A Warlocks' Disguise {ArthurxFem!Merlin}

UPDATED 1/16

The streets of Camelot's lower town felt more like a graveyard than the once-bustling center of life they had been. The usual hum of traders haggling over goods, children laughing as they played, and blacksmiths hammering away had been replaced by an oppressive stillness. It was as if the air itself carried the weight of dread. The unknown illness, creeping insidiously from house to house, had cast a long, dark shadow over everything. Every cough, every pale face, was met with wary suspicion, and an unspoken fear lingered in the spaces between the villagers, as tangible as the fog rolling in from the distant woods.

Merilyn moved quietly beside Gaius, the old physician's deliberate steps a stark contrast to the restless anxiety coursing through her. Her sharp eyes swept over the faces of the townsfolk they passed—haggard and hollowed by worry, with eyes that darted toward every shadow. Figures cloaked against both the chill and their terror huddled in corners, clutching trinkets or muttering frantic prayers, as though faith alone might stave off the illness that was stealing into their homes.

As they turned into a narrow, twisting alley, the stench of sickness became almost unbearable, mingling with the damp rot of the stones underfoot. Merilyn's gaze caught a flicker of movement—a man slumped against the wall, his breath labored and uneven. His skin, pale and waxy, had taken on an unnatural grayish tint, and sweat glistened on his forehead despite the cool air. His eyes, glazed with pain and confusion, stared ahead, unseeing.

"Gaius," Merilyn called, her voice cutting through the heavy silence like a blade. The urgency in her tone betrayed the rising wave of panic building in her chest. "Gaius, he's still alive."

The old physician approached without hesitation, his expression darkening as he knelt beside the man. His hands, practiced and sure, moved across the man's body—checking his pulse, touching his forehead. His fingers hovered briefly over the discoloration spreading across the man's skin before Gaius shook his head, the motion weighted with grim finality.

"There's nothing we can do for him," Gaius murmured, his voice low, heavy with sorrow and certainty. The words fell like stones, final and unyielding.

Merilyn's chest tightened as she stared at the man, still struggling for breath, abandoned to die in the cold shadows of the alley. The sight of his suffering clawed at her instincts, every fiber of her being screaming to act, to intervene. "But we haven't even tried!" she protested, her voice trembling with desperation. Her thoughts raced as she felt the familiar hum of magic beneath her skin, an ache to use it, to ease the man's pain—perhaps even to save him.

But Gaius rose to his feet, his hand firm on her shoulder, his gaze heavy with the wisdom of too many hard-earned lessons. "If we don't know what this disease is," he said softly but with quiet authority, "then how can we cure him?" His eyes met hers, steady and unyielding. "This is not the time for magic, Merilyn. People are frightened. Suspicion is spreading like the sickness itself. If you use magic now, you won't just put yourself in danger—you'll put everyone around you at risk."

Merilyn's breath hitched, and her gaze flickered around them, to the villagers who lingered at the edges of the street. Their wide, fearful eyes tracked her and Gaius with an unsettling intensity, as though watching for any sign of a curse to explain their misery. It was the look she had seen before—before the whispers of witchcraft began, before the mob formed, before the fires consumed the innocent and guilty alike.

She knew Gaius was right, but the helplessness gnawed at her, deep and raw, a wound she couldn't close. The magic in her veins thrummed, alive and ready, but she couldn't release it. I could save him, she thought bitterly, her fingers twitching with the unspent energy. But I can't.