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A Dark Place Between

Summary:

Everybody knew that Emrys had spent his life preparing to join the realm’s revered warrior-druids, those sworn to protect Camelot from the demons of the Between. What they didn’t know was that Emrys had no intention of fighting alongside them. Rather, he sought to destroy them from within.

Now, in the heart of the court which laid waste to his homeland, Emrys faces danger from all sides. Not least of which is a prince who would seemingly like nothing more than to see him ruined . . . in more ways than one.

A quest for vengeance.
A love that cannot be.
A dangerous secret.
A dark place between.

-or-

In another world, Merlin’s mother died, Arthur’s mother lived, and magic was never outlawed. Raised by Nimueh, it is a very different Merlin who arrives in Camelot.

Chapter 1: Ealdor

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

“I’m going to kill you, you whelp.”

“Is that so?” Emrys pocketed the apple and bent his knees. His gaze swept downward, weighing the risk. A broken bone would certainly be painful. But the realm’s punishment for theft—the sundering of wrist from palm—even more so. “You’ll have to catch me first,” he added, and then he jumped. 

The cobblestone path was unyielding as his boots met with it. Jolts of pain shot up his legs before fading beneath the deeper ache of frustration and bitter disappointment. 

It had all been for nothing . . . it had not worked. 

Cursing underneath his breath, Emrys glanced back over his shoulder. A breeze of kelp and brine cut through the homespun fabric of his cloak. He traced the path he had taken, over the towering wall to the noble’s estate beyond. He listened carefully for any sounds of pursuit. 

Hearing none, Emrys set off. 

At the end of the alleyway, he checked that his face was still concealed beneath the hood of his cloak, and then he stepped into a crowded marketplace. A kaleidoscope of colour burst into view. He passed stalls heaped with produce of every conceivable size and shape, painted ceramic pots, and bolts of richly dyed fabric. 

On the surface, the seaside village appeared both warm and inviting. But during his time in Ealdor, Emrys had learned otherwise. Like fruit left too long to ripen, what lay beneath its skin was soft, spoiled and steeped with rot. He could hardly wait to put the village and all of its miserable inhabitants behind him. And in less than twenty-four hours, that was precisely what he would be doing. 

“Is that you, Emrys?” came a familiar voice. 

Emrys quickened his pace, yet his efforts proved in vain. The next moment, a hand seized his hood and wrenched it back, exposing his scowling face to the open air.

“I thought so,” the girl said. To his annoyance, she slipped into step beside him. “Careful, Princess. If the wind changes, your face might stay like that . . . and then everyone will see that you do have feelings after all.”

“Don’t call me that,” Emrys said coolly. He levelled the girl a glacial look before letting his expression settle back into its usual mask of indifference.

The girl smirked. 

Kelira was the nearest thing Emrys had to a friend in the village. Theirs was an accidental alliance, forged not by choice, but by the suspicion and dislike with which the rest of the villagers regarded them.

“But it suits you,” Kelira teased. “With your icy stares and your frosty silences. Do not pretend it is otherwise.”

Ice Princess. 

It was not only a slight against Emrys’s cold demeanour, but also a comment on his rumoured preference towards men, as well as his appearance. With his dark hair and slate-grey eyes, Emrys bore the unmistakable look of one from the South, a region remembered not for its snowbound beauty, but for the traitors, deviants and demons which it bred. 

Emrys cringed inwardly at the thought of what Nimueh would do with the nickname if she ever caught wind of it. 

“You’re not nearly as funny as you think you are, you know,” Emrys said coolly. 

“And yet, I make you laugh.”  

“Not on purpose.”  

They parted briefly to allow a portly man bearing a tray of toffee-coated apples to pass between them. As they drew together once more, Emrys found Kelira’s gaze to be fixed upon his face. 

“I suppose that you haven’t heard the news?” she asked. 

When Emrys did not respond, Kelira continued, “Kara has opened the Between. They say she travelled from the high street clear to the docks in but a blink.”

At the words, Emrys felt a dead weight sink right through his chest down to the bottom of his stomach. He had attended classes with Kara at the village’s school, and of all his peers, none had been more tiresome. The girl’s constant need to prove herself the cleverest in the room was about as admirable as it was deeply exhausting.

“You cannot be serious,” he said. 

“I am. Her mother paid two gold coins to send word ahead to the Sanctum Arcanum. They want her in this year’s intake. It seems you won’t be the only one departing for Camalot tomorrow . . . nor the only one with intentions of joining the Druithar.”

“How wonderful,” said Emrys in a hollow voice. “I’m happy for her.”

Kelira let out a mirthless laugh. “Do try to appear a little more sincere, won’t you? Pull the edges of your lips upward a little, towards your cheeks . . . it’s called a smile.” 

“I’d not begrudge anyone the chance to leave this forsaken place.”

A small smile played on Kelira’s lips. “I’m going to miss you, you know.” 

She slipped back through the crowd before he could respond. Emrys felt glad for it. He did not know what to do with such unexpected sentimentality.

As he walked, Emrys retrieved the stolen apple from his pocket and bit into it. His shoulders brushed against hurried passersby, the press of bodies gently ebbing and flowing, all of them oblivious to the maelstrom of feelings that were building inside him, threatening to spill out. 

Though he could sense it—could at times hear the whispers from beyond, soft as a caress that raised the hair upon his arms—Emrys had yet to open the Between himself. Nimueh would have his hide if a mere villager outshone her own apprentice at the Sanctum Arcanum, crown jewel of the realm’s universities. 

Not to mention, if Kara happened to get in the way of their plans . . . 

Everybody knew that Emrys had spent his life preparing to join the realm’s revered warrior-druids, those sworn to protect Camelot from the demons of the Between. What they didn’t know was that Emrys had no intention of fighting alongside them. Rather, he sought to destroy them from within.

A toothless old woman rattled a box of amulets beneath his nose. “One for you, pretty?” the woman called out as he passed. “Times such as these, one can never be too careful.”

Emrys did not break stride. 

A narrow laneway opened ahead, half hidden by shadow. He turned into it, making his way past the rows of crooked townhouses toward a black-painted door marked with the pale outline of an eye. As Emrys approached, the door creaked open.

Although some afternoon light filtered through the grimy windows, the interior of the house was dark and dreary. Emrys followed the hallway to the kitchen.

“Nimueh?” Emrys called softly, though he suspected the warlock was out. More and more, Nimueh had taken to leaving him on his own. Sometimes Nimueh was gone for days at a time, always returning without a word of explanation.

A soft caw answered from the rafters. A moment later, a large black crow swooped down, circling the room once before settling upon the back of a chair.

“Hungry?” Emrys asked. He placed the apple core onto the table. “Don’t tell Nimueh . . . it can be our secret.” 

The crow cocked its head, watching him intently with a single beady eye. In a sing-song voice, the crow replied, “Yous be cunning, yous be quick. But yous get caught, yer blood spills thick.”

Emrys’s expression thawed just a little. “I’ll be careful, on quick feet. My blood is my own to keep.” 

The crow made a soft noise of approval. “Cut them down, slit them throats.”

“Sew their skins to make a coat,” Emrys finished. 

“Yous be careful, yous promise?”

“Always.”

The crow let out a trill sound that might have been a snort. Then it seized the apple core between its beak, and it swooped back to the rafters.

Emrys shook his head and pulled off his cloak. He hung it by the door before crossing to the hearth. Jars of pickled frog and tails of newt sat in a neat line across the mantle above a simmering potion. Tendrils of fragrant steam rose from its surface. Kneeling by the fire, Emrys set another log onto the embers.

Warmth slowly seeped into his bones, dulling the aches of the day.

He tried not to think about Kara.

He failed immediately.

So, the girl had really done it—a feat which had eluded Emrys time and again. 

Only the most gifted could command the Between, opening portals to the mirror-realm of the demons—a place where time moved so slowly that one might seem to vanish from their own realm, only to return the next instant in another location. It was a very rare and powerful ability. Those who exhibited signs of the gift were always sent to the Sanctum Arcanum in Camalot, where they underwent years of rigorous training in the hope of one day becoming one of the Druithar.

It was a life of discipline, prestige and honour. 

The Sanctum Arcanum admitted new initiates only once per year, drawn either from those who excelled in the entrance examinations like Emrys, demonstrating potential in sensing the Between, or from the rarer few who managed to open a portal by their own hand, like Kara. 

If Emrys stood any chance of taking the Druithar down, he would have to become the very best of them. 

Recklessly, he had hoped that the petty theft—and subsequent threat of punishment—might stir whatever lay dormant inside him, that the need to get away might finally draw it out.

Still, it had not worked. 

A state of growing unease followed Emrys through his afternoon chores and late into the evening. Behind the drapes of his bed, Emrys settled himself beneath the coarse sheets and stared moodily at the ceiling.  

Nimueh had yet to return. 

Perhaps it had been naive to imagine they might spend his last evening in Ealdor together. He was not so foolish as to expect well-wishes or tender reflections on the past—that was not like Nimueh at all. The warlock was cruel, manipulative, and at times even sadistic. And yet, in her own way, she had cared for Emrys as best she could. Nimueh was the closest thing to a parental figure Emrys had ever known. 

With a click of his fingers, the candlestick on his bedside table was extinguished. Wax splattered violently across the wooden surface. Like every little bit of magic Emrys attempted, even this minor feat betrayed his lack of control and subtlety.

Emrys scrubbed a hand across his face, peering through the gaps between his fingers, the nails of which were bitten down to nothing, before closing his eyes.

He had spent so long in anticipation of this moment. Yet now that it was finally upon him, he could not shake the feeling that he was woefully unprepared for what lay ahead—that the Druithar would see straight through him, see him at once for what he truly was. And once they did, there would be no coming back from it. 

Notes:

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