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It’s still raining.
He wonders if it’s ever going to stop, then decides he doesn’t care. Feeling the water beating against his skin, like it’s trying to wash away what he’s done, he feels so incredibly alive nothing matters anymore.
Of course, the rain isn’t the only thing telling him that. Inside he can feel his magic pulsing in time with each drop, small sparks escaping to leave a tingling trail before they fade back again, hiding until they lose patience and try once more. His heartbeat sounds impossibly loud, yet at the same time he can hear Gaius’ own beside him (and doesn’t that feel like something special?), along with something definitely living, definitely beating within what feels like everything around him.
Sounds, sights, sensations… Everything feels like the world has been magnified a hundred, a thousand times, and he’s in tune with it every step of the way. Strangely, as surreal as it all seems, it also feels familiar. Vaguely he realises that he’s brushed against this before, this power, but not like this. Never like this.
It’s like being part of nature itself. The grass around them, the weeds underneath, and yes, even the rain seems to be trying to speak to some part of him he’d never realised existed before. It’s insane and impossible, yet that same part of him responds to it, unsurprised. Without knowing how, he’s drawing something from the world as it takes something else from him in return.
This isn’t magic, not as he knows it. There’s no way these are the carefully controlled (or not, in his case) spells Gaius has taught him, or even the more elemental kind he learnt from the Sidhe to destroy them. There are no words, only sensations rolling across him, somehow out of reach again before he can seize and define them.
So be it. He’s happy simply to lie here, surrounded by nature as it touches him, filling him with awe and power at the same time. Even the rocks underneath him seem to be thrumming with something, although it’s different to the life emanating from the smallest blades of grass. The ruins are filled with a magic that’s more defined, more controlled than the wild abandon of life.
Dimly the words the old religion float across his mind, managing to make some impression before vanishing into the buzzing energy that would make him leap up if there wasn’t some fundamental exhaustion sitting in his bones. True, the ruins remind him in a twisted way of the dragon (a brief flash of anger there, and the weeds at his side suddenly sprout further, crawling incredibly fast across the stones), yet the connection with the life around him feels different. Older.
He opens his eyes, unaware they’d been closed. Every other sense, including the new, is lit up to the extent that a little thing like sight can fade without him noticing. Still, something draws him back into that visual world, however unwillingly.
There’s a man standing there by the wall, watching him. No, not a man. The power flowing out of him, which Merlin can sense despite the distance, is nothing like what any human could possess. It’s a more focused form of the energy filling him now, glowing like the sun amongst the stars.
“Feels good, doesn’t it?” He doesn’t see the being’s mouth move, yet the words reach him easily, as if carried by the earth itself.
No answer comes, no matter how much he wants to say it. Somehow this doesn’t feel strange at all; somehow it’s perfectly natural to hear a stranger’s thoughts as magic thunders through his veins, lying there in the rain.
And then suddenly the deep tiredness which has been holding him there is gone. Staring across at the being, he stands up, a little shakily as the movement sends further rushes of magic similar to disturbing water. If he wanted to be poetic, he might imagine small sparks of gold in the rain… But that’s ridiculous, of course.
Without thinking about it, he realises he’s walking across the ground towards the being, who stands there unmoving. He stops a pace away as he (it?) raises a hand. Close enough.
“It won’t last. This time tomorrow, it’ll be one of your little human dreams.” This time the being does speak in the way Merlin’s more accustomed to, yet his words still carry the same echoing force as his other voice. Everything about him speaks of strength beyond human understanding.
“Who are you?” Next to that, his voice sounds weak, although anywhere else he’d be struck by the power within it.
The being smiles. Smiles. It looks so normal, but even that simple action seems greater than anything Merlin has seen before. “Somebody who knows you better than you think.”
The cryptic statement is confusing, except almost nothing matters in this surreal setting. Instead, Merlin just stares up past ebony hair (truthfully there’s no word sufficient to describe it) into eyes that show ages and magic, within glowing gold.
Gold…
“Don’t try to say anything,” the being says with a chuckle as Merlin opens his mouth to speak, not knowing how he was about to react. “Like I said, dream. Too many ways for your mortal half to reason this one away.”
Mortal half? The words shouldn’t make sense, yet now he accepts them without question. Some other side of him feels like it’s in control right now. Something that doesn’t quite feel…
“Human?” Another laugh. There’s no surprise at this either, since it appears curiously natural for this stranger (no, not a stranger) to know what he’s thinking. Natural to be with him at all, even though he’s certain he’s never met such a being before.
Suddenly a hand’s in his hair, ruffling it in an impossibly human gesture. “Don’t worry about it. You’re just getting in touch with your other half, that’s all. After all, you are part of something a lot older than you realise.”
Older. Like the dragon said. “The old religion?” he mumbles, although now that mumble has echoes.
“Or whatever you’d like to call it.” The being looks up into the sky, apparently unfazed by the rain in his face, his eyes (those gold eyes). “Storm’s starting to finish. I’ll give you this: you can really call up some weather.” The look he turns on Merlin is strangely affectionate, especially for somebody, something, like this. “Don’t worry, it’s not going to last. You’ve just tapped into something you’re not ready for yet. Forces of nature and all that.” And, just as unexpectedly as that expression came, it’s replaced abruptly by a scowl. “Even if it was for the wrong reasons.”
Reasons?
Arthur.
The sudden thought of the name makes him recoil. Images are flashing past almost too fast for him to follow, but throughout them all he can see the same all-too-familiar prince. Buzzing fills his ears as his magic leaps up, crackling out without control.
A strong hand on his shoulder pulls him back briefly, to see an extremely disapproving glare, more intense than anything a human could muster. “Watch it, son. You’re in dangerous territory there.”
Something about those sentences bothers Merlin, but before he can distinguish it, his eyelids start to flutter. Suddenly that exhaustion is back, so much worse than earlier, and he can barely stand. As he collapses, strong arms surround him, and his vision is filled by gold.
“Your mortal self beckons,” the being remarks, a strong trace of sarcasm in his words. Another bizarrely human trait. “Always that boy, isn’t it? Always pulling you back where you’ve bound yourself.”
The world starts to blur while the strong pulse of nature begins to move away, breaking that concentrated bond which had felt stronger than anything else. Gold and black start to mix together, words fading away along with the magic.
In the moments before he falls unconscious, Merlin realises what had bothered him before.
Son?
----------
He gazes down at Merlin, a soft smile still there on his face. Oh, they may disapprove of this, but in the end, he has every right to greet his son after a battle. Especially when his immortal half, the half inherited from him, is dominant for once.
Looking down into those golden eyes, so very like his own, he’d actually felt something not unlike affection for the boy. Very odd. Still, with any luck some part of his warnings might linger on. Watching Merlin being separated from their world by thoughts of Pendragon had hurt more than the watcher had ever expected.
So, not only had Arthur seduced his son, not only had he driven him to the point of sacrifice; he had also caused a divide just when father and son had spoken at last.
When he got his hands on that stupid, idiotic, arrogant, blonde prat…
*************************************************************
The next day, Merlin wakes up in his room. In that space between consciousness and the beyond, he vaguely remembers something…
Magic. Nature. Weeds that grew at a thought. Rain. Black hair. Gold eyes like his own. Something important, something that he had wanted to know, to remember…
And then it’s gone, and he’s just Merlin again.