I have returned! *party streamers*

My academic work is finally finished, my dissertation submitted and my university education complete. Huzzah! And while I'll still be working full time over the summer, I don't have to dedicate 100% of my days off to research, so I'm free to write. :)

The short story about the adventures of wee!Arthur and newly appointed knight/babysitter Leon has turned into an epic saga. I'm contemplating starting a mini-series, but I'll see how things roll. The first instalment should be posted in a week, so stay tuned!

Many thanks for all your lovely reviews, favourites and PM's – this story is now topping 250 followers! *fans self* Goodness gracious! I could start my own civilisation with those numbers. :P Apologies to those reviewers who did not receive personal replies, I completely lost track of who I'd contacted. I still love you!

Now, here's a whopper of a chapter for you. 5000 words, y'all.

Emrys.

The voice was deep, ancient, as though spoken from the roots of the earth itself. It echoed, the name carried in whispers by the wind; a chilling breeze that teased the flickering flames of the torches that lined the dark corridor.

Come, Emrys.

He shivered, bare feet moving soundlessly against the stone floor as he followed the voice deeper and deeper into the stony bowels of the castle, passing through a never-ending maze of twisted passageways, the light growing steadily dimmer around him. A spiral staircase appeared before him, descending into the dungeons, leading him down, down, down, until the light from the torches on the upper landing were mere pinpricks in the inky blackness above; blinking stars in a clear night's sky.

Come to me.

That voice again; the words whispered in a foreign tongue, ancient as the dawn of time, and yet their meaning was known to him – a resonance from the core of his being. It was an intrinsic understanding born only of magic, and he feared it – feared that primal, instinctual force within him, entwined with his very existence. Now it urged him to continue on, to seek out the owner of the voice, and he was powerless to resist it, his feet carrying him there of their own volition.

The dungeon was unusually dark, lit by a single, fading torch at the far end of the corridor. Merlin moved forwards cautiously, squinting through the dim light to peer into the cells.

Emrys…

"I'm here," he replied, but his voice didn't carry as it ought to have done, didn't echo off the stone walls. It was muffled – stifled by the air itself - and Merlin suddenly sensed, despite the silence, that he wasn't alone.

A cell loomed up before him without warning, the solid iron bars an inch from his face, and he ground to a halt with a low gasp, heart pounding. There was something within the cell, something that moved – a dark form that shifted amidst the shadows, fluid and ethereal. Merlin tried to take a step back, but found a solid wall pressing against his shoulders, blocking any chance of escape. A liquid chill seemed to seep from the cold stone, flowing through his body, locking his limbs in place.

"Who are you?" he demanded, voice low and tremulous as he fought helplessly against the unseen force that kept him immobilised.

Emrys, the voice whispered again. Take heed.

Gathering his courage, Merlin steeled himself, peering between the bars of the cell with narrowed eyes. "What do you want?"

The end draws near. All that you hold dear will be lost.

A cold sort of dread curled tight in his stomach at the words. Leaning forwards, he gripped the cell bars tightly.

"The end of what?"

The shadow lurched in a sudden movement, and ice-cold fingers closed about his wrist, tight enough to hurt. Merlin cried out, trying to pull away, but the shadowed figure's hold was firm and he could not break free.

"You must see," the phantom spoke, the cold breath like a winter breeze against Merlin's cheek, "and remember, else all will be lost." The warlock couldn't make out any facial features; the figure was cloaked in shadow and all save his bony fingers were indistinguishable from the surrounding darkness. "He is here. Take heed."

The hand squeezed tighter for a moment, claw-like fingers biting into his skin like steel, and Merlin cried out again. Then just as abruptly, the shadowed figure withdrew, releasing him, and he slumped back against the stone wall, breathing raggedly.

"Remember what?" he asked, clutching his injured wrist to his chest. "I don't understand!"

But the darkness did not respond. Instead, it seemed to be growing, warping and stretching into grotesque angles, before breaking off into several separate shadows. Yellow slits formed – six pairs of eyes that glared at him from the darkness. A series of low, rumbling growls broke the silence of the dungeon, echoing off the stone walls. Merlin sucked in a sharp breath, pressing himself back against the wall as panic flooded him.

"No…"

A massive, black-furred paw suddenly thrust itself between the bars of the cell, and Merlin threw himself sideways to avoid the sharp claws. He stumbled and tripped, landing at an angle only to find the ground falling away beneath him, sending him tumbling head-over-heels down a slope.

Down and down he rolled, his surroundings a blur of colour and movement as the hard stone of the dungeon morphed into the green leaves of a forest, midnight became daylight, and suddenly he was laying at the foot of a marble throne amidst the ruins of a once-great castle.

Rubble was strewn across the floor of the throne room, vines and tree roots interwoven with the weathered hunks of stone as nature tried to swallow the remains. In contrast, the throne itself remained regal and resplendent, untouched by time. Gold glinted in the marble, snaking around the arms in an intricate pattern, and upon the cushioned seat sat a small wooden chest - unremarkable in light of the wealth that surrounded it, save for the object that lay within.

The amulet was carved of silver and untarnished by age, a circular disc no bigger than the palm of his hand. A yellow stone was set in its centre, burning like fire in the light of the sun, and runes had been etched in a complex, spiralling pattern around it, engraved into the silver.

Merlin felt drawn to the amulet as though it called to him, and his fingers were reaching for it before he had fully registered what he was doing.

Emrys!

The voice was closer now – a cold, biting breeze against his ear – and he turned sharply, spying movement out of the corner of his eye; a shadow passing out of sight behind the remains of a stone wall in a flutter of dark material, longs skirts swishing. Morgana. She was here. Even without adequate visual confirmation, Merlin could sense her – there was a familiar cold, unsettling feeling inside him coiling tighter and tighter as the magic in the earth around him turned sour, dark, tainted by her malice.

He felt a sudden, pressing need to protect the amulet, to hide it from sight where the sorceress could not find it, but as he turned back towards the throne and reached for the chest, he stopped short, heart seizing within his chest.

The amulet was gone.

Thunder boomed overhead, and he flinched, pressing the palms of his hands against his ears to silence the noise. Rain began to fall, light at first, but then in torrents, heavy and incessant against his skin like a midsummer's downpour.

Take heed, the voice said again, fainter now, and remember. He is here.

"Remember what?" the warlock demanded desperately, shouting to be heard above the growing storm. "I don't understand! What do you want from me?"

Merlin…

A louder clap of thunder sounded from above; a rolling, pounding cacophony of noise, drowning out the rain, his name carried in the roar of the wind. The voice was younger now, familiar, and-

"Merlin!"

He awoke with a start, narrowly avoiding knocking his head against Gwaine's chin as he jerked upright. His heart was hammering away within his chest, a frantic pounding that echoed in his ears as the thunder had done, and he stilled for a moment to catch his breath, eyes darting about the room. Arthur's chambers. The illumination was poor, with naught but the dying embers of the fire and a solitary candelabrum on the bedside dresser providing light, so clearly the sun had not yet risen.

The events of the previous evening returned to him; hazy images of slipping a sleeping draught into Arthur's goblet, of frantically trying to cool his friend's burning skin as the prince thrashed in the heat of feverish dreams, of resorting to magic but finding his powers useless against the illness. He remembered growing tired, eyes hot and aching, and how he'd pillowed his head in his arms – only for a moment, just resting my eyes – and after that he must have fallen asleep.

Gods, so it had all been a dream? The dungeons, the throne room, the amulet? But it had felt so real.

The hand on his shoulder squeezed, a comforting pressure, and he glanced up to meet Gwaine's worried gaze. Thick, dark eyebrows were drawn together in a frown as the older man regarded him steadily.

"Are you alright?"

No, was the honest answer, because not only had the dream been unsettling, but sleeping in the chair at Arthur's bedside, half-slumped across the mattress with his head pillowed in his arms, had given him one hell of a crick in his neck. He winced, stretching carefully, and brought a hand up to rub the area.

"M'fine," he answered instead, his voice low and rough from lack of use. He scrubbed at his eyes to banish the itchiness of fatigue and shifted to lean further over the bed, laying a palm against Arthur's forehead.

"Have you been here all night?" Gwaine asked, keeping his voice low so as not to disturb the sleeping prince.

Merlin's brow creased at the heat that still radiated from Arthur's skin, and he reached for the bowl of water – stone cold now, but perhaps that was best – and the discarded cloth on the dresser at the bedside. Nodding in response to the knight's question, he folded the wet compress into a neat strip and pressed it to his friend's forehead. Arthur inhaled deeply, facial muscles twitching at the cold touch, and shifted restlessly in his sleep, but did not awaken.

Gwaine leaned against one of the wooden posts at the foot of the bed, watching their future king with a quiet, serious expression.
"How is he?"

"His fever rose last night," Merlin replied, gently bathing Arthur's face and neck with the water. "Gaius hoped it would break before dawn, but you know how Arthur likes to be contrary about these things, the stubborn sod."

He tried to go for casual, dismissive – their usual let's groan about our favourite clotpole banter – but it fell rather short of the mark. In all his years of service to the prince, Arthur had never fallen ill before; not like this. He had been injured, certainly, even poisoned on a couple of occasions, and he had a annoying propensity for very-nearly-almost-dying that Merlin was practically accustomed to by now. But those were typically magic-related, or the result of battle wounds, and there had always, always been something that he could do to help; bandages to change and wounds to sew closed, a cure to find or a beast to slay to bring Arthur back to health,

But there was no miracle cure here. No healing potion or work of sorcery that could ease his friend's suffering. He had tried that already, tried using a cooling spell to reduce Arthur's fever, but all that had done was make the prince shiver with cold while the fire still burned him from the inside.

A heavy hand landed on his shoulder again, and Gwaine gave him a bolstering one-armed hug. "He'll be fine, Merlin," the bearded knight spoke reassuringly. "He's suffered through worse. Stubborn types, these royals."

Merlin heaved a tired sigh, but nodded. Gwaine was right. Arthur had fought dragons and dark sorcerers and an entire immortal army and emerged victorious. A fever would not defeat him, surely. He returned the cloth to its bowl and leaned back again, hiding a yawn behind his hand,

"What time is it?"

"Not long 'til dawn, I'd wager." Gwaine moved over to the hearth to stoke the fire back to life, the orange embers illuminating his face eerily in the semi-darkness of the room. "You should go and get some rest. The princess'll be awake and bossing you around again soon enough."

The young warlock shook his head, glancing down at Arthur. "No, I…I should stay here in case something happens."

"You've been holed up in here long enough already," Gwaine insisted, returning to his side and giving him a playful shove. "Go. I'll stay with him until he wakes up."

Merlin's gaze lingered on Arthur, uncertainty written across his features. But it had been an age since he'd last eaten – the fever had struck before he'd had the chance to grab a bite of supper the previous evening – and he wasn't going to be of much use to anybody like this. Reluctantly, he nodded and rose awkwardly from the chair, stiff joints protesting after so many hours of inactivity. He turned to glance at the knight beside him.

"Promise me you'll let me know if he gets any worse?"

Gwaine inclined his head. "I promise." He turned Merlin by the shoulders and gave the man another gentle shove, this time in the direction of the door. "Go. He'll still be here when you get back."

"He better be," Merlin warned, pointing a finger at him, but there was the shadow of a smile curling at the corner of his mouth. Gwaine might not have been the most responsible friend he could name, but he trusted the older man with his life (and the prince's), and he knew Arthur was in safe hands.

Still, he couldn't quite shake an uneasy feeling as he closed the chamber door behind him. Although perhaps that was the faint, echoing 'Emrys' that still whispered at the back of his mind.

He rubbed at his wrist, the memory of the shadow's crushing grip still an echoing pain, hissing when his fingers encountered an area of tenderness. Slowing to a halt, he pulled the sleeve of his tunic up, frowning down at the limb. He felt his stomach lurch at the sight that met him.

Curling around his wrist, and as fresh as the day Sir Hugh had first given them to him, four finger-shaped bruises stood out in stark contrast to the usual pallor of his skin, the skin throbbing as though the injury was newly acquired, right down to the noticeable imprint of the nobleman's signet ring.

Oh, fie.

o~O~o

"It's been four days now," Sir Kay spoke, his gaze cast out over the training fields below as foot soldiers and squires and stablehands undertook their morning duties in the dim light of the approaching dawn, "and we've had no further reports of attacks on the outlying villages. Perhaps the worst of it has passed."

Leon gave a noncommittal hum, gloved finger tracing an idle pattern in the thin powdering of snow atop the flat wall of the battlements. Beside him, Sir Gildor also seemed unconvinced, grim-faced and silent as he kept a watchful eye on the open field below. After a moment, he turned his head to regard the other two men, hands braced on top of the wall and shoulders hunched a little.

"We still have no definitive answer as to the origin of the beasts," the elder knight remarked, his tone grave. "Gaius believes that the creatures are the servants of a long-dead sorcerer, but he says there is no way of knowing for certain. For all we know, the wolves may be a new creation of the Lady Morgana's."

"'Tis certainly more plausible an explanation," Kay agreed. He fell silent for a moment, hand clenching and unclenching upon the hilt of his sword in an agitated sort of manner, before he exhaled a sharp sigh. "I feel uncertain as to the wisdom of keeping the beasts imprisoned in the castle; wooden trinkets though they may be, at present."

Leon glanced his way, then dropped his gaze again to the training fields below and inclined his head. "That, brother, is a sentiment shared by many. Prince Arthur included. But he could see no alternative course of action, in light of the circumstances, and the safety of his people has ever been Arthur's first priority. Even when his own well-being is jeopardised in the process."

"Foolish lad," Gildor muttered, with a fond sort of gruffness.

"Well, he learnt from the best," Kay reasoned smoothly, shooting a sideways look at the older knight, eyes bright with mirth. "You trained him, after all."

Leon's lips twitched. "True. Given how passionately he emulated you as a lad, could you really have expected him to turn out any less stubborn-headed?"

Gildor arched an eyebrow at them and made a show gripping the hilt of his sword. "Care to back up such taunts with steel, sirs?"

"Wish I could," Kay sighed glumly, sounding genuinely regretful (although that was hardly surprising, given Kay's usual enthusiasm for sparring in any form), leaning back against the wall of the battlements and adjusting his sling so that it supported his splinted arm more comfortably. "No violent combat for another eight weeks, or so Merlin tells me. Rotten luck, really; the winter tournament is but six weeks hence."

Leon opened his mouth to express his sympathy at his friend's plight (for indeed, he had been in such a position himself countless times due to some injury or another), but the sudden arrival of a young page drew his attention.

"My lords," the boy greeted with a quick bow, somewhat breathless from running, "forgive the intrusion, but Sir Harn thought you'd want to know that the council has been called to an emergency session."

Brow furrowing, Leon shared a curious glance with Gildor. When last they had checked on Arthur, the prince had still been fast asleep in his chambers, under the watchful eyes of Gwaine and Percival. He found it unlikely that the younger man would have awoken and called the council into session without first discussing it with the knights, who in turn would have sought out Gildor and himself in person. With a wary look in his eyes, he turned his gaze back towards the messenger.

"On whose orders, Erin?"

"Lord Aggravaine's, sir." Erin gave another bow. "Will that be all, my lords?"

"Yes," Leon replied distractedly, but spared a smile for the lad. "Thank you."

For a moment they stood in silence, waiting until the boy's footsteps had faded away into nothing, before Leon turned to face his companions. While Kay looked confused, Gildor's frown matched his own, crease-for-crease.

"I believe I missed the edict that appointed Aggravaine as the voice of authority in Arthur's stead," the greying knight spoke, and while his tone was mild, his disapproval was apparent to those who knew him well. "The prince has been abed less than a day, 'tis hardly cause for such extreme measures."

"Perhaps something has happened," Kay suggested, worry now darkening his features as he began moving towards the stairwell that descended back down into the castle. "Perhaps there's been another attack."

Leon gave a hum of acknowledgement, following the injured knight as they made their way down from the battlements. Whatever the cause, he knew it was of paramount importance to attend the council session. It wasn't that he didn't trust Lord Aggravaine, but the man had demonstrated in the past that his own method of running the kingdom often differed greatly from the prince's, and Leon knew that Arthur would not approve of his uncle making decisions regarding matters of state without first consulting him.

While he did not possess the authority to override Aggravaine's decisions, Leon had been a quiet presence in council sessions for many years now, and was well-known by the members therein. Perhaps he could sway their vote towards a solution that Arthur would approve of; or if not, at least stall the decision long enough for the prince to regain his health and overrule whatever folly Aggravaine had decreed as law.

o~O~o

Lancelot inspected the slim wrist carefully, eyes dark with concern at the vivid bruising that marred the pale skin, but his expression carefully blank.
"Less than a few hours old, I'd say. Why do you ask?"

"Because," Merlin shifted closer to him on the low bench and dropping his voice as though fearing that they would be overheard, despite being the only current occupants of the armoury, "it's been four days since my disagreement with Sir Hugh. The bruising ought to have faded by now."

The knight's eyes snapped up at that, his gaze sharp and searching. "Hugh? He did this to you?" At Merlin's nod, his expression darkened somewhat. "And when in god's name were you planning on telling me this?"

Merlin opened his mouth, closed it again, then averted his gaze, tugging his wrist free and pulling down the sleeve of his tunic to cover the marks. "I'd all but forgotten about it until this morning. Besides, given everything else that's happened, it didn't seem important. But-"

"Of course it was important," Lancelot interrupted, tone firm as he raked his eyes up and down Merlin's body as though searching for more hidden injuries. "He had no right to lay a hand on you. If Arthur knew-"

"No," Merlin blurted, caching Lancelot's arm, a quiet urgency in his voice. "Don't tell him, please. Arthur's got enough on his plate already. And I don't want him getting involved in anything to do with Sir Hugh, not until I'm sure."

Lancelot's brow creased. "Sure about what?"

Shooting a quick glance towards the entrance on the other side of the wide room – although the wooden door remained fast shut, he still felt as though someone or something was watching him – he ducked his head down further, voice dropping to a whisper.

"I think Hugh may be the controlling force behind the recent attacks," he disclosed, holding Lancelot's gaze as the other man's eyes widened fractionally. Before his friend could voice the questions that were clearly bubbling up, he raised a hand to forestall them. "I don't know how, and I don't know why, but…there's something about him that unsettles me. I've been watching him these past few days, making sure he steers clear of Arthur, and the feeling just keeps getting stronger."

"Do you think he has magic?" Lancelot asked seriously. "You've said before that you can sense when Morgana is near, like a growing dread within you. Is the feeling akin to that?"

Merlin fell silent for a moment, drawing a knee up to his chest and bracing his foot on the edge of the bench, wrapping his arms around his bent leg as he thought it over. While he could not feel the magic in Hugh, not directly, but certainly dark sorcery had played a part somewhere. He was sure of it. It lingered about the nobleman like a foul stench.

"I don't know," he confessed eventually, fiddling with the sleeve of his tunic. "There's this… darkness about him. Not unlike Morgana's, I suppose. But hidden, less noticeable, like he's been touched by dark magic - tainted by it - but he doesn't hold such power himself."

"Well, at least that tells us he's involved with sorcery on some level," Lancelot acknowledged, standing up and beginning to pace slowly. "So he's what, under a dark spell? In league with Morgana? And what about that other sorcerer Gaius spoke of – Gilderoth? How does he fit into all this?"

Slowly running his fingers over the fresh bruises on his wrist, Merlin bit his lip and exhaled a long, slow sigh through his nose. His brain still felt addled from the dream he'd been so abruptly woken from an hour ago, he was having trouble making sense of the facts. He had been so sure that Hugh would prove to be the one responsible, perhaps acting as a pawn for Gilderoth. But he had learned long ago that his dreams were often a conduit for external forces of magic – first Kilgharrah, then the faeries of the Darkening Woods not three months ago, and now this. The amulet was of great significance, of that he was certain. Even in the dream, he had sensed its power. And then Morgana had appeared and vanished in the span of a heartbeat, and when he'd next looked, the amulet had gone.

So had Morgana taken it? Is that what the disembodied voice had been trying to tell him? Perhaps the stony ruins were what remained of Gilderoth's once-great fortress at the heart of the five kingdoms. Perhaps the amulet had been his, and Morgana had taken it in an attempt to resurrect the long-dead sorcerer of legend.

But who had spoken to him in the dream? Spoken in voice as ancient as the earth itself, and whispered to the magic deep within him? It had been a warning, that alone was clear, but how could he trust the words? Visions had led him astray before.

Gods, it made his head hurt. He knew even less now than he had done before.

"Merlin."

Warm fingers closed over his wrist and he blinked, stirring from his thoughts, eyes refocusing to meet Lancelot's worried gaze as the knight crouched down in front of him. Merlin realised belatedly that he must have been lost in thought for some time (going by the cramping in his leg), and mustered a smile to reassure the other man that all was well. His gaze flickered to where Lancelot held his wrist gently, long fingers almost overlapping the fresh bruises.

You must see, and remember, the voice spoke inside his head, an echo of the words that had haunted his dream, else all will be lost.

Suddenly the feeling of uncertainty within him vanished, and he knew (although perhaps only the gods knew how) that whoever the voice belonged to was on his side. Magic thrummed within him, a warm burst of courage, and the cold fear that had hung over him for days now seemed to dissipate. Power surged through him, a giddy sort of sensation that made him feel whole, and he embraced it gladly, a genuine smile stretching across his face.

"Merlin," Lancelot said again, hesitantly, and reached up to tap his temple. "Merlin, your eyes."

And just like that, the connection snapped, and the sense of brimming magic faded again. He could tell by the look of relief of Lancelot's face that his eyes had returned to their usual colour, and he let himself sag back against the wall behind him, suddenly tired. The knight stood from his crouch and moved to regain his seat on the bench instead, keeping a steadying grip on Merlin's arms, his gaze wary.

"What just happened?"

Merlin raked his fingers through his hair, shaking his head slowly. "I don't know. I felt…alive. Like magic itself. And there was that voice."

Lancelot's expression grew concerned again. "What voice?"

"The voice from my dream. Long story." He stood abruptly and headed for the door. "I'll tell you on the way to Hugh's chambers."

"What?" Lancelot hurried to catch up with him, taking him by the arm to halt his hasty retreat. "Why are we confronting Hugh? I thought you said you wanted to wait until you were certain."

"I'm not going to confront him," Merlin reassured, tugging against his friend's gentle grip. "I'm going to search his chambers."

"And what if he's in them?"

"We create a distraction to make him leave," the warlock replied with confidence. "And then we search his chambers."

Lancelot seemed unconvinced as to the wisdom of such a plan, but let Merlin drag him off down the corridor all the same. "And what, exactly, are we looking for?"

Merlin quickened his pace, determined now. "An amulet," he replied. "We're looking for Gilderoth's amulet."

Is it truly magic guiding Merlin, or is something more sinister at play? Is Hugh the one in possession of Gilderoth's amulet, or is Morgana the one to blame? And what the hell is Aggravaine up to, that black-hearted devil of a man?

Find out next week. ;)

Feel free to let me know what you thought of the chapter, or any theories you may have regarding Gilderoth/Hugh/the wolves/Aggravaine. I always love to hear from you!

Thanks for reading,

Grapefruit xxx