Chapter Text
Morgause huffed, sitting astride her horse on the top of the hill as she watched Cenred’s men flood into the village.
“How long will this take?” she grumbled, looking up at the sky. It was nearing noon and they still had a long way to go if they wanted to make Camelot by tomorrow, especially if any of them found liquor in the village.
“They won’t be long,” Cenred drawled with a smirk. “Just let them blow off some steam, get something to eat, lift their spirits.”
Morgause groaned. He had a point. The rain had done the army’s morale no favours. They had spent days camped in the wet and the mud and were more than a little restless. Morgause, of course, had been in her magically-enhanced tent and been quite comfortable indeed, but even she was growing tired of this expedition. While Cenred’s army had greater numbers than Camelot’s, they would still have to break down their defences on their own soil. Morgause knew she was powerful, but there was only so much that she would be capable of before her power tired out.
The breeze picked up, ruffling her long blonde curls, and that’s when she sensed it. Like a familiar tune sitting on the wind. Magic. Not just magic, her magic, which didn’t make sense how anyone else could have her magic, unless - but no.
She hadn’t performed that spell in years. The sorcerers she had bound would be long gone by now, either by foul play or from having their magic contained for that long. No-one could survive more than a few months with bound magic.
Morgause felt it again, her own magic, intertwined with another’s.
“Where are you going?” Cenred called out as Morgause urged her horse down the hill to the village.
She paid no mind to the soldiers ransacking food stores and looting houses (although she thought setting them alight was unnecessarily cruel).
There - she felt it again. Her own magic being rebounded back to her. It was definitely one of her bindings, and she was starting to get an impression of who it might be. She had only met the boy for a few fleeting moments, but the magic had rolled off him with the powerful waves of a tempest. She had never felt anything like it before, or ever again.
She steered the horse into the central marketplace, eyes scanning the scene while she felt out with her magic for even the barest flicker.
In the end, it wasn’t a flicker but an explosion. Her own magic blistered against her skin as a dozen of Cenred’s men were thrown into the air, landing hard on the other side of the marketplace.
Standing (well, not quite standing) in the newly vacated space was a black haired man, clinging to another with hair the colour of blood.
It was him. The snarky boy with the waves of magic who was stolen away in the night.
Another soldier came up behind the red-head and struck him on the head with the end of his sword, dropping him like a sack of potatoes. He grabbed the other man’s black hair and exposed his pale neck, bringing his blade against it.
“Stop!” Morgause boomed, reaching out with her power to arrest the momentum of the sword. She dismounted, throwing the reins to a soldier who was standing around watching. She approached the man, motioning for the soldier to keep a hold of him.
“My my, I never thought I’d see you again. And look, all grown up too!”
The man looked up at her. He wasn’t as grown up as she had first thought. His jaw had hardened and his shoulders had broadened, but he still looked impossibly young for a sorcerer of his power (and she could feel it now, standing so close, connected as they were. His eyes were not the bright blue she remembered, but dulled, almost a dirty grey colour as if whatever had made them bright had been washed away.
Morgause grabbed his arm, pushing up his filthy sleeve. The cuff was still there, intact and whole. She nodded to the soldier holding him to do the same to his other arm, which looked identical. She could feel the enchantment still holding his magic in place, and yet he was able to use his to throw those soldiers across the market.
Although, Morgause realised, taking in the man’s appearance more carefully, it seemed like it was at a price. His brow was furrowed, his jaw clenched and he was trembling as he grew paler and paler by the second.
She grabbed the young man by the chin in a firm grip.
“All this time, you’ve managed to survive. How?”
He glared back at her with all spite he could muster despite looking like he was ready to faint.
“It matters not,” she said, releasing him. She patted his cheek. “What matters is that you’ve found your way back to me, right in time as well. You see, taking down Camelot was going to be a lot of effort for just one sorcerer, but it seems I won’t be using my magic to bring the city down. I’ll be using yours.”
The young man did swoon at that, held up only by the soldier who was still gripping his hair. Still, he hung onto consciousness, fighting to stay kneeling while his eyes rolled dangerously back.
“I won’t do that,” he hissed.
“Oh, but you won’t have a choice,” Morgause smirked. “Geweald.”
A thin chain shot from Morgause’s outstretched hand and looped between the young man’s cuffs to chain them together. As soon as the ends connected, it glowed orange. He hissed, biting down on his lip as Morgause focused on the connection. The soldier released him, shouting as if he had been shocked.
Morgause gasped.
His magic felt like nothing she had ever experienced before. Morgause had bound many sorcerers. Most had not lasted that long after binding, but long enough for her to use their magic as if it were her own. Everyone had a limit, even she herself, as a high priestess, had a limit - that was the point of binding another’s magic. It extended what she would be capable of herself.
She couldn’t feel where the limit lay with this sorcerer. It felt like falling into an ocean without being able to see land anywhere.
A theory started to take hold in her mind that maybe, just maybe, his magic didn’t have a limit. It stirred an excitement in her that she had not felt since learning to use her own magic.
Just as Morgause started to consider the possibilities of having access to such a vast source of power, she felt the magic thicken, from free flowing to something akin to molasses, sticky and slow.
She snapped towards the boy, her features sharp.
“What did you do?”
He smiled up at her, blood staining his teeth.
“You can’t have it.”
How did he do that? The spell cast over the cuffs was absolute. The sorcerer should not have any control whatsoever over their magic, and yet, here this boy was, stealing back his magic.
How dare he!
Morgause’s magic lashed out like a whip, striking the boy across the cheek. He fell to the side, catching himself on his elbows while his wrists were still bound to the orange glowing chain. An angry red welt was burned onto his cheek, which Morgause eyed with satisfaction.
If she couldn’t take his magic by one force, she’d take it by another.
She remounted her horse, dropping the curse that linked her magic to the cuffs to hiss a spell that should have made his arms and legs feel like pudding. Morgause smirked with satisfaction as he writhed on the ground, unable to sit up.
“Lift him up to me,” she ordered the soldier. Although she wasn’t their commander, they all knew better than to deny her authority. For those that forgot, there was always a rather public and bloody reminder that usually quietened anyone who questioned following the orders of a female warrior-sorcerer.
The boy didn’t submit to his fate quietly. He spat curses and shouted obscenities, some of which Morgause had never even heard before. She arranged him so that he sat in front of her on the horse. He was filthy and smelled of dirt, but he was far too valuable to allow anyone else to carry him. A quick spell at least took care of the smell.
“Call the men back to camp. They’ve had that fun. We move on in an hour.”
Morgause felt the boy fall lax against her halfway back to the camp. Although he had most likely passed out, his body still shook. She catalogued it with the other reactions she had noticed after he had used his magic against her binding. He shouldn’t have been able to use it at all, but it eased her mind to know that it had consequences. The fatigue, the way he paled and looked like he was battling to keep the contents of his stomach down, the shaking - and what appeared to be some sort of pain in his head from the way he squinted. At least if he caught her off guard and was able to squeeze out a bit of magic, he wouldn’t be able to get far, not with those ailments.
She rode into camp, scattering soldiers who were too slow to get out of the way. She only slowed down as she reached the grander tents at the centre. Morgause felt the body on the horse in front of her start to shift from the change in movement. At least he’d be easier to move if he was conscious.
Cenred swaggered out of his tent, grinning salaciously, followed by the guard who had obviously alerted him to Morgause’s return. He chuckled gleefully, clapping his hands.
“I thought you didn’t approve of pillaging and plundering, and yet, you’ve brought back your own prize.”
Morgause rolled her eyes. She often wondered why he chased the kingship, when he would be far happier drunk in a brothel. He had no vision, only the goal of seeking more power, power which he had no idea how to keep. Without Morgause telling him what to do and how to do it, he would have been killed years ago by a sailor in a tavern.
After recasting the enchantment to tie his cuffs to her magic, she unceremoniously dropped the boy off the horse, who wobbled on unsteady feet before having the sense to grab the horse. Morgause gracefully dismounted next to him, keeping a firm grip on his upper arm.
Cenred let his eyes rake over the boy, lingering far too long in all the wrong places. She felt the boy shudder in her grip.
“I must say, you have excellent taste, once he’s cleaned up a bit.”
The king stroked a finger over the welt Morgause inflicted on his cheek.
Morgause couldn’t have had the reflexes to stop him even if she wanted to. Quick as a whip, the boy headbutted Cenred in the nose, his extra height on the king giving him the perfect angle. Cenred yelped, one hand shooting up to catch the blood that spurted out. Incensed, he raised his other hand to strike, but Morgause was ready. She conjured a shield, blocking the angry blow.
Cenred snapped his head furiously towards Morgause, blood dribbling from under his hand.
“Stop your tricks!” he seethed. “You can find another plaything, this one won’t be alive for much longer!”
“This one will win us the war,” Morgause countered calmly. The sorcerer shook his head, still believing he had some say in the matter.
“What?” Cenred asked, looking over the boy again. “This whelp?”
Quite the number of soldiers had gathered around, watching the spectacle.
“Not here,” Morgause answered, tilting her head towards his tent.
She never let Cenred in her own domain. That would require trust, something the two of them did not share.
Cenred stomped off to his tent, leaving Morgause to follow. She conjured some regular ropes to tie the boy’s hands together. The end flew into her hands, giving her something to tug the sorcerer behind her. While the binding spell was more secure, it was tiresome to hold actively for long periods of time.
The King threw the tent flap open, leaving Morgause to catch the canvas before it hit her in the face. She pulled the boy in after her and arranged the flap to prevent any prying eyes, casting a quick ward to give the tent a buffer to keep stray soldiers away.
Cenred stood in the centre of the high-roofed tent, arms folded across his chest. There were clothes all over the ground, the hilt of a sword poking out from the piles.
“Eddie hasn’t been in to sort out this mess yet?” Morgause asked pointedly. Since his father’s death, Cenred had made no effort to change from a bratty prince into the leader of Essetir.
“Oh, he’s been in, but he was busy,” Cenred smirked. Morgause rolled her eyes. Of course he would spend the morning buggering his servant instead of doing something productive. It wasn’t like they were currently marching on the biggest citadel in the land or anything.
Cenred clapped his hands together.
“Anyways, enough of my exploits and more of yours. This one must be hiding something special under those rags if you’re expecting me to let that, ” - he pointed outside the tent to where the headbutting had occurred - “to slide.”
Morgause rolled her eyes.
“I prefer my men to be, you know, actual men,” Morgause sneered.
Cenred gave the sorcerer another look.
“Ah, he looks old enough. Does he speak?”
“He does,” the sorcerer growled. “And he says that if you put anything of yours anywhere near him, he will bite it off.”
Morgause’s mouth quirked. The boy was troublesome, but oh, it was worth it to see Cenred’s reactions. It took real guts to stand up to a king, or real hatred.
Cenred grabbed the boy by his mud-stained shirt and attempted to lift him off the ground, which wasn’t made easy by the fact that the boy was far taller than him.
The boy didn’t flinch or even break eye contact.
“Do you recognise him?” Morgause asked curiously, interrupting the tension between the two of them. Cenred shot a glare at her, then studied the boy again.
“Should I?”
“I don’t know, you did chase him into a river.”
The boy looked away at Morgause’s words. Ah, a touchy subject then. He was half dead when they dragged him in.
Cenred squinted, dropping his grip of the sorcerer.
“The small kid with all the magic?”
Morgause nodded. “And look.”
The boy pulled away from her grip, but she grabbed his arm roughly, forcing him to turn back to Cenred. She was a knight, after all, and strong enough to overpower the half-starved boy without magic.
Morgause shoved his sleeve up to show the cuff.
“He still has them?”
She nodded. “Which means I can do this.”
The high priestess repeated the spell to bind his magic to hers. The orange glowing chain looped back through his cuffs, drawing another gasp from the boy.
A thrill of anticipation ran through her. She had controlled other sorcerers’ magic before, but they were nothing like this. For them, it was more like redirecting a small stream, being able to move the trickle of water in a different direction.
WIth this boy, there was so much magic that she almost didn’t know what to do with it. It flowed through him with such force she was surprised he could function at all. Then again, he probably couldn’t even feel it, cut off as he was.
Once she felt she had a strong enough connection to his magic, she uttered a spell.
“Cume thoden.”
She had expected a breeze to flow through the room. What she hadn’t expected was a whirlwind to blow so strongly through the tent that she had to stagger her stance to save herself from falling over. Cenred had grabbed the tent pole which only threatened to bring the whole thing down on them. She ended the spell and abruptly, the wind stopped.
There would be even more work for Eddie to do now to tidy up the mess. A pair of Cenred’s small clothes were now hanging from the top of the tentpole.
The sorcerer was on his knees, pressing his head against the ground. He was moaning through what sounded like gritted teeth, slapping his bound hands into the dirt.
“What just happened?” Cenred demanded, furiously fixing his greasy hair.
“That was what we will use to win this war. I can control and use his magic.”
“But aren’t you a high priestess?” Cenred taunted. “Why do you need his magic?”
“Because you have an undisciplined army who are going to need me to clear the way to get them into the citadel. This way, I won’t be spent before I even make it to the throne room to kill Uther. I’ll use his magic to destroy Camelot, then, when he’s all used up,” she said, motioning towards the boy. “I’ll still be at full strength.”
Cenred nodded thoughtfully. He was probably less than pleased with the notion that Morgause would be at full strength at the point of the battle where they would take the castle. Trust was not shared between them, after all, but he need not have worried. She had no interest in the throne.
There were two goals that Morgause sought out to achieve in this thrice-damned war, to find her sister and to make Uther Pendragon pay for his crimes. While Cenred would want the soon-to-be-former King of Camelot to be killed quickly and decisively, Morgause had plans of her own.
Uther would suffer for his sins.
As for her sister, she would take her back to the Isle of the Blessed. Maybe they could work together to bring the sacred space back to its former glory. She could teach her magic, or in the unlikely situation that she had none of her own, she could teach her the ways of the Old Religion.
“Alright, put him in The Cage,” Cenred said, prodding the boy with his foot.
The Cage was literally that - a cage that held prisoners, deserting soldiers, prostitutes and villagers unlucky enough to have caught a soldier’s eye as they passed through.
“He stays with me,” Morgause said firmly. “I will not risk such a powerful tool in that cesspit.”
“You think that you can handle him?” Cenred asked with a cocked brow.
Morgause sent a crackle of magic down the connection the glowing chain forged between her and the sorcerer. He let out a shout as it stung his wrists, pressing his forehead harder into the dirt.
“I’ll be sure to keep my distance,” she purred, letting her eyes roam over Cenred’s bloody nose.
~oOo~
The swaying movement of the horse was lulling Merlin to sleep despite his best attempts to fight against it. He had barely any sleep the night before, bound with ropes and magic to the post holding up Morgause’s tent while she slept on the cot only a few feet away. He noticed that there was a bed roll laid out on the floor on the other side of the tent, but she must have changed her mind about allowing him to sleep in comfort when he vomited on her. He was fairly happy with his aim, given that he had almost no control over his body after the violation of having his magic hijacked like that. Really, it was her fault that he was sick.
The high priestess had to drag Merlin from Cenred’s tent back onto the horse for the rest of the day’s journey. The next day he was still feeling weak, still feeling the nausea settled deep in his stomach, the jolts of Morgause’s foreign magic gurgling sickeningly through his veins.
Merlin tried to hold his head up to observe his surroundings. They were near the citadel, maybe even in that forest where the ill-fated drill pitting the Common Knights against the Nobles had been held. A new wave of anxiety flooded his body, realising just how close they were.
The attack would be tomorrow.
“We camp here,” Morgause called out from behind Merlin, halting the army of soldiers. Cenred trotted past them, hissing under his breath.
“I don’t need you to give orders.”
“My mistake, Sire,” she replied, her voice dripping with disdain.
She called a soldier over to drag Merlin off the horse, which he did roughly. Merlin struggled to his feet, hands still bound by rope in front of him. The ordinary rope was a relief. It seemed that whatever the spell was that Morgause used to bind his magic to her, she couldn’t maintain it indefinitely.
Merlin pulled against Morgause as she wrestled him across the camp site. She was strong and easily had the upper hand, but he didn’t have to make it easy for her.
“You keep this up and I’ll tie you to the tree by your neck like a dog,” she hissed in his ear, her hand squeezing hard around his forearm.
Merlin looked around the campsite. It was crawling with soldiers, buzzing with the anticipation and nerves of the fight to come. Being tied up like that in the middle of the camp all night? No thank you.
“I thought so,” Morgause smirked. She dumped him like an insolent child on her arse while she used magic to erect her grand tent. As uncomfortable as it had been the night before tied up with the woman who stole his magic, he was glad to be out of the elements and inside the tent.
He had even scored a meal of some sort of sloppy soup and a crust of bread. Clearly she understood the link between magical strength and physical strength.
Although, it hadn’t all been comfort. When he refused to give her his name, she took away the blanket that had been draped over his legs. Even inside the tent, it had been a bitterly cold night. He hoped he didn’t get sick from it.
It was silly to think about preserving the health of his body. It wasn’t like it would matter. Not after tomorrow.
Merlin feared how much of himself would be left after the battle. Either Morgause would wring him dry of his magic, and with that, his life, or he would be forced to kill those he loved, which he knew he could never recover from. His best option lay with a quick death at the end of a weapon - before his magic could be used to harm those he loved - and he would be on the lookout during the battle for any way to make that happen.
He would not kill Gwaine.
He would not kill Morgana.
He would not kill Arthur.
Merlin scanned his eyes over the camp, looking for an opportunity, any opportunity, to stop himself and his magic. Morgause had left his hands tied, but he was free to move if he could stand up quickly enough. He looked for a sword left lying around close enough to get to before Morgause could catch him. For a loaded crossbow in the back of a wagon. Something, anything, to stop the horror of what would happen if Morgause stormed Camelot with his magic.
He wasn’t expecting to see the Second Knight of Camelot striding into the camp. Not tied up. Not as a prisoner like him, but like he was meant to be there.
Like he was working with the enemy.
As if he had sensed Merlin looking at him, they locked eyes. Sir Rory’s mouth dropped open.
Out loud, to no-one in particular:
“How did you manage to get the Prince’s bedwarmer?”
Merlin was on his feet before he realised, surging towards the treasonous knight. His hands were tied, but it didn’t matter. He’d drawn blood from Cenred the day before.
“YOU FUCKING TRAITOR!”
Sir Rory pushed his sleeves up, moving to meet him. Just as they almost met, a bright blue shield sprung between them, blowing them both back a few staggering steps.
Cenred stomped onto the scene, followed by a half dozen soldiers.
“What is going on?”
“I would also like to know.” Morgause positioned herself at the side of the shield, eyeing both Merlin and Sir Rory with interest.
Merlin huffed. They wouldn’t get any information out of him.
“You didn’t realise?” Sir Rory drawled, looking back over his shoulder to Cenred. “Merlin here is Prince Arthur’s favourite plaything.”
“Fuck off!”
“Merlin?” Morgause said, sounding the name out. “That’s what you’re called? No wonder you wouldn’t tell me!”
Merlin looked away from her determinedly.
“Is that true?” Cenred asked with amusement. Sir Rory seemed emboldened by Cenred’s attitude.
“They couldn’t keep their hands off each other. I don’t know how the King didn’t see it. You dangle him in front of Arthur and he’ll do whatever you want.”
A loud clap made Merlin jump. Cenred clapped his hands together again, grinning that slimy grin of his.
“Well this is an exciting development.”
Merlin bit the inside of his cheek, trying to tamper down the fresh anxiety that was crashing over him in waves. What would they do now they knew Merlin’s connection to Arthur? Would they make Merlin hurt him with his magic? Or would they try to make Arthur surrender his kingdom?
He needed to stop them before it got to that point.
Morgause grabbed Merlin by the back of the neck and dragged him into the now-erected tent.
“Well, well, aren’t you full of surprises, Merlin.”
She threw him to the ground and crouched in front of him, her leather pants squeaking as she bent forward.
“You’re a brave one, I’ll give you that. You’re probably thinking right now of how you can sabotage us tomorrow, maybe you’re even thinking of sacrificing yourself to stop us, but I can tell you now you won’t get the chance. Cooperate and I’ll consider not killing the dear little prince slowly while you watch. Don’t cooperate, and well, I might just try to see how far your magic can go. I’ve been trying out this little spell, and I can’t wait to see how it works with your magic. Cwealmnes”
The pain hit him like a bolting horse, stealing his breath from him. He twisted and contorted as he tried to escape from the violent agony flaying at his every nerve. It felt like his skin had been peeled back and a thousand knives had been dug into the tender flesh.
When the curse released its hold on Merlin, the pain relinquished bit by slow bit. He gasped for air as he was hauled into a sitting position by the high priestess then dragged backward to the pole that he would surely be tied to again. His shaking body made it harder for her to wrap the ropes around him, but with a muttered curse she managed it.
Merlin tried not to drift off. It would have been so easy to fall into the abyss, but the likelihood that he would live another night was slim. He wanted to enjoy some time with the people he loved, he deserved that much.
Merlin conjured images in his mind of practising magic with Morgana in the meadows just outside the Citadel, laughing as he dodged the sticks she levitated at him. Of Gwaine throwing his arm around his neck and singing a bawdy ballad just to embarrass him. He thought of Arthur running his hands over Merlin’s hips as he leaned in for a kiss.
He drifted off to sleep thinking of those he loved.