A/N:

Disclaimers: I don't own Merlin (BBC) or the lovely cover art (AlexandarCho on deviantART). This chapter also contains a number of references to stuff in wider Arthurian canon (so I don't own those things either...but I think a lot of them are public domain by now?).

Mini-warning: Some of the stuff referenced from the legends is a bit PG-13 (or more?), but if you're familiar with some of the legends, it's unlikely to be anything you wouldn't already know. Basically, the various versions of Merlin in the wider canon are often creepy and make some very questionable decisions...and this version of Merlin is appropriately appalled by all of that. ;)

Ok, on with the fic!

Chapter 97: Open to Interpretation

Morgana desperately needed to blow off some steam. Thanks to collaborating with Gwen on the legal documents—both doing research and drafting documents for the council's consideration—Morgana had gotten two nights of decent sleep back-to-back for the first time in weeks.

Maybe for the first time since Arthur and Merlin left, she thought as she tossed her nightclothes over the top edge of the dressing screen and quickly pulled on a soft linen shift and a cozy woolen dress.

But once the fog of exhaustion had cleared around the edges of her mind, the anger at the factors she couldn't control—Uther, Aredian, the laws against magic—had all come boiling to the top. She'd tried to keep a handle on the anger, but she mustn't have done as well as she'd thought, because Gwen had clearly picked up on it by the time she started helping Morgana with the gown's laces.

"So," Gwen began conversationally, "since the council's not meeting on Sundays, what will you do with all your free time today?"

"I should probably ask Gaius about—"

Wait, no, Gaius left—he's on his way to Sheffield.

"Um," Morgana amended, "I don't know, actually."

"Well," Gwen said, pausing between laces to glance out the window, "it's quite nice out today. Not warm, exactly, I mean it's still November, but it's not that really heavy sort of cold, not like after Yule, the way it seeps in and—"

Morgana sighed. "You want me to spend my free time outside."

"I just think, well, you've been in so many meetings lately; you've hardly left the castle."

Gwen finished the laces and began gathering up the nightclothes and a few other gowns that needed laundering, rambling as she worked.

"Nothing but grey stone and drafty rooms for days! And I think the fresh air might…um..."

Morgana frowned. "I think it's even more grey and drafty out there than it is in here."

"Morgana," Gwen said, switching suddenly from beating around the bush to attacking it directly with a hatchet, "I think that you need to get out of the castle."

She punctuated the pronouncement by dropping the armful of laundry on the table, crossing her arms and adding firmly, "Go for a ride. Do something."

Morgana knew she would probably deny it to her dying breath, but she took the smallest step back at the resolve in her friend's eyes. This new, blunt, no-nonsense Gwen was just a little bit scary at times.

"Why?" Morgana asked her.

"When you get like this—"

"Like what?"

"Like...like a kettle that's been left on the fire too long! I used to just worry you'd explode, that you'd shout at someone—usually Arthur, or the king, or maybe a lesser noble—but now, I just—"

Gwen cut herself off, biting her lip and scooping up the heap of linens from the table. Morgana reached out and caught her by the arm before Gwen could rush off in a flurry of apologies.

"Gwen, please."

Gwen's fingers twisted in the linens as she answered Morgana.

"But now I just...I just worry you'll make something else explode."

Morgana released Gwen's arm and stepped back.

"You're afraid of me? Of my magic?"

"No! I mean, not exactly."

"What—?"

"I just don't want to watch you join Merlin in the dungeon. I don't want to watch either of you die."

The word filled the silence that followed, jagged and terrifying. After a moment, Gwen added brokenly, "Please, Morgana, please just—"

Morgana nodded. "You're right; of course you are." You've always known me better than anyone—always known what to do when I get like this. "I'll just...um, I'll figure something out."

She looked at Gwen—really looked, now—and saw the same tension in her friend: stiff-shouldered, straight-backed, and smile lines tight with worry. Impulsively, Morgana pulled the bundle of linens out of Gwen's arms and dumped it back on the table.

"I think we both need some time away. Go on, take the rest of the day off."

"But...what about the—" Gwen reached for the linens, but Morgana blocked her path.

"They can wait. Who knows, maybe I'll use my free time today to learn new, illegal ways of doing chores," Morgana teased, flinging out an arm to cut off Gwen's attempt to dart past her to the linens.

"Do you think—oof!"

Gwen nearly clotheslined on Morgana's outstretched arm, stopping just out of reach of the disputed bundle, but she resumed her question with surprising grace.

"Do you think that is how Merlin managed to get all his chores done? Ooh, maybe he can teach you!"

"In fact, take the morning off tomorrow, too!" Morgana announced quickly, unsure if her face felt flushed from the ongoing scuffle or from the thought of studying magic with Merlin. And not simply magic, but small, casual spells in particular—the idea of magic infused into ordinary, everyday, shared moments. There was something soft, almost domestic, about that notion—No, something more than that—something safe, and the force of it left her feeling entirely off-balance. Perhaps those confusing feelings weren't as easily dispensed with as she'd thought.

Gwen, undeterred and unaware of the existential crisis she'd just triggered, dove past Morgana to grasp at the nearest garment in the pile. But Morgana hadn't beaten Arthur in sword fights when they were little on pure skill alone; no, she'd learned to think fast and play dirty to win. She shoved the entire pile of gowns off the table and onto a chair—and promptly sat on the lot of them, thereby bringing the squabble to a swift conclusion.

Gwen, clutching the one linen shift she'd managed to snag, gaped at Morgana.

"I hope there's a spell for ironing, too," Gwen said at last, then—with a gesture reminiscent of waving a white flag—tossed the linen shift at Morgana's throne of crumpled gowns.

Morgana caught the shift with a laugh. "Oh, go on then! And I mean it, about tomorrow morning. Have a lie-in, run errands, whatever you want to do."

"Are you sure?"

"It'll be fine, I promise. I just have a council meeting in the morning and lunch with Sir Geoffrey to discuss the final draft of the tax decree. I can meet you here after lunch."

"Don't you need me to—?"

"I'll be fine, Gwen, truly. It's only one day, and—unlike Arthur—I am capable of dressing myself on occasion."

Morgana was gratified to see Gwen's flustered blush at the mere mention of Arthur.

Turnabout is fair play.

Gwen recovered quickly, however. Her tone was serious and sincere.

"I meant it, too, Morgana—please do try to relax a bit. We'll just, uh," she gave a nervous shrug, "we'll figure it out, one day at a time, until they're all home again and safe."

"Home and safe," Morgana echoed.

Offering one last reassuring smile, Gwen slipped from the room, leaving Morgana alone with her thoughts and the now-wrinkled spoils of her victory. After a few moments of pensive silence, she stood abruptly and returned to the changing screen. She methodically stripped off her gown and dressed quickly in trousers, a comfortable tunic, and woolen socks. She worked her hair into a long braid and pulled on her riding boots, then crossed to the sturdy chest in the corner and pulled out well-worn leather gloves, a padded gambeson, and a maille shirt.

Gwen's right about clearing my head, about letting off steam like a kettle, she thought as she tied the laces on the gambeson and pulled the maille shirt over her head. But I don't think going for a ride will be enough today.

She strode out of her chambers in the direction of the armory. The knights in the citadel's garrison might not have training today, but she was confident she could find someone to spar with.

And Uther's not here to tell me I shouldn't.

The thought put an extra spring in her step as she reached the armory. Sirs Bellenger and Marrock sat on opposite benches, cleaning and inspecting various weapons while deep in conversation. They stopped abruptly mid-discussion, jumping to their feet and bowing when she entered.

"Our apologies, your highness," Sir Bellenger said sincerely. "We were not expecting you."

"No need for apologies," Morgana replied, grateful that at least some of the knights didn't begrudge their duty to her as their new regent. She stepped past the knights to the rack where the training swords were kept.

Picking one up and checking the grip and balance, she added, "I am, however, in need of a sparring partner this morning. Perhaps one of you would like to join me on the training field? It's been a while since I've had a chance to run through some riposte drills and I'd like to practice my footwork."

"You want to train, your highness?" Sir Bellenger asked, surprised.

"Why not?" Morgana replied quickly, holding up the training sword and sighting down the blade to check for damage. "The council's not meeting today and I've finished reading all the volumes of tax laws and tax levy records in Sir Geoffrey's extensive library, so I've some time to spare today."

Satisfied with her choice of training sword, she glanced over at the two knights. Neither looked thrilled at the possibility of accidentally injuring their new regent in an unscheduled sparring session. She'd played the strong opening hand, so now she could probably afford to put them at ease.

True loyalty has to go both ways, after all. This seems to work when Arthur does it, so we'll see how it goes.

"Frankly," she said, picking up a well-worn, blue-and-yellow practice shield—which she absolutely had not picked for its resemblance to Merlin's magical signature, "I think reading twenty-five years' worth of tax records is enough to make anyone long for the training field. And like I said, it's a good opportunity to clean up my footwork."

To her great relief, her gamble worked; both knights visibly relaxed. Sir Marrock picked up a training sword as he said, "I believe my riposte could use some work as well, your highness."

Sir Marrock glanced at Sir Bellenger before adding, "Since Sir Bellenger's riposte technique is widely praised, perhaps he could observe and offer input?"

"That would be most welcome," she agreed.

Exchanging nods of mutual respect, Morgana led the way out of the armory.

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

Merlin woke to the scrape of metal hinges. He blinked slowly and focused on the pair of boots a mere hand's breadth from his nose. Craning his head, he followed the boots up to the person wearing them—and jerked back in alarm.

"Good morning," Aredian said pleasantly—in the same way that snake tongues and fish oil might be called pleasant.

"Go away," Merlin said bluntly, craning his neck in time to see Sir Gareth relock the cell door behind Aredian, then pocket the key and stride back down the corridor toward the guards' station.

Aredian chuckled, a sinister rumbling like an imminent rockslide.

"I don't believe I answer to you, sorcerer. You're not the one paying my fee, after all."

Merlin glared as he jerked his head in the direction of Sir Gareth's retreating silhouette.

"But you're paying his, huh?"

"Oh, him? No, actually—he's doing that of his own free will. Didn't even have to ask."

"Why?" Merlin asked, shifting his weight as he spoke and subtly inching away as the vile man answered.

"Well, he hasn't said anything to me, of course, but I'd wager those knights you murdered—the two young ones?—might have meant something to him. Brothers in arms, the knight's code, what-have-you."

Aredian eyed Merlin appraisingly.

"So—as a theory—perhaps he doesn't think too kindly of you."

Merlin flinched.

"But," Aredian mused, his eyes still locked on Merlin, "Men like him, they're too noble to act on their baser instincts—greed, lust, revenge. They're not like us."

Abruptly, Aredian slammed his heavy boot heel down on the chain dragging from Merlin's ankles, thwarting his feeble attempt to scoot to safety.

"They're not like us, Emrys," Aredian continued, crouching down to Merlin's level. "So he won't take his revenge, but he won't stay and watch, either. After all, if he's not here, he can't be duty-bound to protect you from me."

Merlin desperately hoped Aredian couldn't see the truth in his eyes as Merlin lied through his teeth.

"I don't need his protection. I'm not afraid of you."

"And you needn't be...if you honour our little agreement, of course."

Right, that.

Merlin's head ached from trying to keep the threads of all his lies from tangling. It was exhausting, frankly. Once again, he regretted not telling Morgana everything months ago when he'd first had the chance.

But, he reminded himself, you know why you didn't then and you can't change it now. Just don't go making it any worse.

"Fine," Merlin muttered, terse and sullen.

"Excellent," Aredian said, standing and crossing the cell to retrieve a leather-bound ledger from his satchel through the cell bars, along with the enchanted inkwell and quill.

He flipped the ledger open, thumbed through it, then ran a finger down a page before looking up, a curious gleam in his eyes.

"I'd like to revisit a couple of points from our last conversation."

Seriously? Merlin tried not to roll his eyes as the witchfinder continued.

"There are a couple of details about your interactions with Nimueh…"

Not this again.

"What else is there to talk about?" Merlin interrupted, ignoring the wave of nausea every time he remembered exactly what he'd done. "I met her, I killed her, I left. There, does that clear things up for you?"

He crossed his arms and glared at Aredian, distracting himself from his guilt by thinking instead of all the non-lethal things he could do to the vile witchfinder—if it weren't for the cold iron cuffs binding his magic. Aredian chuckled darkly.

"Yes, that's how the story ended, but I want to know what happened before the unseasonably severe lightning storm."

Merlin bit back a retort and instead imagined transfiguring Aredian's tongue into a snake. Seems fitting after all. He wondered briefly if there was already a spell for that or if he'd have to invent one. Or maybe a toad instead of a snake—yes, that might be even better, actually.

Unfortunately, Merlin's conjuring plans remained sadly theoretical. The witchfinder broke the uncomfortable silence with an unexpected question.

"Did Nimueh initiate the relationship, or did you?"

"The what?"

"Your relationship," Aredian repeated, like Merlin was being obtuse on purpose. "Did Nimueh approach you, or did you approach her?"

"I don't—?"

"Did she seek you out to study with you?" Aredian continued patronizingly, "Or did you initiate the arrangement?"

"You're...you're actually asking if I taught—that's ridiculous! Where did you even get that idea?"

Aredian raised an eyebrow and glanced down at his ledger.

"Based on the...well, the theories which have circulated over the years about you, Emrys," Aredian said, imbuing the title with a hint of disdain, "It's been suggested that you and Nimueh studied together for quite some time. You claim you weren't her pupil; therefore, she must have been yours."

"That's a rubbish theory," Merlin informed him, waving both hands for emphasis. "She was a high priestess; why would she want to study with me?"

Aredian glanced down at his ledger again, just for a moment, before offering up another theory. It just so happened to be the single most outlandish statement Merlin had ever heard—And that's quite a feat, really, given some of the things Kilgharrah's told me…

"There's another theory," Aredian had just said, "which suggests that you remember the future and age backwards."

"That I what?"

"That you age backwards, that you live your life in reverse order," the man repeated, as though it were a perfectly reasonable assertion. "Your past is the future and your future is the past."

Yep, he really just said that. Great, just great—he's sadistic and insane. This is all so, so, so much worse than the leech tank.

Aloud Merlin said, "You actually think that—"

"That you were an old man when you first studied magic? That you were older than you are now when Nimueh became your student? That you're younger now than when you killed her, presumably because her growing power threatened yours?"

Merlin stared, utterly speechless. Aredian pursed his lips and raised an eyebrow.

"If so, then I wonder: Will you continue to grow younger now, or did you choose to pause in your present appearance to gain better access to the former prince?"

The mention of Arthur kicked Merlin's brain out of its confused downward spiral, finally allowing him to string together a complete sentence.

"That—all of that—" Merlin declared, waving a hand in the witchfinder's direction, "is exactly why Gaius says never to eat a mushroom you can't identify."

"I didn't—"

"Well, if it wasn't a mushroom, then maybe a bad loaf of bread? Gaius thinks spurred rye might've caused some villagers' hallucinations last year..."

"Enough!" Aredian snapped. "I am in full control of my mental faculties, but you will not be if you continue to try my patience!"

Merlin snapped his mouth shut before he could elaborate on any other fungi Gaius said to avoid. Now that Merlin thought about it, it was a rather long list.

"So," Aredian said through gritted teeth, "Are you or are you not ageing backwards?"

"You honestly need me to answer that?"

Merlin raised an eyebrow for good measure, though he doubted it would be anywhere near as effective as when Gaius did it. Aredian, utterly unimpressed, simply glared until Merlin gave in.

"I can't believe I actually have to say this," Merlin said with a huff, "but no, I am not ageing backwards...which is a shame, really, since it means I still have to sit here and listen to you."

Aredian didn't rise to the taunt. Instead, he hmm'd thoughtfully, made a few tick marks with his quill, and closed his ledger, marking his place with the quill as his gaze flicked back to Merlin.

"So...Nimueh preferred younger men, apparently."

It was all too much—the injuries, the interrogations, the insane theories—and Merlin had never pretended to have inherited even a fraction of his mother's patience.

"For the last time: I was not in any sort of relationship with Nimueh! None! No studying! No relationship! She killed someone I cared about, so I killed her." His gut twisted again. "And that's it. End of story."

"Interesting," Aredian said, pouncing on the one new thing Merlin had let slip. "Whom exactly did she kill?"

Merlin bit his lip to keep from swearing at his misstep. "No one," he muttered at last.

"Now how is that possible, hmm? You said she killed someone close to you, but now you say no one died? Seems like now it's you who's not making sense."

"Oh, you'd be surprised," Merlin muttered.

"Either they're dead or they're not," Aredian said pointedly, "So who was it?"

Merlin dropped his gaze to the cell floor. "It's, uh, not that simple," he admitted quietly to the straw and stone.

Silence stretched out between them like a frayed rope at its breaking point.

"You mastered the Cup of Life," Aredian said at last, a hint of surprise in his voice. "You didn't just steal it, you actually—"

"I didn't steal anything."

"Oh, don't be petty. Nimueh died and the Cup disappeared. Who else could have taken it?"

"I don't know," Merlin snapped, "but I didn't take it."

"You mastered the power of life and death, obliterated a high priestess, and then what? You actually expect me to believe you left an ancient, priceless, powerful, unguarded relic and just...went home?"

"Believe it or not," Merlin huffed, "that's exactly what happened."

Aredian gave another noncommittal hum. "Well, the lore was certainly right about one thing."

Merlin snorted. "And which part would that be, exactly?"

Aredian raised an eyebrow and recited, "The one they call Emrys shall walk in the Priestess' shadow; he is her destiny and he is her doom."

Without waiting for Merlin to recover from his slack-jawed shock, Aredian smoothly opened his ledger again, made a tick mark with the quill, and said, "Now, there are some other theories—"

"Rumors, lies," Merlin muttered.

"—that you can shapeshift into a stag or other horned creature at will?"

"No."

Another tick mark.

"—That you helped disguise Uther as Gorlois for the purpose of seducing Gorlois' wife?"

"Oh, that is disgusting! No. Ick, gross. No."

"Right, then." Another tick mark. "Have you at any point in the past or the future—?"

"Again with the past and future!" Merlin rolled his eyes so hard it actually hurt.

"—ever encountered a blue box?"

"What kind of box? Like a chest? Or a bread box?"

"Nevermind," Aredian scowled, making another tick mark. "Just one more question for today, I think."

Oh, thank heavens.

"Where was Arthur heading when I captured you?"

"No."

Aredian huffed a brief laugh. "It's hardly a yes-or-no question. Where was he going?"

"No. That's not part of our...our agreement," Merlin spat, the word bitter on his tongue. "I agreed to tell you about me, but I won't betray him."

Aredian closed the ledger with a harsh thump, packing it away with the quill and ink in icy silence. He turned back after a moment, folded his arms, and looked smugly down at Merlin.

"Tell me, Merlin," Aredian said, inflecting his name like an epithet, "Are you familiar with the Catha?"

"No."

"Hmm, so you'd said before...but then again, you'd said the same of Nimueh. As we've previously established, Nimueh's ashes would beg to differ."

Merlin blanched, nauseated, but Aredian didn't pause.

"So I'll ask you again: Are you sure you've never worked with the Catha?"

"Yeah, I'm sure," Merlin retorted sharply, his voice less steady than he'd intended, "Never even heard of them."

"How delightful." Aredian's eyes positively glinted and his lips curled away from his teeth—a snarl that was probably meant to be a twisted sort of smile. "Shall I tell you about them?"

Aredian's expression made Merlin's skin crawl. He quickly shrugged with feigned disinterest to hide a shiver.

"If you want. I mean, I'm Emrys, after all, and if I've never heard of them...well, how important can they be, really?"

Aredian's jaw twitched. Merlin counted it a small victory.

"The Catha," Aredian continued, undeterred, "are priests of the Old Religion. But not just priests, no—the Catha are a sect of warrior priests. They have a unique set of skills known only to initiates."

That's...concerning, Merlin thought, but he kept up the unimpressed act, adding, "So what? They're basically knights with spellbooks?"

"The Catha," Aredian said, crossing the cell and crouching down to Merlin's level, much too close for comfort, "are the surgeons of secrets, inquisitors of the highest calibre—capable of creating the most exquisite agonies imaginable. When it comes to the art of extracting secrets, their skills with both spells and blades are unmatched in all of Albion."

Merlin gulped, then forced a laugh. It sounded weak even to his own ears.

"Didn't think you'd give up so quickly, to be honest. I mean, you're calling in a specialist already?"

Aredian smiled again—sharp and cruel—and Merlin's heart faltered.

"Why would I call in another Catha," he asked, pulling a thin, ornate knife from his boot and trailing the flat of the blade down the side of Merlin's face, "when I can simply do it myself?"

Merlin flinched away with a sharp breath and Aredian laughed as he stood abruptly and returned the knife to his boot.

"So keep that in mind, Emrys, when we speak again tomorrow. I trust you'll be more agreeable then."

Before Merlin could catch his breath to reply, the witchfinder banged a hand on the cell bars and shouted down the corridor for Sir Gareth to return with the key.

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

Gwen was right, Morgana thought as she dragged herself through the castle corridors after the sparring match, tired and sore but decidedly less volatile. I absolutely needed that.

She stopped off to ask a servant to draw a bath for her, then continued the long trek to her chambers. She was sweaty, and grubby, and certain that every muscle would hurt tomorrow, but it had been worth it.

Now I understand why Arthur always seemed to spend the afternoon on the training field any time he'd had to attend a council meeting in the morning.

Her footwork was rusty like she'd expected, but Bellenger and Marrock had been helpful, neither arrogant in their knowledge nor looking to embarrass her. By the end of the sparring session, she was confident both her footwork and Marrock's were much improved.

And maybe, just maybe, I'm making allies in the court. I'm going to need them if—

Suddenly, Merlin's voice echoed into her mind.

~Morgana? Can you talk now?~

She ducked into an alcove and shut her eyes. The anxious blue of his magic washed over her thoughts like a wind-whipped wave, stirring salt-tinged memories of the rocky shores of Tintagel where her father—Gorlois—had once taken her on holiday.

~I'm not in my chambers. Can it wait until tonight?~

~I...uh...Not exactly?~

~All right, could we talk in an hour? I'm on my way back from the training field and I've just sent for a bath.~

~The training field?~

~I've just discovered that a good sparring match is a very satisfying substitute for wanting to turn certain council members into toads.~

She smiled at the way his laugh rippled through his magic, brighter and more free than before.

~I was just thinking about council members and toads. Gaius didn't happen to teach you any spells for that, did he? I could never get him to let me try anything fun like that.~

~Unfortunately, no. Nothing in your spellbook, I take it?~

~I wish. Believe me, I looked.~

Morgana leaned back against the cool stone of the alcove, stifling a laugh. It was nice—easy, even—just talking to Merlin about magic like that, trading ideas and laughing in alcoves. The strange connection was entirely theirs: something completely private and incredibly personal.

Something no council-toads can eavesdrop on, she thought with a smile.

Those pesky, confusing feelings from earlier resurfaced.

~Hmm,~ Merlin continued, still musing on the toad transfiguration problem. ~What about the books in the library—any chance they'd have useful things like that?~

~I don't know yet; I only had time to research our—this connection.~

The veins of bright humor faded from his magic.

~Um, that's what I needed to talk to you about.~

~I'll have to get back to my chambers first,~ Morgana said with a sigh, pushing off the wall and already feeling the ache in her muscles setting in. ~I'll reach out as soon as the servants clear away the bath and I'm confident we won't be interrupted.~

She wasn't prepared for his next question.

~Where are you now?~

~On my way back, like I— ~

~Oh, sorry, no. Where are you in the castle, specifically?~

Oh, she thought.

~Third story, an alcove in the westernmost corridor,~ she informed him, sneaking a quick glance into the corridor to ensure no one would see her leaving the alcove as she added, ~I've, uh, just passed that one really ugly tapestry…~

Merlin snorted.

~It really is hideous, isn't it? Okay, so you've about two minutes more to go, then.~

~What?~

~Two more corridors, a flight of stairs to the griffin landing, then the spiral stairs to your chambers. So about two minutes, give or take.~

~Oh, right. So, um, you were saying—?~

~Can we, uh, split the difference? Talk now while you walk, and talk again after your—uh, can you do that? Do this and keep walking at the same time?~

His mirthless laugh echoed in her mind.

~I mean, since I wouldn't know from experience.~

~I guess we'll find out,~ Morgana said quickly, opening her eyes and rolling her shoulders before resolutely stepping out of the alcove. ~So what is it you needed to talk about?~

~We have a problem.~

Morgana rolled her eyes as she turned into the next corridor on the left.

~And we didn't have several already?~

~A new one, I mean. Or maybe an old one that's just got worse? Either way, it's a problem.~

Morgana's shoulders ached, though whether it was tired muscles or returning tension, she wasn't entirely sure.

~Lovely. And which problem is that?~

~Aredian's threatened me—more than he has been, I mean. He's mostly been asking about my magic, about things that I've— ~ He cleared his throat and added, ~He's been very interested in things Emrys did.~

As she turned at the next corridor on the right, she felt his magic shading darker as he spoke. Each time she blinked, she could see the shifting gradient from bright, laughing blue to somber slate.

~But this morning, he started asking about Arthur, about where he was going when we were attacked. When I wouldn't tell him what he wanted to know, he threatened me with a knife—said he's part of some group called the Catha. Does that name mean anything to you?~

~No, it doesn't. Who are they?~ Her gut twisted as she started up the flight of stairs to the griffin landing. ~I'm not going to the like the answer, am I?~

~I hadn't heard of them, either. He says they're 'warrior priests' who specialize in interrogation and...~

Oh, no, she thought to herself as he hesitated before finishing his sentence.

~And...torture.~

On her next blink, his magic once again resembled Tintagel's wind-whipped waves.

~I think,~ he said after another moment. ~That he's going to pressure the council to let him do as he pleases, so I wanted to warn you.~

~I won't let him— ~

He cut her off, tired and resigned.

~Don't, just stop, all right? I know you won't have a choice; you can't stop the whole council forever.~

Her anger and bitterness from the morning returned as she reached the top of the stairs and passed the griffin statue standing guard over the landing.

~If Uther had died at Níþdraca, I could.~

~Maybe,~ he said, ~But maybe not. The Old Guard are too set in Uther's ways. I wouldn't let you risk civil war over me.~

And yet she wanted to.

He continued, ~That wouldn't help Arthur or our kind.~

But he was right. As she started up the final spiral staircase to her chambers, her limbs felt heavy with the weight of their situation—far heavier than the sword and shield she'd just been wielding.

~So what do we do now?~ she asked, even though she already knew the answer.

~If the council— ~ He didn't have to finish the thought. ~Can we, uh, can we practice with the spells and talismans this afternoon? If I know that you're...well, then I'll be all right.~

Morgana nodded as she reached her door.

~I'm, uh, at my chambers now, and a servant will be here any minute now with the bath.~

~Okay, I'll just, uh…~

~I'll reach out as soon as I can,~ she promised quickly as she stepped into her chambers and shut the door behind her.

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

Iseldir frowned as he flipped through the letters Alice had handed him when she arrived in his camp near midday. To her surprise, though, he barely paused as he passed the letter for Camelot, instead plucking out a small letter behind it which was addressed to him. With an apologetic glance at Alice, he deposited the rest of the letters on the low table between them and flipped the small letter over to break the seal. His brow furrowed in concern as he read.

Alice waited, sipping the warm cup of herbal tea one of the healers' daughters had brought her.

It's been too long since I was last here. They've all grown so much since the spring.

After another minute, Iseldir pursed his lips, folded up the letter, and glanced up at Alice.

"Bad news?" she asked.

"No news, actually," he said, adding, "which in this case probably is bad news."

Alice raised her eyebrows attentively and waited to see if he'd elaborate.

"It was over a year ago now," Iseldir said, placing the letter on the table, "so I can't recall if you'd met a boy who was with us briefly—his name was Mordred."

She sifted through her last few visits to the camp and a memory floated to the top. It helped that she'd been thinking of Camelot already.

"Was that the boy Gaius had treated? The boy who'd been smuggled out of Camelot?"

Iseldir nodded gravely.

Oh no, the poor child, Alice thought. "Did his injuries—? But he seemed to be doing so well when I left!"

"No, no, his injuries healed perfectly; he made a full recovery."

"Then…?"

"He's...gone missing."

"Missing?"

"After he recovered, we sent him on to Aglain's camp. Cerdan—the boy's father, may he rest innan friþ—he'd thought that Aglain would be a good mentor for the boy, someone who might be able to calm the violence in his magic that the boy's mother had tried to sow. Cerdan had tried to take Mordred there himself, but…"

"Camelot," Alice said quietly.

"Yes, Camelot," Iseldir agreed. "Cerdan was certain the boy's mother would be furious that he'd taken Mordred and left. He intended to evade her, to travel routes where she wouldn't have allies, but she had more threads in her web than we'd realized."

"You think that she—?"

"Cerdan and Mordred weren't simply captured in Camelot—they were betrayed. So, yes," he said with a humorless laugh, "I think she did."

Poor child.

"Do you think she betrayed Aglain's camp as well?"

"I'm not sure—after Aglain fell, the survivors from his camp scattered. Only a few made it here and none had a clear picture of what had happened or who was at fault. One of them said she saw Mordred flee during the attack, so we believe he survived, but…"

"You think his mother found him?"

Iseldir met her gaze with somber eyes.

"I don't simply think it; I fear it."

A/N:

The plot thickens (again)! Would love to hear your thoughts on plot twists, characterizations, timing—all of it!

Notes:
Wider Arthurian canon - In case anyone's interested are some useful (and amusing) summaries on the TV Tropes site (under their Merlin entries) about common tropes associated with the character of Merlin in the legends...it's a substantial list. There's also a funny xkcd comic about the living backwards trope (it's just titled "Merlin" and you can find it via the archives page on the xkcd site).

innan friþ - "in" + "peace/sanctuary" in Old English. (Please pardon any syntax or grammar mistakes, and please do point them out so I can fix them AND learn from them. Thanks!) Side note - this concept of friþ will show up again later in this fic...

Nations divided by a common language - I'm attempting to use British English conventions for dialogue and American English guidelines in the rest of the prose except for style/syntax when relevant to a character's POV. Apologies if I get these conventions wrong at times...

Next time: Gwen really will receive that letter in the next chapter, I promise! It just didn't end up fitting into this chapter (but you got hints of Mergana instead, so, um, sorry-not-sorry?)