by J. M. Briggs
“Holy shit!”
Nicki opened her eyes and looked down at his arm. Slowly the flaps of skin on either of the side of the wound began tugging towards each other. The dark-red, cut muscles below the dark flesh began to glow a soft blue. Nicki forced herself to keep her eyes on the wound despite the urge to look away. The blood flow had mostly stopped and a spark of blue magic shimmered deep within the wound. Slowly the deepest part of the slash began to close in tiny flashes of blue magic. An odd, pained sigh escaped Lance and Nicki noticed that his arm was shaking.
“Hold on,” Nicki told him in soft voice. “Almost there Lance.”
The blue magic began to fade away as the flesh knitted itself together. A ticklish laugh escaped Lance, and Nicki had to tighten her grip on his arm to keep it from moving too much. A drop of sweat rolled down the side of her face, and Nicki felt her lungs beginning to constrict painfully as the last of the red skin irritation vanished. Releasing her grip on the magic, Nicki felt it quickly recede, like the tide going out, back deep into her chest. Lance gently reached over with his free hand and carefully opened her clenched fingers so she would release his hand. Nicki finally dropped her eyes away from him and closed them tightly to banish the dryness she hadn’t even noticed taking over them.
Then Lance took her hand in both of his, giving it a gentle squeeze before he released it and set it down on her knee. Nicki opened her eyes to find Lance gently inspecting his arm with his free hand. His fingers brushed over a thin pale line in his skin and Nicki hoped that he didn’t mind the scar too much. It was a faint thing, and would hopefully fade in time. Then he turned his arm and flexed it with a growing smile.
“Feels alright?” Nicki managed to ask as she slumped back on the bed with an exhausted but pleased smile.
“Feels good.” Lance flexed his arm, letting the muscles shift and grinned. “Thanks, Nicki.”
“You’re welcome.” She found that she meant the words and smiled. Nodding towards the door, she felt a wave of exhaustion. “Probably should let your girlfriend know that she doesn’t need to kill me.”
“Yeah, and I bet you’re hungry.” Lance stood up and pushed back the metal chair. “Do you want something else or is pasta okay?”
“What, do you cook too?” Nicki asked with a raised eyebrow.
“My mother was of the mind that a man should be able to do everything a woman can except have babies.”
“I think I’d like her,” Nicki chuckled in response. “Pasta sounds good.”
Lance looked uncertain even as he turned and headed for the doorway. He glanced back at her before he opened the door, nearly causing the others to fall into the room. Jenny reacted first by grabbing his arm and studying it with a worried expression that melted into a pleased smile. Then she jumped back and blushed while Bran grinned behind her. Alex smiled and nodded to Lance as he stepped out into the hallway before she looked in at Nicki.
She found herself in another slightly awkward lock of eyes as Alex considered her with that gray gaze. Then the current incarnation of the Iron Soul moved around the others and stepped into the room. She moved across the room with soft footsteps as Lance and the others headed downstairs to the kitchen. Alex stopped in front of Nicki and the two just looked at each other for a long moment. Then Alex sat down in the chair that Lance had vacated, kicking away the bloody towel as she lowered her eyes.
“Thank you, Nicki.” Alex raised her eyes to meet Nicki’s again. They were a darker shade of gray than normal. “I’m sorry I put you through that.”
“You need to learn to heal.” Nicki forced a pained smile before nodding towards the door. “But you know something… he’s not half bad.”
A weak laugh escaped Alex which quickly turned into a pained, almost hysterical laugh, and a moment later Nicki felt herself join in.
12
Revelation of the Lady
721 B.C.E. North Pembrokeshire Coast
The early morning mist was still lingering in the air as Merlin reached the small lake. It was nothing impressive, and Merlin almost hesitated to think of the small body of water as a proper lake. Nonetheless, a small river ran into the water out of the nearby hills where it joined a few small streams, and a short ways to the south of where he stood it flowed out once more towards the ocean. Just up the slope, a small grove of trees was swaying in the wind, the leaves rustling gently behind the curtain of mist.
For a moment Merlin stood still and silent with his hands hanging limply at his side. The twitch in his right hand to grasp his staff was still there, like a phantom at the edge of his awareness, but it was becoming easier. Instead, Merlin carefully loosened the tight leather strap over his chest which released the long leather bag on his back. He caught it smoothly and reverently pulled Cathanáil from the bag. The sword was snugly secured in its leather scabbard and its hilt gleamed brilliantly in the low morning light. Merlin settled his hand on the hilt, allowing the peace of the early day to soothe his frayed nerves. Against his palm, he could feel a faint humming of magic within the sword that brushed warmly against his skin.
Removing his hand from the hilt of Cathanáil made the world seem colder as he could no longer feel even a hint of Arto’s magic that had been bound into the blade all those years ago. Despite the temptation to brood at the side of the lake, Merlin dug into his small side bag and pulled out a small sheathed blade. It was a simple old bronze dagger, and Merlin smiled at it fondly. The surface was dull and covered with small dents and marks from years of abuse. Nonetheless, Merlin knelt down and picked up one of the larger stones by the shore of the lake. Placing the dagger against another rock, Merlin harshly banged the rock down against the metal. It took several smashes, but the tip of the dagger broke off and clinked against the pebbles beneath him.
Bringing his arm back, Merlin whispered a name so softly that the wind carried it off without him hearing it himself. He brought his arm forward and sent the dagger flying through the air. It spun for only a few moments before hitting the surface of the lake with a thunk and instantly sinking out of sight. Merlin exhaled and licked his dry lips as he laid his hand back on Cathanáil’s hilt. In the distance, he heard the call of a bird and something moving in the misty trees.
Time seemed to stretch by, but Merlin stayed where he was. He kept Cathanáil clutched tightly in his hands as he waited on the edge of the lake, trying not to wonder what was taking so long. He was aware of the rapid beat of his heart as he searched the surface for any sign of movement. A soft sigh escaped Merlin and he stepped back from the shore, sweeping Cathanáil and his bag up over his shoulder as he prepared to leave.
But then he heard the soft lapping of the water against the shore becoming faster and louder. Turning on his heels, Merlin smiled as he saw ripples swirling in the middle of the lake. Small waves of water began to lash up into the air as if being splashed from below. The ripples grew larger and larger and then churned up above the lake in a spiral of water. More water was pulled from the surface, causing the water to recede from the shore. A tall form like a pillar appeared in the middle of the lake. Then, with a splash the water fell away, leaving a feminine figure draped in a gown of glistening blue water rising out of the surface. All around her the lake stilled and she opened a pair of sea-green eyes. Smiling at Merlin, she drifted towards him, her face illuminated by a small circle of softly glowing droplets of water and her dark hair spilling over her shoulders.
“Merlin,” Cyrridven greeted warmly. Smiling, she glided over the surface of the lake towards him. Water lapped at the shore as she approached and Merlin gave a small bow. “It is good to see you.”
“I am pleased to see you as well milady,” Merlin greeted with a small smile. “It has been some time, I hope you have been well.”
“I am content, and I remain clean of madness,” Cyrridven replied gently. “Sadly, more from my world have been banished to yours, and many will not heed my advice.”
“Yes… Morgana and I had the displeasure of meeting one of
your kind recently called Badb,” Merlin admitted carefully as he shifted Cathanáil into his arms. “She was after the sword I’m afraid.”
“After the sword… that is unexpected for one of my kind,” Cyrridven said thoughtfully with a frown. She tilted her head and studied Cathanáil for a moment. “But perhaps under the right circumstances, another could force the magic within outward.” Cyrridven moved her eyes up to meet Merlin’s and smiled warmly once more. “But you have other news, my dear Merlin.”
“We’ve found a new mage,” Merlin announced with an uneasy smile. “Well, two of them: Gofiben and Bran, both living in a nearby village.” He gestured over his shoulder the way he’d come to the lake. “They seem to be solid young men; Morgana is in the village now keeping an eye on them.”
Gofiben,” Cyrridven repeated with a small smile spreading over her face as her green-blue eyes lit up with interest. “So that’s his name.”
“And Bran.” Merlin frowned in confusion at her odd response. “There’s two of them, Cyrridven.”
“Merlin?” Cyrridven looked at him for a moment in stunned silence before she laughed. The sound echoed around them, and Merlin looked around with slight blush. “Oh my dear sweet Merlin, have you truly not realized?”
“Realized what, Cyrridven?” Merlin asked as patiently as he could manage. “Please be direct, Morgana and I are uncertain as to what the new threat is that is strengthening the flow of magic, and your amusement isn’t helping to make things clear.”
“Oh, forgive me, Merlin.” Cyrridven stopped laughing, though a stray giggle did escape her. “I thought for certain that you and Morgana would feel it, but I suppose that submerged deep in the water as I was, I felt his magic more clearly. The water does seem to amplify my senses as well as let me keep them.”
“Cyrridven!” Merlin called, sensing that his mentor was going off on a tangent.
“Merlin… the boy Gofiben… he has the Iron Soul. It’s returned through him.”
The words stuck him like the blow of an iron axe, leaving Merlin shaking on the shore with wide eyes. He stared at Cyrridven, who was looking at him with a blend of worry and pity, a tentative hand stretched towards him. She came a little closer to him with only the barest bit of water on the shore beneath her. Water swished over his feet as she called more towards her to keep her watery form stable, and a cool hand brushed his cheek.
“Merlin,” she called gently. “Merlin, it’s alright.”
“He’s... He’s Arto?”
“No Merlin, he isn’t Arto. Not precisely.” Cyrridven pulled back her hand and withdrew further into the lake with a sigh. “It is rather complicated to explain, but the spark, if you will, that gave Arto his strong link to the Iron Realm has been passed to Gofiben.”
“B-but… when we die our power and essence passes back into the Earth.”
Cyrridven gave Merlin a soft and patient smile even as he stuttered on the shore. It was a bizarre feeling; being so uncertain of what was happening and what it meant. His chest felt tight and his mind kept stumbling over Cyrridven’s words.
“That is what you’ve been taught Merlin,” Cyrridven informed him gently. “And indeed there is wisdom in it, but-”
“We never burned Arto’s body!” Merlin looked at her with wide eyes. “We weren’t sure if it would affect the Iron Gates, is that why this happened?”
“I do not know,” Cyrridven told him gently. Holding her hands up, she tried to calm him. “Merlin, I do not have all the answers. All I know is that I felt the same power flow when Gofiben was born and heard his name whispered to me while I slept, just the same as it was with Arto.” Her eyes narrowed on him and she sternly said, “He is the Iron Soul Merlin. In a new body and maybe with new talents, but it is him.”
Merlin’s hand tightened on Cathanáil’s hilt as he swallowed thickly. The idea seemed so very incredible, and yet he’d been somehow reminded of Arto the moment they met. Had it merely been because he was meeting a new mage for the first time in years who shared a talent for smithing with Arto, or had there potentially been something more at play? A deep sigh escaped him and he looked down at Cathanáil, drawing it a few inches out of its sheath. The blade gleamed in the low light as if it had just been polished, though it had been some time. Arto’s magic had endured in the sword and in the Iron Gates, despite all their fears. They’d buried Arto rather than burn him: a choice that had inspired the new fashion of burying people, due to their fear that if he fully rejoined the earth his magic might slip away.
“What does it mean Cyrridven?”
“The Iron Realm created the Iron Soul as a manifestation of magic and because of the need to protect itself. While mages serve as soldiers against invaders who mean harm, the Iron Soul has always been more than that.” Cyrridven drifted towards him once more and tilted his face towards her. “Merlin, magic is growing once more. There is always a spark due to the many beings from other realms dwelling here like myself, the children of the Sídhe enslaved and those Sídhe who still hide within this realm, but something new is coming. Something strong enough to trigger such a reaction. The Iron Soul needs your guidance once more. Will you help him?”
“I’ll help him.” Merlin dropped his eyes in resignation. “And then he will die like Arto before him, and Morgana and I will again be left to wander.” He slid Cathanáil back into its sheath with shaking hands. “And then will he be born once more? Will this simply become a never-ending cycle?”
“Shhh.” Cyrridven laid a hand upon his curls, dampening his hair. It was so similar to what he used to do with Arto that Merlin’s heart ached. “Do not despair. Merlin. Please just train the boy. Think of him as someone, something else if it pleases you, but remember that he made no plans for this. He simply is what he is, just as you and poor Morgana were made what you are.”
Merlin nodded and wiped at his eyes before raising his chin. “I apologize, Cyrridven; I thought myself stronger than that.”
“Oh Merlin, dear Myrddin,” she sighed using his old name. “Take strength in your emotions: they are the human part of you. The best part of you.” He brushed a hand down his face leaving small cool droplets on his cheek. “I will seek out and speak with the other exiles and see what I can learn from them. Perhaps Badb has sought information or allies amongst the others.”
“Be careful.” Merlin forced himself to smile for her. “Morgana and I still have great need of your guidance.”
“Less with each passing year,” she replied fondly. Her watery circlet glittered as the sun began to emerge from behind the clouds. “But I shall be cautious in who I approach,” Cyrridven promised. “The newer exiles are more violently tempered than my own early companions were.”
Merlin nodded, uncertain of what he could possibly say. Cyrridven gave him a gentle, understanding look before lifting her hands and causing the water to swirl around her. She vanished from sight as the pillar sunk into the lake and the water gradually stilled. The rays of the sun had finished banishing the last of the mist, and up on the hill, he could see a deer walking amongst the trees. Birds were singing and the soft breeze was gentle and cooling. Everything was at peace, yet his thoughts would not settle.
Stepping back from the lake, Merlin looked down at the sword and ran his finger reverently over the golden hilt. He just stared at it, trying to make sense of the intense mess of emotions that were threatening to overwhelm him. Merlin realized he was crying softly only when a tear rolled off his chin. Chuckling, Merlin raised a hand to his face to wipe away the tears and took a few steps back from the water. He regretted Cyrridven leaving him with his thoughts so quickly. Their conversation had been a distraction from the strange truth that was suddenly echoing in his mind.
The Iron Soul had been reborn in Gofiben. Somehow, someway, the spirit that had linked Arto with the Iron Realm had found a new form. Merlin’s hands shook as he gently wrapped Cathanáil back up and hoisted the sword onto his back. It was difficult to tighten the leather strap that kept the sword in
place, as his whole body swayed uneasily. His first steps up the slight slope away from the lake were amongst the most difficult in his life. Around him, the world seemed dreamlike with his teary eyes blurring the details. Merlin was torn between a desire to rush back to the village and a fear of seeing Gofiben once more. The young man had reminded him of Arto in several small ways, but could he look at the young man and train him knowing that once he had been Arto?
Would he remember them, in time? Could the knowledge of that life transcend his physical form and become a part of who he was now? Should he be told, or should it remain a secret? Should he even tell Morgana, who mourned her lost brother as fiercely as he mourned the loss of his foster son? These and more questions haunted Merlin with each step he took. At one moment he felt confident his ability to teach Gofiben whether he remembered or not, but in the next the idea of keeping it a secret and leaving the training of him to Morgana was all too tempting.
