#pelleas

Merlin must have dozed off at some point, because the next time he blinked his eyes open he found himself on his feet. He looked around, startled to find that he’d made his way down the hall and, even though he was now aware that he was moving, it did him little good. One foot was put in front of the other as if someone were tugging him along. Or something. 

No one stirred as he made his quiet way down the hall. With each step, his eyelids grew heavier until he found himself standing in front of a heavier wooden door than the others in the hallway. His fingers pressed against the wood, a strange and undefinable feeling seeming to surge through his arm, but the door did not budge as he pushed lightly against it. Locked. Even so, he needed to go inside. If he knew anything at all, he knew that. 

Merlin pushed a long breath out through his nose and glanced around. There was no key in sight and instinct told him that their nervous host would have little interest in producing one. 

That should have been that, but despite giving his body the command to turn and make his way back to the others, he instead drew his knife. It had been many, many years since he’d used the old art of iron and wood that the Hill Folk had taught him in his youth and common decency should have kept him from etching the mark into his host’s home, but there he was doing just that. The old words rolled off his tongue as if it hadn’t been closer to three decades than two since he had spoken them last. The lock gave way just the same, releasing its hold and he pushed the door open. 

It was dark, as if the nearly full moon’s beams had been denied entry at the window, and colder than any other room in the villa. Merlin squinted against the inky darkness, his eyes taking several long moments to adjust to it. 

That’s why he heard him stir before he saw him. The sound of iron scraping across the stone floor drew Merlin’s immediate attention to where he could just make out a cowered figure in the corner. A man huddled there, seated on the floor with his shoulders hunched and his spine curved. His long legs were pulled up as if he were trying to fold into himself. What little light filtered in from the single lantern in the hallway caused the man to flinch away and Merlin felt his chest tighten at the motion. He took a cautious step forward, one hand outstretched a little before him and his voice was low and gentle as he spoke: “I mean you no harm.”

The figure stiffened at the words and his head jerked upward. “Myrddin?” he croaked, his voice raw from disuse, but Merlin would know it anywhere. 

But he couldn’t be. No. Merlin didn’t dare —

All at once the Last Bard of Britain was moving towards the figure. It was only as he drew closer that he saw the heavy drapes that had been nailed over the windows were what was blocking the light. He ripped them from their place, the curtains tearing and falling, bathing the tiny room in moonlight.

He found himself frozen there, though this was not out of some Otherworldly guidance. It was fear. Fear that he’d misheard. Of the grief that he didn’t think he could bear all over again. If he turned, whose face would he see? Whose voice had spoken that had sounded so much like his dear friend dead and gone at the hand of the Queen of Air and Darkness? 

The prisoner loosed a trembling breath and the sound of iron chains scraping the floor caused Merlin to wince. 

“Mer—” The name was cut off by a haggard cough and it was enough to draw the dark haired man’s gaze to him. 

“Pelleas,” he breathed, the name managed around the choking guilt that was clawing its way up through his chest. He was moving then, and Merlin dropped to his knees next to his long-dead steward. Long-assumed-dead.  He’d been so sure. So completely and foolishly sure. “Pelleas… I…” He was at a loss for the words. How strange. 

“I knew you’d come,” Pelleas wheezed, his grey gaze flickering up to meet Merlin’s own gold. He was gaunt and sick, his mop of curly hair grown long and that forever youthful face hidden behind a scraggly beard. There was hope in those eyes though. And trust. Trust that he did not deserve. 

He’d left him. Where Pelleas had never stopped searching, Merlin had thought he had no other choice but to accept that Morgian had killed his friend to get to him. He’d been sacrificed and it had been for Merlin’s sake. Not so, he now saw as his long fingers explored the irons around Pelleas’ thin wrists. Merlin had accepted a falsehood and he’d betrayed his oldest living friend’s trust by doing so. 

The sound of heavy boots on the stone floor of the hallway echoed and Merlin didn’t have to speak a word for the irons to loosen. He was in the process of standing as a mountain of a man came barrelling in. He was broad in face and shoulder and back, his coal-black eyes fierce as their gaze moved from Merlin to Pelleas and back to Merlin. His face flushed and thick brows drew together in anger as he growled, “You’re not s’pose to be ‘ere. Nobody’s s’pose to be ‘ere. She won’t like it.”

“She holds no more power,” Merlin answered, his own anger barely controlled. 

The man howled at that, throwing himself forward with more speed than Merlin might have expected. The tall bard pivoted to avoid being caught by the hulking creature, but five thick fingers snagged hold of his blue cloak and whipped him around with strength and speed so that he hit the wall hard enough that it caused his vision to swim. He staggered, determined to stay on his feet, but the failed guard was on him again. It wasn’t his cloak he took hold of this time, but his throat, and he hauled Merlin up so that the soles of his boots left the floor. 

He clawed at the hands that choked him, but his own thin fingers seemed only a nuisance as he was slammed back against the unyielding wall again. 

His name sounded like it was being called out from the other side of a deep valley as shadows were starting to crowd his vision. Then, all of a sudden, he could breathe. Mind, he was being unceremoniously dropped to the floor as well. He hit hard, feet first and then his knees buckled to leave him sputtering on the floor until a hoarse cry drew his attention. 

And there stood Pelleas. Loyal, dedicated Pelleas. He’d dragged himself to his own feet and was using the irons he’d been shackled with as a makeshift weapon against the brute. If the blood flowing freely down the guard’s flushed face was anything to go by, Pelleas had clearly gotten a couple of good swings in as Merlin had been sputtering. The other man had gotten his bearings, though, and had hold of the other end of the shackles he’d been beaten with, using Pelleas’ own grasp to pull him closer and he reared back to land a vicious blow. 

If it had been decades since Merlin had spoken the language of the Hill Folk, it had been a century since the battle awen had taken hold in the way that left heaps of ash where men once fought for their lives. Nothing quite so dramatic took hold then, but he felt the old power surge in him as the irons grew redhot. 

Pelleas recognized it immediately and released his end of it. Their attacker howled in blistering pain, dropping the offending shackles and cradling his hand to his chest. 

There was a rush of noise from down the hall as boots slammed against the stones. The man must have heard it too, and he didn’t like what he heard. He snarled as he turned on Pelleas. “Mistress’ll want you dead.”

“Let her try herself if she dares,” Pelleas snapped back as Bedwyr, Cai, and Arthur filled the doorway, Caledvwlch in the blond’s hand and ready. 

The mountain’s coal-black gaze slid to Arthur’s sword, to his face, and his own flushed red again with renewed anger at the recognition. The sound he made was barely human as he charged forward, tossing Pelleas aside like a ragdoll. Merlin stood planted in his place. He didn’t have to move. Arthur didn’t require it. 

The young Duke sidestepped his battle chiefs and met his enemy without flinching. The howling man didn’t stand a chance as Caledvwlch arced upward, leaving a bloody trail in its wake. The brute stumbled, eyes rolling back as his legs gave way and he crashed to the floor hard enough that Merlin expected it to tremble. 

“Arthur!” Cai snapped and Merlin didn’t need to see around the door frame to know that the sound of boots frantically slapping the hall floor was their host sleeping. With a twitch of his fingers, a yelp was heard, and their host was frozen in place. The warriors raced down the hall while the bard moved slower. He stooped to gently help Pelleas to his feet and the younger man sank into him, his legs barely holding him now that the rush of battle had died down. Merlin wrapped a protective arm around him and it showed just how badly he’d been worn down that Pelleas let him. 

“She said that she’d killed you, but I knew it was a lie,” Pelleas murmured. “I knew it was a lie.”

What strength he’d mustered was fading now and Merlin eased him to his feet, his arm wrapped around his back so that he could help support him. As they moved, Merlin spoke lowly to him, encouraging him, and desperately trying to keep the guilt out of his own voice as he did. There would be time later. Now, they must leave. This was not the moment for the battle. Not with Arthur here. Not if Morgian was involved.

Arthur was standing back, Bedwyr and Cai making demands of their poor host. The man was sputtering, terror tying his tongue in knots. 

“Leave him. We must go.”

“Myrddin,” Arthur said quietly, “we can finish this.”

“Her power was broken years ago.”

“Then what has she done to him?” He motioned at the cowering lord. 

Merlin frowned at the question, and while the answer wasn’t immediately obvious to him, the growing urgency was. 

The others must have started to pick up on that as well. It took a moment longer for Arthur, not because he didn’t notice it, but because he was taking it all in, that clever mind of his working out all the different scenarios and their likely outcomes. 

Finally, he loosed a frustrated breath and looked to Pelleas. “Can you ride?”

“Yes,” came the raspy yet firm response. 

Arthur accepted it and pushed past the terrified lord towards the villas’ stables. 

The rain was still pouring out of the heavens and Merlin pulled his wolf’s cloak from his shoulders and wrapped it around Pelleas’ far-too-thin shoulders and hushed his exhausted arguments as he pulled the hood up to help shield him from the rain. Their window of opportunity was closing quickly. What that meant in practicality, he preferred not to find out. 

The horses were nervous as they saddled them, the air having turned cold and the rain picking up again. There was an unnatural static in the air and Merlin had to suppress the chill that tried to work its way up his spine as his gaze swept out beyond the stable doors and it was as if every shadow was slowly creeping from their spaces. They had lingered too long. 

“I thought you said once her power was broken, it couldn’t return,” Bedwyr said quietly as he moved to help Pelleas who was struggling with a saddle on the horse that he would ride. 

“I said that it rarely does,” Merlin corrected as he moved to help steady Pelleas as he climbed. 

“I can ride,” Pelleas grumbled and Arthur snorted from where he was swinging a leg over the saddle. 

“You’ve been through hell. There’s no shame in allowing help.”

To his credit, Pelleas swallowed his retort, though Merlin knew well he had one. Instead he allowed the two men to help him up and held to the reins, signalling that he was steady. 

And they were off, pushing through the rainy yard and pausing only long enough to dismount and draw the gates open, the guard nowhere in sight. Bent low, they rode out into the openness beyond and the wind whipped dangerously around them. Merlin wanted to push forward. They needed to push forward. Most of them, at any rate. 

He came alongside Arthur who looked over. “Keep going,” Merlin instructed, “and don’t let any of the others stay behind.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Buy you time.”  The words were shouted over the torrential downpour and he looked ready to argue, but Merlin shook his head. “I’ll only be delayed. Go, or none of us will.”

They’d built a deep trust between them over the course of Arthur’s life, and because of that, the young Duke gave a sharp nod and shouted for Cai, Bedwyr, and Pelleas to follow him as Merlin broke off. He could hear Pelleas shout, his name nearly lost to the storm, but Merlin pushed his horse faster. As long as he followed the guidance of the Great Light, he would see them again. He just needed to hold tight to the hard lessons of the last time he’d faced the Queen of Air and Darkness. 

—-

Arthur had been the only one that could stop him from turning to go with Merlin when he’d split off from the party, presumably to face Morgian. Even so, it had taken everything Pelleas had had in him to obey his future High King’s order. Merlin shouldn’t have to face the witch alone. They all knew what she was capable of. 

The weather cleared quickly as they put distance between themselves and the small town. It allowed them to move with better speed, but the blue sky overhead as they reached Caer Melyn spoke of the unnatural weather that had hung over the town. 

At some point, everything that happened around him became a blur. Pelleas was exhausted and beaten down after so much time in captivity. He’d tried to escape many times, but each time had proved futile. With each passing day and week and month and he would assume even more, he’d grown weaker. But he’d never given up hope. He knew Morgian had lied as she’d told him how she’d bested Merlin in their fight and how his God had failed to protect him. All she had were lies. Merlin was alive and if Merlin was alive, he would find him. And he had. 

It was a whirlwind of motion once they reached the caer. Someone helped him from his horse - Bedwyr, perhaps? - and supported him as they moved inward. He was washed and helped to shave, wounds were tended, and he was given as much food as they dared before Pelleas felt the world fade around him. 

He didn’t know how long he slept or how much of what he remembered was a dream. The fact that he awoke in a bed rather than chained to a wall was certainly a good sign. Exhaustion still clung to him, but as he blinked his eyes open slowly his mind began to register what had stirred him from his dreams. 

Voices could be heard outside the small window and Pelleas squinted at the setting sun’s rays that were peeking in through that western opening. He propped himself up on his elbows to test his strength before throwing back the bedsheets and swinging his bare feet over the side of the bed. Carefully, not wanting to be found in a heap on the floor, he tested his legs’ reliability next. They ached in protest, but he was able to stand with reasonable steadiness and inch his way to the window. 

There was a stir at the gates below. They were still open and the rider that had entered was still on his horse. Relief rushed through him as Pelleas recognized Merlin slowly dismounting. 

He didn’t dare run. That would only land him in the pile of limbs he was desperately trying to avoid. Pelleas made his way to the door first, then to the hall, and down towards the courtyard. It was slow going, but he met Merlin - who had already been greeted by an equally anxious Arthur - as the bard made his way into the castle. 

Gold eyes flickered towards him and there was a brief flash of something Pelleas didn’t quite recognize there before a tight smile pulled at Merlin’s lips. “Should you be up and about yet?”

Pelleas’ own smile was a little more ready. “What kind of steward would I be if I didn’t greet my lord upon arrival?”

“One that needs to rest,” Merlin answered. He was caked in mud and, while he moved stiffly, it was difficult to tell if he was injured or not.

“I’ve slept and I’ve eaten. I imagine we both have information Arthur will need to prepare for whatever might come.”

Merlin looked ready to argue with him, but swallowed it down. He would wash the mud from himself and meet them both in the great hall. 

—-

Everything hurt. From the bruises left from the tussle in the villa to the shallow gash left along his ribs from the standoff after to the stiffness of his muscles that had set deep from the hard ride home. It had been some time since he’d fought that hard on the physical plain. If Merlin had had his druthers, he would have taken a bit of rest after washing the caked mud and blood from his body and changing into fresh clothes. Pelleas had been right, of course. There was no reason to withhold information that would likely prove useful. It could be days or years before it was needed, but they couldn’t rely on the latter being true. 

Arthur and Pelleas sat in the great hall alone, the Duke’s closest companions off handling his business amongst the warband before they lost the last dregs of light over the horizon. It was dark enough that torches had already been lit in the hall. The two spoke quietly, Pelleas looking as if his energy was waning already, and Merlin felt he could understand that deeply. The Fair Folk were a sturdy lot, but even they had their limits. Limits that had been pushed far too hard and far too long in Pelleas’ case. 

Blue eyes and grey turned to him as he entered and Arthur frowned as he stood. “Are you injured?”

“Nothing to worry about,” Merlin answered with a wave of his hand. He wasn’t sure exactly what about his appearance had prompted the question, but perhaps he simply still looked about how he felt. 

Arthur didn’t look convinced, but he returned to the camp chair that he’d inherited from his uncle. He motioned to the third, empty chair to his right. “Let’s get on with it then. A good night’s rest is needed for you both.”

Merlin sunk into the chore with far less of his usual agility than he would have preferred and winced a little. “I have no doubt that Morgian is behind this in some form or fashion, though she did not show her face in the storm.”

“But you did face someone,” Arthur prodded. 

“Yes. As shadows moving in the dark. They took form and perhaps were even men. They struck solidly enough for it.”

“I did see her during my time in that dungeon,” Pelleas offered tiredly. “The first day, and then ones after in which she came to gloat.” His gaze fixed on Merlin. “She’d claimed she’d killed you.”

“Yes, you had said.”

Pelleas huffed a soft laugh. “I told her you’d come for me. That she’d be proven a liar again and again.”

“Forgive us, but we did not know you lived,” Arthur - brash Arthur - said so plainly that the guilt of it all clawed at Merlin once again. “It was only by the grace of God that we found you where we did. Merlin was certain you were gone or we would have searched for you.”

For his part, Pelleas took the information in stride. There was no accusation as he turned his pale gaze on the man he’d served so many years. “Perhaps I was dead. More than once I thought it was the end.”

“Pelleas…”

“You owe me no apologies, my lord. You found me and you took me from that place, just as you did so many years ago.”

“If only I’d had the same faith in you as you did in me when I was lost in the Celyddon Forest.” 

A heavy silence settled in the air for a long moment before Pelleas shifted in his chair. “It was my choice to go after you and my misstep that caused my capture. I watch after you so that you can watch after Arthur. That is the way of it.”

“And it’ll do us all some good if both of you could stay out of her crosshairs,” Arthur said, his voice lighter than the subject matter might call for, but, as was his talent, he helped to put the room at a bit more ease. His expression did sober after a moment. “What are the thoughts then? Is Morgian regaining her dark powers?”

Merlin frowned at the thought. “If she is, she’s not strong enough to face me directly. There’s another possibility… one that opens up far too many questions for my liking.”

“Well, will you keep us waiting for it?” Arthur pressed. 

“That she’s training up another in her ways. If it is so, it may be some time before her protégée attacks us directly, but it will happen.”

“And we’ll be ready, whatever may come,” Arthur said with all the confidence of an optimist with the determination to make that hope a reality. He stood. “But we cannot solve for a problem in which we do not have the variables for tonight.”

Merlin nodded, rising after him, and Pelleas started as well, but sank heavily back into the chair. Merlin reached for him, offering support, and Pelleas begrudgingly accepted. The two made their way slowly towards the caer’s rooms, exhausted quiet hanging between them until they made it to Pelleas’. Merlin stopped and drew in a steadying breath. “I know you feel as if no apology is needed, so I’ll simply say that I’m very happy to have you where you belong, my friend. Much has happened, but there was an emptiness without you taking your place in it all.”

Pelleas gave him a lopsided smile. “I missed you too.”

The older man snorted an amused sound as the corners of his own lips twitched up. “Let’s not do it all again. I need you here.”

“Someone must protect your back,” Pelleas agreed. 

“So that I may protect Arthur’s.”

“Yes.”

Merlin carefully released his hold and Pelleas proved steady enough that he should be able to make it into his room unaided. “Sleep well, Pelleas, and welcome home.”

He turned, making his way slowly towards his own bed with a promise echoing in his heart that he could only pray he’d be able to keep: He would never allow Morgian a hand on his friend again.