magic, are they fighting a losing battle? Sick!Merlin, Protective!Mordred. Magic is a gift, not a curse.

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Salt and Ice

Winter's Child

Prologue: Regression

"You have forgotten yourself, Emrys."

"No, I-"

"You have forgotten your purpose, and in doing so, have forgotten yourself. I cannot blame you, Emrys." She sighed, pity lacing in her tone. "There have been those whom have done you too many wrongs, you have lost so much and have too little for show."

The Witch moved forward. The crunch of frost-kissed leaves pronounced with each step. Stopping shortly but holding a fair distance from the young boy, she watched his body tense and winced at the look in his eyes.

May the Gods help her because Emrys holds no trust for her, no belief in his own kin anymore, his own people.

The King of the Druids is wavering in his destiny. The light that once shone in his eyes had been replaced by only vision of death and loss. But things were going to change, they had to change, she was going to fix this hurt her saviour suffered.

"Your pain has blackened your soul and buried your heart so deep you no longer know where to find it. You are not at fault, my lord, but if I do not interfere, we will lose everything we have left. There is someone close, whom you keep too far away."

She raised her hand and saw the flash of gold in her King's eyes. Not that it matters, she was quicker and the spell sparked at her fingertips. The delicious taste in the air lingered from the magic would hopefully attract the attention of the one she sought. She stood solitary as the spell smacked into the boy, sending him flying backwards and straight to the ground.

The night sky was burden by a winter storm, thundering over the trees just outside Camelot's walls. The Witch smiled because the heavens were on her side. Emrys' was created by the Gods after all. With so much noise, only someone magical would know that she and magic-incarnate itself stood here.

Except her smile begun to fade, she was no Druid and she had only heard the prophecies, she had not been taught the depth in those sacred words. It was a secret they kept to their own kind. These worrisome thoughts caused her hesitance as she advanced towards the boy.

In truth she had little knowledge in regards to her King, about the nature of his magic, about his being, she only knew the stories and that saddened her. How cruel was fate to keep their protector, their God, from them?

This is one chance the Druids, and her kin, had to free Emrys' heart from the darkness that slowly devoured it. He had lost his ability to trust others, to seek their innocence and bring out the goodness that, at times, only he could see. Emrys has lost faith in himself. And she wasn't the only one to notice. Plagued by warnings of a burnt and ash laden Kingdom, the Seers amongst her people had begun to speak out about their visions. The rumours spread quickly that something was wrong with Emrys, that there was something he was preventing from happening and Fate was waging war in retaliation.

It only took a few convenient circumstances and she had been granted a place as a maid in the royal palace, working in the Kitchens. From there she tried to get close to a being of legends, but he wouldn't let her near, wouldn't give her any more time for her small talk than necessary.

Each day she saw a little more.

The fake smiles and laughter, the dark circles under his eyes, the blankness. Within the first week, she overheard the physician and a Knight discussing Emrys' relentless nightmares. It didn't take long for her to figure out the rest. The hate in his eyes only ever directed at one person. The way he twitched every time that person got to close. He feared the King's death, and he feared the one to be responsible even more so.

'Mordred'. The woman breathed.

She had met the Druid boy, though briefly, when he was younger. Although she thanked the stars that he hadn't recognised her as the passing Witch from the Forest of Balor. Still she remained cautious. He is a formidable opponent and a possibly terrifying enemy. This is one path and one that is being trodden so far. She needed a way to open Emrys' eyes again, to show him that the Druid is not that man yet. But as she has learnt harshly over the last three weeks, her lord has no trust left to give.

Seeing Mordred now, she was proud of what he had become. A Knight. A loyal protector of Camelot, despite the Kingdom's wrongs. The boy had past all his people's expectations and now the Druids had free passage in the land. Even if magic is still banned on penalty of death. Yet, it's something that she would dream of as a little girl. However, she was wise enough to see that destiny had reached a crossroad. A tipping point from which all else could spiral out of control.

Kneeling beside the unconscious boy, the Witch tenderly brushed his hair to the side.

Never having been completely taught the Druid's perceived meanings behind the prophecies, she made her own. And the was something that didn't sit right with her about the image they painted of Mordred.

Hope's end? Maybe. Destroyer? Never. After all, doesn't hope end when you get what you've been hoping for?

She started to chant.

"Converte temporis mutare fortunam innocens esset annorum aetate revertatur."

A faint glow radiated across the Emrys' body and she heard the sickening crack of bones. She cringed and looked away, glad she had the opportunity to knock him out before performing the spell. Awake, he would be in excruciating pain, the sort that makes a man question his sanity.

From her pocket she pulled out a long cuff metal bracelet, though only of size to fit a child. Seemingly plain on the outside, the inside had been painstaking craved with runes and sigils that could bind a person's magic.

The Witch waited patiently for the spell to take hold completely and in those long moments she prayed not to be discovered just yet. Looking down as the glow receded and then disappeared altogether, she smiled. Firstly, because the spell worked and her magic had not failed her, secondly the child lying in front of her is absolutely adorable. Wild raven hair, pale cute features, no more than five-years-old, and the Witch wagers his eyes will be such a blue it could pierce the soul.

Hastily, she rushed back to the bag she hid before their encounter.

Inside rested a set of child's clothing. A dark blue shirt while the trousers and boots donned black. She got to work quickly redressing the boy and stuffing his adult clothes into her bag. Turning to leave she almost forget the silver bracelet she had discarded on the ground. Carefully, she slipped his hand through and held it around his wrist.

"Signaculum." She whispered, sealing the metal flush to his skin.

A whimper escaped the child's mouth as his features contorted with pain.

'This is for Emrys' protection,' the Witch told herself patiently, tempted to take it off. 'Magic at a young age is practically uncontainable. If he were to be discovered you have every reason to fear the worst.' She mouthed it over and over until her lips were numb. The thought of causing her God, her saviour, pain boarder-lined unbearable.

Both spells, the one binding his magic and the one returning his youth could only be undone by her. It was her only security against the flames. If Arthur wanted his friend back, then he would need her alive. The King had come a long way since ascending the throne in breaking the prejudices and abandoning some of the hate imposed upon him from birth, but there was still a way to go.

The people of Camelot and even those closest to Arthur, the Knights, still held much contempt towards magic in their hearts. No wonder Emrys' is in such despair. He had no one to confide in, no one to help nurture his gifts.

Pulling the boy's sleeve back down, she gambled the bracelet would be seen as no more than a bracelet. Arousing as little suspicion as possible.

A shout sounded ahead, and the Witch did all she could to hide her face and cover her smile. The young Knight standing half-concealed by shadows had done well to hide his approach. She hadn't even noticed him till now.

"Get away from the child." He ordered, drawing his sword and stalking closer.

Immediately the Witch lent down, cascading her fingers through the boy's hair once last time and whispered, "Good luck, Emrys. May we meet again when you remember how to forget."

Torn between kissing his forehead goodbye and fleeing, she looked up to meet icy blue eyes. So dangerous they steal colours from the moonlight. The tip of the sword was at her throat in seconds.

"I said," he snarled, "stand back."

In the distance there were yells from city guards, no doubt alerted by the Knight's call. The heavy footsteps and rattle of chain armour echo in the night. As the blade's edge slowly guided the Witch to her feet, she resisted the urge to meet his gaze. Eyes were windows to the soul and if he saw into hers, to learn of her true intentions, then her plan would be nothing but ruin.

Slyly the Witch sneered and added a malicious edge to her words she hoped Sir Mordred would believe.

"Well, well, well, what have we here? You have failed Druid Knight," she teased. "You were too late. Now Camelot will pay the price and Arthur is left vulnerable to attack from Lady Morgana."

A blank expression fell over the Druid's face and he held such indifference as he whispered cruelly to her. "Undo whatever magic you have cast in this city, traitor."

"Tut, tut, tut, you didn't say please." She stressed, not giving the Druid the chance to question her further. For the present her part was over. With new found hope she glanced between the pair and practically sung, "Tollite me alicubi tutus."

Bag in hand and heart in her throat, the wind carried her away as dust. With the greatening distance, she all but lost the sound of the Knight's empty threats to the night.

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