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Time stops when the blade pierces Merlin’s chest.
Arthur stands – sways – bloodied and battle-bruised. This doesn’t make sense.
‘No,’ he says helplessly.
Merlin isn’t supposed to be here. He didn’t come with them: he was too afraid or doubtful to accompany Arthur in his last stand. He wasn’t supposed to run onto a battlefield with nothing but the clothes on his back and throw himself into harm’s way to protect Arthur.
Into Mordred’s way.
Mordred draws his sword back with a grimace twisting his face into something cold and hateful, and blood spurts out. Merlin’s frayed shirt is already drenched with it, a dark patch seeping through the fabric. And Mordred simply watches it; his face is hauntingly child-like for a moment, his eyes wide and his lower lip trembling, and his sword-arm hangs wearily by his side.
Instinct replaces shock, and Arthur charges with a ferocity he didn’t know he had. One clean thrust into Mordred’s back, in the place where Arthur knows his armour is weakest, and Mordred’s sword clatters to the ground.
It’s cowardly to attack from behind, Arthur knows, but it’s the mark of a true coward to attack an unarmed servant. He spares only a glance at the way Mordred crumples to the ground before turning his attention to Merlin.
Merlin is staring at him with large, glassy eyes and an unreadable expression on his pallid face. His chest is heaving erratically, and drops of blood splatter the earth at his feet.
Arthur is incapable of speech.
All his years, all his losses, and he never thought he would see Merlin like this. Merlin has always been a constant, an unshakeable presence. He can’t die. He can’t go.
‘Stop that,’ Arthur says. His voice sounds foreign to his own ears. His hands grab Merlin’s wrist to stop him from touching the wound. Merlin is ice and bone in his grip.
‘He’s dead,’ Merlin mumbles. ‘I did it. I stopped – I changed–’
‘Shut up.’
Merlin is tiring himself out needlessly, and the nonsense coming out of his mouth is worrying. Arthur uses Excalibur to cut a piece of cloth from his cloak, and he presses it onto the wound. Merlin hisses in pain, but there’s nothing to be done about it.
Arthur looks around them quickly. The sorcerer on the cliff is gone, and so is the protection he provided. Arthur can hear movement and voices in the distance. He doesn’t know if they’re his men or Morgana’s, but he isn’t willing to stay out here in the open where anyone can find them.
Retreat isn’t cowardly if it saves a life, he tells himself.
‘Come on,’ he says gruffly, wrapping one arm around Merlin’s back to help him to shelter.
They take three steps before Merlin stumbles and falls. Arthur catches hold of him just in time: Merlin’s head is inches above the sharp edge of a rock, and his body is limp in Arthur’s hold.
This is bad. This is very, very bad. Arthur hoists Merlin up again, carrying him with both arms now, and starts again.
He makes for the valley at the southern end of Camlann. It’s closer to where they pitched their tents last night, so he hopes it’ll be further from where Morgana has stationed her troops. It’s sparsely wooded, more bush and birch than anything substantial, but it’s better than barren, open land.
Merlin is light in Arthur’s arms as he stumbles blindly through the undergrowth, and he is still murmuring something unintelligible with his eyes now closed. Arthur is more afraid than he has ever been in his life.
He himself has escaped death countless times. But whenever Arthur has woken up, Merlin has always been there, looking worried and exhausted but alive. Safe. Not – this.
Arthur’s arms and back begin to ache, but he only stops when he’s sure they are alone. It is quiet here, only the leaves rustling above in the weak afternoon sun. He lowers Merlin to the ground in a spot where there are no jutting roots and crouches beside him.
Merlin’s eyes are still closed, and he still seems to be murmuring something, but his lips are moving soundlessly. Arthur touches a hand to his face: it is cold and clammy and frighteningly pale.
‘Merlin,’ he whispers. ‘Wake up.’
Arthur doesn’t know what to do. He doesn’t have many supplies on him – just his sword, a half-empty canteen of water, a pack of dried meat, a flint, and his cloak – and he doesn’t know where Gaius is. Or Guinevere. Guinevere. She must be worried; he should – should what?
Merlin’s eyes flutter open slowly, and he looks up at Arthur with unfocused confusion.
‘Tell me what to do,’ Arthur says in a low voice. ‘You’ve been wounded. Do I clean it? How?’
To his utter disbelief, Merlin’s features slacken into a grin. ‘Never thought I’d see the day… when you’d want me to… say the orders.’
Arthur is afraid and out of his depth, and Merlin’s stupid reaction makes anger flare inside him, but this isn’t the time for anything but efficient care.
‘I don’t have many supplies,’ he says in a firm voice. ‘You’ve been stabbed. How do I stop you dying?’
He doesn’t know if it’s the heaviness of his tone or the mention of death, but the humour falls away from Merlin’s face. Instead, he licks his lips and tightens his jaw.
Good, Arthur thinks. It shows determination; it shows compliance.
And then, Merlin’s eyes flash with fire.
They’re bright orange – no, amber – and he’s saying those strange words again, now with a stronger voice. His hands come up to the wound and press into the strip of Arthur’s cloak, and he speaks. Incants.
Arthur can’t believe what he’s seeing. Was the blade cursed? Did Morgana do something to it, thinking that it would be the blade that killed Arthur? Merlin is trembling with pain and magic, and the sight fills Arthur with horror.
‘It’s not – working,’ Merlin rasps. His frustration is laced with fear. ‘It’s not–’
‘What can I do?’ Arthur interrupts. His voice is harsh: this has gone on too long.
Merlin stops rambling and falls silent for a long moment. He isn’t looking at Arthur, and he seems to be contemplating something very seriously. Arthur worries that he is too weak or in too much pain to talk, but then Merlin opens his mouth once more.
‘Find Gaius.’
Merlin’s voice wavers, and it pierces Arthur’s heart in a way he didn’t know it could.
‘I don’t know where he is,’ Arthur admits. ‘I don’t know where anyone is.’
Merlin’s eyes are wet, but he doesn’t cry. That’s almost worse. He’s still putting on a brave face, pretending he isn’t in agony. Pretending he isn’t afraid of the death that is sure to come if Arthur doesn’t stop it.
‘I’ll look for him later,’ Arthur continues, lightening his voice with feigned hope. ‘But there has to be something to do now – stop the bleeding.’
Merlin finally looks at him again, and he has a pitying expression, as though he doesn’t believe anything Arthur can do will help.
Arthur hates it.
‘Please.’
‘Clean water,’ Merlin whispers at last, ‘and more cloth.’
Arthur stares at him. ‘Is that it? What about infection, or closing the wound, or–’
‘It’s all you can do for now. And then find Gaius.’
Merlin is right, but Arthur doesn’t have to like it. He does as he’s told, though.
He’s cut another strip of his cloak for Merlin to use, and he’s collected water from a stream and started a pathetic little fire when he realises he doesn’t have a proper container to boil the water in. He tries to use sticks and ivy to balance the canteen above the flames, but it’s hopeless. When he confesses this to Merlin, who is worryingly still, Merlin raises a weak hand and mutters something.
Arthur lets out a sharp cry of surprise: the canteen has burned his hand. He pulls his gloves on again and unscrews the cap. Steam billows out.
What just happened? Arthur’s pulse races as he stares at the water in his hand in horror.
Merlin – boiled the water. With a word.
But – how? Can magic be passed on like that, through objects, or injuries, or blood? And can it be mastered this easily?
He turns to Merlin, expecting to see fear or surprise on his face. But Merlin doesn’t seem perturbed by it at all. If anything, he looks strangely relieved.
Arthur doesn’t understand what is happening. Merlin’s ability, his reaction – none of it makes sense. And now Merlin is letting out a weak breath and closing his eyes.
The water in Arthur's hands is hot, and he carefully sets it down to cool. He, too, forces out a sigh as he tries to calm his racing heartbeat.
Now isn’t the time to understand something like this, he thinks. He has his boiled water; it doesn’t matter how he acquired it, for now. What matters is that he’s going to stop Merlin from dying. He has to.
He had seen Mordred across the pass, had seen him approach Arthur with purpose. And all the anger that had been building up in Arthur – the fury and the bitter hurt at the sight of so many of his people dead, their bodies broken on these lonely rocks – had reached boiling point. He had strengthened his grip on Excalibur and held his head high.
Mordred may have once been something akin to a nephew, a younger brother, a son, but destruction on this scale couldn’t be forgiven. And Arthur had no intention of dying.
Morgana’s men were limp, strewn across the battlefield. They had died where they stood. They had no chance against the power of the sorcerer on the cliff’s edge, with storm clouds and lightning gathering about him.
Arthur had watched in horror as the sky had lit up and the ground beneath his feet shook, as though the earth itself was being rent apart. For a horrifying moment, he had thought the man was killing indiscriminately, and he had readied himself for a sudden end, but it had never come. The enemy had crumpled around him, but he'd remained. Alone in a waste of death.
And as Mordred came closer, Arthur faced him. It was time to end this once and for all. No more suffering; no more death. Mordred would die by his hand, and Morgana too. No more forgiveness.
A loud cry – a sudden blur of colour – and there was somebody else between them. He wasn’t facing Arthur, but Arthur could recognise Merlin anywhere. What Merlin was doing here, though, he couldn't think.
Arthur rushed forward to pull him out of the way, but it all happened so quickly. There were harsh words, a scream, an unnameable power in the air, and then the sickening sound of metal cutting through skin and flesh.
‘Help him.’
Gaius looks up at Arthur with tired, tired eyes. He’s been by Merlin’s side for hours now, cleaning and stitching and wrapping, ever since Arthur found him by the cold light of dawn, but he has yet to tell Arthur what is happening. What he thinks will happen.
‘He’s still unconscious,’ Arthur continues petulantly. ‘How is he still unconscious?’
He knows Gaius is as affected as this as he himself is – more, even. Merlin is the closest thing to a son he’s ever had – but Arthur can’t help himself. He’s been feeling useless all day, cowering behind tree trunks whenever enemy voices slither into their end of the woods. He can’t stop thinking about Guinevere and his men, but he can’t leave Merlin. And he can’t fight groups of Saxons by himself: if he was to get injured, too, or die, then Merlin would have no chance.
Running into Gaius was a stroke of luck, but his patience is starting to wear thin. Gaius, though, seems too upset to argue. He looks older and more haggard than Arthur has ever seen him.
‘The blade cut deep, Arthur,’ he says slowly. ‘It cut in a place that would kill most men within minutes. It’s a miracle that he’s managed to hold on this long at all.’
It’s a heavy blow.
‘But you’ve been attending to him. Hasn’t that – doesn’t he have a chance?’
Gaius’s brow creases further. ‘I did the best I could, but I don’t… I don’t know.’ He seems to hesitate for a moment, as though he isn’t sure how much to say to Arthur, but then he shakes his head and lets out a short sigh. ‘I don’t know.’
Arthur steps closer so that he towers above Gaius. ‘There’s something more. Tell me.’
Gaius isn’t looking at him anymore; he’s stroking Merlin’s forehead lightly, and the open affection makes Arthur bite his tongue. Gaius, though, speaks.
‘The blade that did this was imbued… with magic.’
‘I thought as much,’ Arthur says hurriedly. ‘But what does it mean for his recovery?’
If Gaius is surprised by this, he doesn’t show it. ‘It seems to have been forged in a dragon’s breath. Morgana’s dragon, I presume. And a piece of the metal has splintered off and embedded itself inside him.’
‘You couldn’t take it out?’ Arthur asks, appalled.
Gaius shakes his head miserably. ‘It’s too far gone. There’s nothing that I can do anymore. Not with my supplies and… talents.’
It feels as though the ground beneath Arthur’s feet is trembling again. Nothing that he can do. It’s – over? Just like this? They just give up?
No. Arthur refuses to back down. Not without a fight.
‘Are you saying there’s someone else who can?’ he asks carefully.
He hears Gaius’s breath hitch in his throat.
‘Possibly.’
‘Who? Where?’
‘But I don’t think you’ll like it.’
Arthur understands. ‘A sorcerer?’
Gaius deliberates for a moment. ‘Something like that, yes,’ he says eventually. ‘They say the Sidhe of Lake Avalon have the power to counter the magic of dragons.’
Arthur stares at him. ‘Magical creatures?’
‘Yes.’ Gaius lowers his head. His voice is small, his posture defeated. ‘I know it is against the laws of your kingdom, Arthur, but I would have taken him anyway, if I could. But the journey is long from here. Two days, at least.’
Right.
‘What did you do with the horses?’
Gaius frowns distractedly. ‘I left them down by the water.’
Arthur nods. ‘I’ll take him. We leave as soon as he wakes up.’
Gaius turns to him in surprise. ‘Sire?’
‘And – get some food in him,’ Arthur blurts.
Magic did this to Merlin, and magic will have to fix it. He knows he’s being a hypocrite, but he’s done this before. For Uther, for Mordred – and both didn’t deserve it. Both ended in disaster. This time will be different. Merlin is kind and loyal and good and so, so stupidly brave, and Arthur isn’t going to let him die like this.
‘He sacrificed himself to save me,’ he admits quietly after a moment. He shakes his head when Gaius looks at him solemnly. ‘He doesn’t deserve to die.’
Gaius lets out a breath.
It’s late morning when Merlin opens his eyes. He looks glad to see Gaius, but then the pain registers, and he’s gasping and shivering and biting his lip fiercely in an attempt to keep quiet. It’s a horrid sight.
‘Stop that,’ Arthur says. ‘You’ll give yourself another injury.’
Merlin stops immediately and looks at Arthur with wide eyes. There’s something in his expression that Arthur doesn’t like at all – something akin to discomfort, or even distress – and it’s directed at Arthur.
‘Eat,’ Arthur says instead. ‘We leave straight after.’
He turns and strides over to the horses, leaving Merlin to focus his attention on Gaius. Gaius can do the explaining and the feeding and the soothing. Merlin wouldn’t want it from Arthur anyway.
Arthur’s jaw has been clenched for hours, and it’s hard work relaxing it enough to drink from the stream. The conversation he had with Gaius earlier is still etched in his mind, and he doesn’t know what to think.
‘The blade was magical,’ he had said. ‘Made using sorcery – cursed. Can something like that change the way he behaves?’
Gaius had frowned. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Could it… give him knowledge, or abilities, or – change the way he acts?’
‘What did he do?’ Gaius asked warily.
Arthur watched him carefully, but Gaius’s confession earlier that he would have taken Merlin to Avalon himself proved his loyalty to Merlin.
‘He tried to fight the magic,’ Arthur said slowly. ‘He was saying words – spells – and his eyes changed colour. I’ve never seen that before.’
Gaius paled.
‘And when it didn’t work,’ Arthur continued, ‘he told me to find water. And then he boiled the water with just a word. The water in my canteen – in my own hands.’
Gaius was silent for a long time, and Arthur didn’t move his gaze away from him. He couldn’t afford to miss anything.
‘Merlin did that… in front of you?’ Gaius asked at last.
‘Yes.’
Gaius nodded. ‘I’ve never heard of any magical object having the power to create magic in another person,’ he said, enunciating each word with a sense of finality.
Arthur frowned and turned to glance at Merlin, still lying unconscious, covered in dirt and blood. It wasn’t from the object. So what did that mean? That Merlin had always…?
‘He’s ready, sire.’
Arthur turns around. Merlin is standing weakly, leaning on Gaius for support. He looks awful, but he’s alive. He’s still alive – for now.
Arthur helps Merlin up onto one of the horses. Merlin seems a little more receptive now, compared to how limp he had been before, and Arthur clings to it as a good sign. He then attaches their few supplies, including some scraps of clean cloth Gaius had been carrying on him, before mounting his own horse.
‘Make for the eastern camp,’ he tells Gaius. ‘That’s where the reinforcements were supposed to arrive the day of the battle. It’s the camp furthest from the Saxons. If there’s any Camelot men still around, they’ll be there.’ He pauses, licks his lips, and then takes off his ring. ‘Give this to Guinevere.’
‘Sire?’ Gaius says.
‘She is to lead the kingdom until I return.’ It’s the obvious thing to do. Guinevere is strong, and clever, and well-loved. She will understand why he has to be the one to undertake this mission. ‘And if anything can be done to clear the path from Avalon to Camelot of enemies, it will be greatly appreciated.’
Gaius nods, and then he turns to Merlin one last time. Arthur feels like he is intruding on a private moment – one much too loving for him to be privy to.
Seeing Merlin’s hair be stroked back from his head so tenderly makes him uncomfortable, not because it’s strange, but because he knows Merlin deserves it. He deserves to be cared for and protected, not the other way around. Merlin should never have felt the need to come here and throw away his life for Arthur’s.
They ride in silence.
Their going is infuriatingly slow. Although Merlin hadn’t complained, Arthur had heard him hiss audibly when they were going at a brisker trot, and, biting back his reprimand, had slowed their pace and kept a closer eye on Merlin.
He only hopes it won’t cost them anything more than just time.
Merlin spends the journey slumped forward against the neck of his horse, eyes open only a fraction, face blank. He doesn’t show any outward signs of pain anymore, but he must still be in agony. There’s a shard of a cursed sword stuck in his chest, Arthur reminds himself. He can’t imagine what it must be like – especially for Merlin, who hasn’t had the same endurance training his whole life that Arthur has. Not that any training can truly prepare a man for something like this.
It isn’t a heavy silence – Merlin doesn’t seem to be self-aware enough to be purposely staying quiet, instead merely too distant and distracted to be present – but Arthur feels it keenly. He wants to speak, to break the tension he’s made up in his head and see Merlin crack the faintest hint of a smile, but he doesn’t.
He uses the time to think. And the more he thinks, the further he gets from an answer. An answer that makes sense, anyway; an answer that doesn’t make him feel as though he’s slipping, falling, down through a crevice into the belly of the earth, never to breathe again.
The silence is all around them as well. They don’t come across anyone else, friend or foe. The birds and beasts are muted, too. Arthur is glad of it: this way, his senses are sharper, and he can keep a better ear on their surroundings.
They stop for a rest in the afternoon near a crumbling, abandoned house. Merlin makes to dismount himself, but he has to stop as he stifles a sharp gasp. Arthur scowls and rushes to him.
‘What were you thinking?’ he scolds. ‘I’m supposed to be keeping you alive. Don’t make it more difficult than it already is.’
Merlin doesn’t look at him as Arthur lowers him to the ground, propping his back against a smooth outcrop.
Arthur doesn’t apologise, but he does soften the steel in his voice. ‘Stay here. Eat and drink what you can.’ He puts the pack of dried meat and his own water canteen on Merlin’s lap. ‘I’m going to look around.’
Again, Merlin says nothing, and Arthur is left with an unsavoury taste in his mouth as he walks away.
He doesn’t go far: he wants to be within earshot if Merlin calls for him, or if there’s any kind of danger, but it never comes. The woodland they’re in now richer than the others they passed through, and Arthur makes the most of it. He finds a handful of early blackberries and three apples that are ripe enough to eat in what must once have been the house’s garden, and he collects dry branches wherever he sees them, finally returning to Merlin with a vague sense of accomplishment now mingled with the persistent feeling of urgency.
And then he sees that Merlin hasn’t moved at all. The water and food are exactly where Arthur put them, completely untouched. Irritation brims inside Arthur once more, and he finds himself on the brink of his patience.
‘You haven’t had anything,’ he says flatly.
Merlin’s eyes are closed, but Arthur knows he isn’t asleep; sure enough, he opens them slowly, and he looks down at the things in his lap as though only just becoming aware of them now.
‘Yeah,’ is all he says.
Arthur scowls. ‘What did you talk about with Gaius?’ he asks in a tight voice.
Merlin looks confused. ‘Gaius?’
‘Yes.’ He drops the firewood to the ground and sits down in front of it. ‘Your mood has changed.’
Merlin seems to have trouble keeping up with Arthur’s line of thought. ‘My – mood?’
‘Yes,’ Arthur says again, keeping his eyes firmly on the wood as he arranges it into a neat bundle. He can’t stop the words from pouring out, though. He’s been thinking them in his head for hours. ‘When you were first wounded, you were scared. You were so desperate to live that you tried to heal yourself with magic in front of me, but it didn’t work. You knew it was a magical injury, and you knew I couldn’t do much to help you, so you kept asking for Gaius. And then you and Gaius spoke, and he must have told you about where we’re going and why. That should have… but now you’re… worse. It’s almost like – like you’ve given up already.’
Merlin doesn’t say anything, and Arthur licks his lips, embarrassed.
‘It’s only a two-day journey. We’ll get there, and then you’ll get better.’ Arthur chances a quick glance at Merlin’s blank expression before lowering his gaze again. ‘Do you really have that little faith in me?’
Merlin flinches slightly in Arthur’s periphery. He watches Arthur pull out a scrap of cloth from his pocket – one of the ones from Gaius’s satchel – and start wrapping it around the bundle, before he finally asks, ‘You’re really taking me to Avalon?’
Arthur’s fingers still. ‘Where did you think we were going?’
‘Avalon… I don’t know… I just – didn’t think you’d really want to do it. I thought you might be actually taking me somewhere else instead. I thought you were angry.’
‘Somewhere else?’
The air is tense between them, heavy with caution and unspoken, half-spilled secrets. What is Merlin talking about?
‘I don’t know,’ Merlin says again vaguely. ‘Gaius told me you asked about the sword and – magic and curses and – what I did.’
Arthur says nothing. The cloth is soft between his fingers, but it isn’t long enough for Arthur to tie a knot with.
‘Aren’t you?’ Merlin asks. ‘Angry, that is.’
Arthur grits his teeth and tries again, rearranging the firewood in a more compact way and stretching the cloth as much as it will go.
‘Arthur?’
Merlin’s voice is soft, tentative, almost fearful, and it pierces something in Arthur’s chest.
His chest.
‘You’re hurt,’ Arthur says as the realisation hits him again.
He internally chastises himself for having started this at all while Merlin is so clearly not his usual self. Merlin is hurt; he knows Merlin is hurt, but – Arthur’s mind has been so preoccupied by the secrets and the magic, he finds himself having momentarily forgotten the pain Merlin is in. The danger.
‘We shouldn’t have this conversation now. You need to hold on and stop tiring yourself out until we get you to the lake. We can talk after.’
Arthur means it fairly, kindly, but he hears the latent bitterness in his own voice; he’s sure Merlin hears it, too, because he doesn’t talk again. But Arthur really can’t do this now – he doesn’t understand anything, and he can’t demand truths and answers when Merlin is like this.
He can’t think about the possibility that Merlin has been practising sorcery the whole time Arthur has known him – that Merlin has kept so much secret and done so much behind Arthur’s back while Arthur has told Merlin every minute detail of his life. It feels so pathetic, so humiliating, to have bared himself to Merin for ten years while Merlin didn’t think to – to what, exactly? To admit to criminal behaviour?
Finally, Arthur manages to tie the wood together. He uses it as an excuse to get up and go to the horses – to escape this tenseness. As an afterthought, he pulls out some of the fruit from his pocket and offers it to Merlin.
Merlin, though, turns away and begins quietly chewing on the meat Arthur had given him earlier. Arthur tries to take it as a good sign – at least he is eating – and not to linger on the coldness that creeps into the gaps between conversation. The distance between their faith.
Merlin doesn’t try to make conversation again for the rest of the day, and this time, noticeably on purpose.
Arthur can only pretend not to be bothered by it and to be glad Merlin is saving his energy. It’s Arthur’s own doing, after all; he doesn’t have the right to be upset by it. He focuses instead on taking advantage of it by keeping them going forward, not stopping until the sky begins to darken around them.
They make camp at the bottom of a small cliff, fenced in by birch trees. It isn’t much in terms of shelter, but at least it softens the wind. They eat a brief meal in silence, rationing the dried meat and the fruit that Arthur picked earlier, and then Arthur leads the horses to a better spot and unloads what little baggage they have. He isn’t leaving things to chance. He’d rather have everything he needs close by.
He’s glad he collected firewood earlier: timber is sparse here. He tips the bundle onto the ground by Merlin’s feet and begins to arrange it the way he was taught to as a boy. He feels Merlin’s eyes on him, watching him carefully until he finishes and pulls the flint out of his pocket.
‘Why are you doing this?’ Merlin asks at last.
Scrape.
‘Doing what?’
Scrape. Scrape.
Merlin hesitates for a moment before confessing, ‘I don’t understand you.’
Scrape.
‘That’s rich,’ Arthur says bluntly. The frustration from the past day stirs in him again, and he fumbles with the flint pathetically. He tries not to think about how this building a fire was, somewhere in his subconscious, an invitation for Merlin to step in and show his abilities again – an invitation that Merlin has chosen not to accept, or is too weak to try.
In his periphery, he sees Merlin’s head tilt down. Arthur doesn’t know what to think.
Scrape. Scrape.
A spark catches, and Arthur focuses on nursing the small flame into something that can warm them through the night. The summer heat is beginning to dwindle, and though the days are still long and warm, the nights are unkind.
Just as Arthur is about to move back and find his own spot on the other side of the fire, Merlin speaks again.
‘You are angry, aren’t you?’
Arthur clearly doesn’t understand Merlin much, either, but he knows when Merlin is determined not to drop a subject. ‘What makes you say that?’ he says, keeping his voice as flat as he can.
‘I think you’re angry with me, but you won’t talk about it until you think we’re on even footing. When I’m better, then you can say what’s really on your mind. If you do it now, you think it’ll be unfair. You feel you won’t be able to put me in my place if I’m already incapable of defending myself. Am I right?’
Arthur stares at the now strangely defiant look on Merlin’s face. It makes his insides twist in discomfort and humiliation because Merlin is right, in a way . He knows Arthur, knows everything there is to Arthur, while Arthur knows nothing about him after all these years.
He isn’t right about everything, though. ‘I’m not angry,’ Arthur says quietly. He’s certainly feeling something unpleasant beneath the worry and confusion, but he doesn’t think it’s anger. Now isn’t the time to study it, though.
He thinks he’s calmed Merlin enough to dampen his resolve when Merlin bursts into speech again, this time even more determined than before.
‘I’m a sorcerer. A warlock. I’ve been able to use magic since I was born.’
Arthur stares at him, aghast. ‘What are you – why are you saying this?’
Merlin meets his gaze. ‘I’ve done plenty you don’t know about. I’ve used magic right under your nose, in the Camelot citadel, for years.’
‘Stop.’
Merlin’s breath comes in pants. ‘You don’t want to hear it?’
Arthur’s pulse jumps into his throat, but he swallows it down, hard. ‘Not now.’
‘I stopped the prophecy,’ Merlin continues anyway. ‘You were destined to die by Mordred’s hand, and I changed it. I saved your life and I changed your fate. I was so relieved, I didn’t even think about the fact that I might die instead. I just thought – everything else would work out, too. And when the magic didn’t work, I started to panic.’
‘Merlin,’ Arthur warns, but Merlin doesn’t listen to him.
‘I asked for Gaius. You’re right. It was a magical injury, and I needed help. He did what he could, but it still doesn’t look good. You know that.’
Arthur is speechless. Merlin is speaking with an impassioned, almost desperate resolve that leaves no room for Arthur’s protests.
‘You asked me why I was different after Gaius. He told me the facts – how realistic my chances of survival were. And you didn’t talk for hours. I thought – I thought you were taking me to the border. Maybe you wouldn’t sentence me to death, but you were exiling me instead – which would be as good as a death sentence, anyway, the state I’m in.’
‘I promised Gaius I’d take you to Avalon,’ Arthur interjects. ‘I wasn’t lying.’
Merlin’s expression softens, but his speech has the same urgency to it. ‘There’s still a day’s ride to Avalon. And if we go at the same pace as we did today, maybe two. You don’t know I’m going to last until then.’
‘Of course you are,’ Arthur snaps. Why is he talking like this?
‘Don’t you want to hear about it? About Mordred and Morgana and the magic? About all the times I helped you and Camelot – all the times I failed and made things worse without meaning to?’
‘No, Merlin–’
‘I hid it from you for years. So then, using it in front of you – I don’t know why I did it. I’d already done the impossible when I stopped Mordred and – killed all the enemy soldiers. This was nothing compared to that. Or maybe, deep down, I knew I might die – I might as well try to heal myself–’
‘Merlin – enough.’
At last, Arthur seems to have gotten through. Merlin’s words die in his mouth, and he looks up at Arthur with wide, unsure eyes. The sight of Merlin so vulnerable is unsettling, wrong, but if it’s the only way to stop Merlin exhausting himself and trying to have this talk at the wrong time, then Arthur has no choice.
He can hear the ferocity of his own heartbeat, feel it in his very fingertips. He’s heard more than enough already, and not all of it even makes sense. Merlin is not in his right mind: he is in no state to do this.
‘You’re going to stop talking, and you’re going to eat, and then you’re going to shut your eyes and go to sleep,’ Arthur says in a slow, commanding tone. ‘And tomorrow, you’re going to feel a bit better, and we’re going to ride faster. I want to reach Avalon before the end of the day.’
Merlin is silent for a moment, and Arthur sits back in satisfaction, until Merlin says in a quiet voice–
‘But I want to do this now… I might not get another chance…’
‘There’ll be plenty.’
Merlin licks his lips. ‘What if I die?’
Arthur’s hands clench at his sides. ‘What are you talking about? You’re not going to die.’
‘You don’t know that,’ Merlin says miserably.
‘I do. I’m going to get you to Avalon, and they’re going to heal you.’ He puts on a strained smile. ‘And then you can talk every day for the rest of your life.’
Merlin doesn’t seem to be listening to him at all. ‘Won’t you regret not getting answers and – not… not reconciling…? Settling everything between us?’
Arthur’s face falls. ‘There’s nothing to regret,’ he says shortly, ‘because nothing is going to happen.’
He stands up abruptly and crosses to the other side of the fire. Why is Merlin so ready to die? So willing to – to talk about stupid things like death and goodbyes? It’s as if Arthur hasn’t been trying to put aside the magic and the secrecy to focus on keeping Merlin alive, and Merlin…
Merlin doesn’t seem to care. He cares more about dying properly, having achieved some sort of noble accomplishment and settled his affairs, than about living and seeing his efforts rewarded. Staying with the people who care about him. It’s as if he has only been living, working by Arthur’s side, fighting loyally beside him, for a purpose, and now that he’s accomplished it, it doesn’t matter to him anymore.
First the fear and regret at Arthur learning his secret, then the miserable acceptance of whatever terrible thing he convinced himself would be his fate. And now this desperation to get everything out in the open before – before he–
Arthur can’t stand it.
‘Get some rest,’ he says. ‘I’m going to see if I can set some snares.’ He hesitates for a moment, and then removes his cloak and sets it down next to Merlin. ‘There isn’t any bedding. You can use this.’
Merlin is still sat propped up against the rock when Arthur returns, his feet stretched towards the fire and his head bent over slightly.
‘Aren’t you tired?’ Arthur asks, frowning.
Merlin nods, and it only lowers his head even further.
‘So why are you forcing yourself to stay awake?’
‘I wasn’t,’ Merlin says quietly. He fiddles with the hem of Arthur’s cloak. ‘It’s just – you yelled at me last time I tried to move by myself.’
Oh. Shame courses through Arthur at the memory. At his own lack of consideration. And Merlin has been sat here, exhausted and uncomfortable and in pain, while Arthur has been walking the woods freely and clearing his head.
Arthur quickly crouches by Merlin’s side. He drapes his cloak over the grass, and then he reaches over to hold Merlin beneath the arms and move him over as carefully as he can. Merlin gasps once before clamping his mouth shut, but Arthur can see the tremble of his mouth as he lowers Merlin.
‘Is that alright?’ Arthur asks once he has Merlin lying down above half of the cloak.
‘Yeah,’ Merlin breathes. It’s unconvincing, and Merlin’s mouth is still shuddering.
‘Where does it–’
‘Where do you think?’
Arthur stares, taken aback by the vehemence in Merlin’s voice.
‘I’m sorry,’ Merlin blurts.
‘No,’ Arthur says gruffly. He clears his throat. ‘Can I have a look?’
He feels strange asking Merlin for permission – any other time, he would have tended to the wound to the best of his own ability despite Merlin’s complaints – but the newfound knowledge sits between them like a tangible presence, and Arthur feels like he doesn’t know Merlin at all. Like he’s getting to know Merlin again for the first time, but not again because this Merlin is different, somehow, and there are certain boundaries Arthur mustn’t cross.
‘Yeah.’
Arthur shuffles over to look at Merlin’s dressings in the firelight, and the relief instantly dies on his tongue. He pushes Merlin’s shirt up, and the bandage is soaked through, dark with blood.
‘Is it bad?’ Merlin asks.
‘No,’ Arthur says quickly. ‘No, just – a tiny bit of blood. I’ll re-dress it.’
He reaches for the spare strips of cloth, and he gets to work peeling back the bloodied ones. When Merlin tries to look down, Arthur tells him to stop it. It comes out sounding more like an order than he meant it to, and Arthur is surprised by how instinctive it is to be familiar with Merlin despite – despite everything from the past two days. Merlin does as he is told without question, much to Arthur’s relief.
The wound is still bad. Arthur can tell, even in the dim light. Gaius must have done something because it is scabbed over in places – with what he’s learned about Gaius recently, Arthur can guess at how – and there is the soft shine of salve, but it’s nowhere near enough. With no stitches and with the blade-shard still trapped inside, Arthur doesn’t know why he ever thought getting to Avalon would be straightforward.
His fingers fumble with the cloth, but he has to see this through, confidently. He can’t let Merlin worry about things getting worse on top of everything else he is dealing with.
‘There,’ he says when he is done, tossing the bloodied cloth into the fire before Merlin can get a look. ‘Good as new.’ He pulls Merlin’s shirt back down, closes his jacket around him, and then drapes the remaining half of the cloak over him, too.
Merlin gives him an odd look as though he can see right through Arthur’s façade, but he doesn’t comment on it. It seems Arthur’s words earlier made a deep mark; Arthur doesn’t know if he is glad or sorry.
The night is terribly long.
Every moment feels like a waste – they should be riding, moving towards their destination, getting Merlin the help he needs to recover. Sitting here with nothing to distract him and nothing productive to do leaves Arthur tapping his fingers against his sword hilt anxiously.
He sits on the other side of the fire for a few hours, his eyes on Merlin and his ears strained for any unfamiliar sounds from the forest behind him. It isn’t a smoky fire, but anyone passing close by could still see the light. He contemplates dousing the fire for a moment, but then Merlin shudders violently in his sleep, and Arthur dismisses the thought immediately. He has his sword, and he has his wits. If Merlin needs warmth, Arthur will keep the fire stoked and stay awake all night.
The surge of protectiveness surprises Arthur. He has always felt a strange sort of responsibility over Merlin, partly from his position and partly from the soft, guileless demeanour Merlin always seems to have. But the unflinching resolve to keep Merlin safe in spite of–
Arthur shakes his head. Not now.
After another moment, he crawls over and tucks the cloak around Merlin tighter, and then sits with his back against the rock-face, his sword in one hand while the other rests on Merlin’s shoulder. Merlin’s chest rises and falls steadily beneath his palm, and it is a reassuring sensation.
Merlin is alive. He will stay alive, and they will return home.
Early the next morning, Arthur comes to. He blinks in confusion as his surroundings come into focus and as the memories of yesterday stitch themselves together. He must have drifted to sleep just before dawn, he realises.
The war is over: Mordred and the enemy soldiers are dead, and even if Morgana is still alive, she’s lost most of her strength. Arthur is in a forest somewhere between Camlann and the city of Camelot. He had been riding east yesterday – not quickly enough, though – heading for the Lake of Avalon. To find the Sidhe. To heal Merlin.
Merlin.
Arthur looks down quickly. Merlin is still asleep, his face ashen, but his chest still moving as he breathes. Cold relief trickles through Arthur, and he clambers ungracefully to his feet. He’s been sitting too long. His armour digs into him as he moves, but he can’t take it off now.
First, checks on the horses; they’re a little irritable, but they seem to have rested well enough, at least. Then, he tries to salvage the fire, which must have died down in his neglect, but it’s too feeble. He goes off in search of firewood, and when he comes across a trapped coney, he remembers the snares he had set the night before. The other traps have nothing to show yet, so he gets to work strengthening the fire and preparing the rabbit as best he can with only his sword to cut with.
It is nearly mid-morning by the time he has managed to cook small chunks of coney on spits. There’s the faintest hint of pride in his voice when he calls Merlin’s name to wake him up; if he’s honest, he’s surprised Merlin managed to sleep through all the sounds and smells of his cooking. Merlin, though, doesn’t stir.
Arthur frowns. He puts the spits down and begins to make his way towards Merlin when he hears a rustle in the leaves in the forest beyond.
His head snaps up.
Through the thin tree trunks, he spies two men walking right towards them, drawn by the smell of cooked meat, clearly. From here, he can only see that they are wearing brown – perhaps a combination of cloth and leather – which isn’t uncommon for villagers living in unprotected lands, but it still fills Arthur with suspicion. And then he catches a glint of steel.
Morgana’s men. They have to be. Stricken, Arthur glances at Merlin, who is all but unconscious on the ground. What should he do? He himself is visibly a knight of Camelot, and Merlin is in no position to hide or run.
Arthur only has seconds to grab his sword. He rushes to press himself against the outcrop where it bends away from the camp, hoping the shadows and the silver-grey rock will camouflage him at least for a moment. A moment is all he needs.
Arthur’s heart pounds as the men approach. He feels a sudden urge to go back and pull Merlin to safety – why did he leave him there? what if the men attack him without any hesitation, before Arthur can do anything? – even though he knows he’ll never manage on time.
And then the men are breaking through the treeline.
They stride up to the campfire with no attempt at stealth, talking between themselves, their swords swinging at their sides. They only stop when they see Merlin asleep on the ground.
‘Is he dead?’ one asks.
‘Could just be sleeping,’ says the other. ‘There’s a fire.’ There’s a pause. ‘He doesn’t look in good shape, though.’
‘You never know with these Camelot bastards. Go check,’ says the first one, and Arthur wraps his fingers around his sword tighter.
Now is the time. As soon as he hears footsteps again, Arthur pushes himself from the rock and charges at the man.
Even with his sword ready in his hand, the man only has a moment to look shocked before Excalibur plunges into his chest. Blood spatters across Arthur’s face. He yanks the sword back out with an effort, and only just in time.
The man behind lets out a cry of dismay, and he lunges at Arthur with little finesse but with enough brute strength to be a real threat. Arthur dodges his blow only through reflex, and then the man is upon him again, snarling and grunting. Arthur blocks him once, then once more, then dodges the next attack. He won’t be able to get a clean strike with this one. Now isn’t the time for knightly heroics, he tells himself: dispatching this man will have to be a messy affair.
Arthur takes a step back to catch a breath and re-evaluate his tactics, but he then immediately notices his mistake. He is no longer standing in front of Merlin, and Morgana’s man has clear access. Arthur doesn’t waste another moment: he throws himself forward to distract the man, who is already turning towards Merlin.
But before Arthur can reach him, he screams. The campfire has leapt up unnaturally high, and a shower of sparks drives into the man’s face. His free hand flies up to touch his skin, and he roars in pain.
The distraction is well timed; Arthur makes the most of it. Even with burns on his face and his vision impaired, the man puts up a fight, and it is as unpleasant as Arthur had feared it would be. But finally, the man tumbles to the ground, and Arthur leaves his bloodied sword on the grass as he runs back to Merlin’s side, stumbling as the adrenaline begins to trickle away, leaving him cold and clammy.
‘Wake up,’ Arthur pants. ‘That was you, wasn’t it? Don’t pretend to sleep.’
Merlin opens his eyes blearily. ‘Yeah… Sorry I couldn’t do more… You were right there – I didn’t want to accidentally…’
Arthur lets out a breath of relief. Merlin used his – his magic in front of Arthur again, and he doesn’t seem worried or regretful. ‘No, it was good. You saved–‘
‘Myself.’
Arthur digs his hands under Merlin’s arms and hoists him up into a sitting position. ‘That’s important, too,’ he says, trying poorly to keep his tone light. ‘You can’t always save me. Saving you is what this whole thing is about, anyway.’
Merlin looks at him with wide eyes, innocent blue in the morning light. ‘We shouldn’t stay here. There might… be others.’
Arthur wants to disagree and make Merlin stay where he is and eat, for heaven’s sake, but he knows Merlin is right. They’ve lingered here too long. He clenches his jaw and nods.
It’s a good thing Arthur chose to unpack everything from the horses and leave them by the stream instead of keeping them close to the camp: Morgana’s men would have seen them, and they would have known Merlin wasn’t alone. Arthur now leads the horses to the camp, where the two men still lie, dead. He packs everything – including the uneaten food – within five minutes, straps Merlin onto his horse, and nudges his own forward.
They ride faster than they did yesterday.
Arthur anxiously watches Merlin as they gallop over grassy plains and rocky paths. He tries to pick out the smoothest ways he can, but he can see that Merlin is still suffering from the intensity of the journey: his face is pale and tightly clenched as though he is fighting to hold in the sounds of pain that are threatening to slip out.
It fills Arthur with fear and urgency – and a trickle of doubt. But Avalon is still a long ride away, and they can’t afford to waste any more time.
Merlin begs for a break in the early afternoon. Begrudgingly, Arthur dismounts and brings Merlin down, too. As soon as Merlin’s feet touch the floor, he falls to his hands and knees and coughs violently. Arthur instantly grabs him by the shoulders to steady him, wincing as he feels Merlin’s slight frame shuddering with the effort.
Merlin retches loudly, over and over again, sounding appallingly like he’s being strangled by a hand that just won’t let go of his throat, though nothing comes out but spit.
‘You’re alright,’ Arthur mutters uneasily, moving one hand to Merlin’s damp forehead. ‘You’re fine. There’s nothing to throw up.’
Merlin coughs once more. ‘It hurts,’ he admits quietly.
Arthur looks at him – at the tears in Merlin’s eyes, at the age that pain and fear have prematurely branded onto his face – and his chest goes cold. ‘I know. I know – I’m sorry.’
He hesitates before moving his hand back to the top of Merlin’s head in a poor imitation of the way Gaius had patted Merlin’s hair. He worries that he’s done something wrong, or crossed a line, because Merlin stills in his arms, but then he slumps into Arthur’s hold, closing his eyes again and breathing raggedly, and Arthur keeps him up.
‘You need to eat,’ he murmurs in Merlin’s ear. ‘I cooked earlier – you need to eat. You’ll feel better, I promise.’
‘Can’t,’ comes Merlin’s weak reply.
Arthur shakes his head and untangles himself from Merlin carefully. He passes Merlin the water canteen, but Merlin doesn’t raise his arm to accept it. It’s pressed to his chest, where blood has seeped through the bandages again and has left a fresh stain on his shirt.
‘Here,’ Arthur says. He crouches next to Merlin and lifts the water to Merlin’s lips himself.
Merlin flinches a little, but as he begins to understand what is going on, he accepts it and tilts his chin up to drink more easily. Arthur only smiles tightly, pretending not to have noticed Merlin’s initial response.
From this close, Arthur can see the sweat beading across Merlin’s forehead. His eyes cleared during the brisk ride, at least, but Arthur can see how transparent Merlin’s skin has become, the blood underneath snaking across his skin in cold purple branches. Merlin is becoming a corpse before his eyes, and Arthur isn’t doing enough to stop it.
He puts the canteen down and moves to unpack the cooked rabbit, still on its spits. Merlin immediately protests, but Arthur scowls at him. ‘You’re going to eat this,’ he says, hoping desperately that Merlin doesn’t hear the waver in his voice, ‘and you’re going to rest a bit longer, and then we’re going again. No more breaks.’
Arthur ignores the nauseous panging of his own stomach as he tears the cubes of meat with his fingers into even smaller pieces. He puts them slowly, one by one, into Merlin’s mouth while Merlin adamantly avoids his gaze and chews. The meat is dry and charred; after a few pieces, he gives Merlin water again to wash it down.
Merlin stops him before he can try to feed him again, shaking his head and muttering something about feeling sick.
‘Just a bit more–’
‘Why are you doing this?’
Arthur frowns. ‘What?’
‘Whatever you’re doing, trying to – look after me or nurse me to health or… I’m your servant. Was your servant.’
Arthur frowns, desperation bubbling inside him and something sharp on his tongue, but he swallows it down. ‘Please,’ he says instead, and his voice is jarringly tender.
Merlin finally looks up, his brow creased in question.
Arthur puts the water down. ‘You’re my friend,’ he says quietly, ‘and I’m not going to lose you. Alright? I won’t allow it.’
His words are bold, but his tone is anything but. Merlin picks up on it.
‘Arthur… I’m already dying.’
‘No–’
‘Is this because of what I said yesterday? Are you trying to pay me back? Or are you just… being nice because you know I’m going to die?’
‘No, Merlin. That’s the point. I’m trying to stop that from happening. If you’d just – listen to me and actually try to live…’
Arthur trails off, mortified. Merlin’s eyes follow the way he runs a hand through his hair in nervous exasperation.
‘I don’t want to die,’ Merlin whispers.
Arthur lets out a harsh breath. ‘Yeah? Doesn’t seem that way.’
Merlin winces.
Remorse floods through Arthur. ‘I’m sorry,’ he says again. He doesn’t know how else to express the tumult inside him – the hurt and the confusion and, above all, the fear that Merlin might be right after all. That Merlin might not make it.
There must be something in his tone that gives it away, though. Merlin looks at him carefully, not speaking a word, before his expression sets into one of acceptance. He lets Arthur feed him several more pieces, and, to Arthur’s relief, he finishes the water.
Arthur wraps his cloak around Merlin again. They don’t have time for a rest, but Arthur has already pushed Merlin hard, and now Merlin’s eyes are drooping with the weariness of the ride and the effort of eating. He slumps against Arthur’s shoulder, and Arthur holds him there.
‘You really want me to live?’ he asks softly.
Arthur bites down on the inside of his cheek. The wonder in Merlin’s voice is clear, even through the weight of fatigue. How poorly must Merlin think of him to be surprised that Arthur doesn’t want him dead? And how terrible must Arthur have been to make Merlin think that in the first place?
‘Yes,’ Arthur replies, biting back the of course, you idiot. He pulls the cloak up higher around Merlin’s neck while he considers the weight of his next words. But he means them. ‘I want you to come back and carry on living in Camelot.’
Merlin stiffens beside him, his eyes flitting over his hands in his lap, before he relaxes again. ‘Alright,’ he whispers, smiling feebly. ‘I’ll try.’
Arthur tries to think of something stupid and witty to soften the mood and keep Merlin’s smile there, but Merlin’s breathing is beginning to deepen, and already his smile is fading.
Asleep, Merlin looks frighteningly like the boy who walked into the Camelot marketplace and challenged Arthur to a fight. He’s still slim, and he holds himself in an uncomfortable way, as though he doesn’t know if he wants to be seen or not. And now it makes sense – all the confusing things Arthur has noticed about Merlin over the years yet could never quite put his finger on.
But now the knowledge doesn’t hurt as much as it did, Arthur finds. Yes, he still hasn’t thought through the implications of this, but, for now, the knowledge strangely makes him feel closer to Merlin. It makes him feel like he could, perhaps, understand him more, one day.
Merlin is Merlin. Gaius knew his secret, and he loved and protected Merlin all the same. Arthur has known Gaius his whole life; he trusts his judgment.
And he trusts Merlin. There’s an inherent part of Arthur that knows – despite the awareness that he doesn’t know as much as he thought he did – that Merlin is good. The things he has said and done over the years… the things he has inspired Arthur to do… Merlin is kind, and loyal, and –
And Arthur doesn’t want to lose him. When Merlin is back in Camelot, and they’re both sat across the fire in Arthur’s chambers, they can talk and explain and mend the hurts they’ve given one another. And they can put all this behind them. It could be that simple. The rest – the bigger conversations and decisions – that can follow.
Arthur shifts his position lightly, but Merlin sleeps on. Let him sleep while he can, Arthur thinks. Arthur’s blood pumps loudly with anxiety at the time slipping away, but the next leg of the journey will be brutal for Merlin, and there won’t be time for any more rest.
The afternoon sun trickles gently through the leaves overhead, painting Merlin in an unhealthy green hue. Arthur remembers the way Merlin looked during the ride and, after, the way he emptied what little there was in his stomach, his chest glistening with fresh blood once more.
Arthur has been in many fights and battles, and he has seen many injuries. He knows what a fatal wound looks like. He isn’t stupid – he’s known Merlin’s life was in peril this whole time – but he had thought… hoped…
But Merlin’s situation is deteriorating even more quickly than he had feared. His life is gushing out of him, and Arthur feels the beginnings of true terror. Merlin can’t die. He simply can’t. It’s selfish, Arthur knows, but the thought of returning to Camelot without Merlin, bright and warm by his side… of sitting in his chambers without Merlin’s measured words of reassurance…. And now that Arthur knows the context for those words – the wisdom Merlin has, yet still the continued faith in Arthur, for some reason – it makes them all the more meaningful.
Arthur has treated Merlin badly. He’s always known it, deep down, but it was the way they had started, and Merlin had scowled and rolled his eyes, and now, ten years later… Arthur should have changed by now. He should have become someone Merlin wouldn’t be so afraid of, so distant from.
And now it’s nearly too late. Merlin is slipping away, silent and un-thanked, and Arthur doesn’t know what to do. Going more slowly would be earlier on Merlin, but there’s no guarantee that he will survive the ride, and they don’t have the time to rest another entire night.
They’ll have to continue their quick pace. He won’t stand by and watch Merlin’s life drain away whilst knowing they could be doing more. It’s a race against time, and even if the rush takes its toll on Merlin, it’s the only hope they have.
They’ll have to ride all through the evening and the night; that way, they might make it before the dawn.
Gently, Arthur lowers Merlin until he’s lying flat on the ground. Arthur himself is beyond exhausted, but he can’t let himself sleep: he’s terrified that he won’t wake on time, or that Morgana’s men will find them again, truly defenceless this time.
He wakes Merlin when the afternoon begins to grow old. It takes Merlin a long time to open his eyes; it takes him even longer to recognise Arthur through his haze of confusion. Arthur doesn’t even pretend to hide his immense relief when Merlin finally says his name.
Merlin’s face is gaunt and his lips bloodless when Arthur lifts him onto the horse again.
Arthur squeezes Merlin’s arm lightly in apology. ‘Almost done,’ he mutters. ‘The last stretch, now. And then you can rest.’
Merlin seems about to say something, but then he closes his mouth and only offers a small nod. A mixture of disappointment and curious longing wells up within Arthur as he turns to mount his own horse. And then they’re riding through the country once more, Arthur trying his best to clear his head enough to steer them in the safest, most direct way he can, while Merlin sits hunched over with his head lolling and his mouth clamped shut.
They ride all through the evening and well into the night. They’re fortunate: the journey is through open moorland now, and the moon is bright. The landscape is dotted with crags and steep drops, though, and Arthur keeps an extremely sharp eye on the path before them.
He tries his best to ignore the fatigue and the gnawing hunger. His discomfort is irrelevant. He can’t even begin to imagine how Merlin is faring, barely conscious and holding on for life.
Arthur checks over his shoulder; Merlin’s face is unreadable in the dim light, but Arthur can hear his laboured breathing from here. His hands curl tighter around the reins. Almost there, he thinks. I’m going to fix this. I’m going to make it up to you.
Midnight comes and goes, and the moon begins its descent. Arthur’s horse begins to tire, but they can’t stop yet. A reckless sort of hope has been steadily brimming inside of Arthur. It’s all he has to go on, and he clings to it, lets it spur him on. All this struggle, all this anguish – it’s coming to an end.
And then he sees it. The reflection of a pale gleam of moonlight, down by the horizon.
Arthur’s heart hammers against his ribs as they crest the hill and–
Yes. They’ve made it. They’ve actually made it.
Below them lies Avalon, a cold, still lake glimmering with the ghostly touch of the moon on its untainted surface.
‘Merlin,’ Arthur says, his voice raspy with disuse and weak with emotion. ‘The lake.’
He twists his head around. Merlin is swaying on his horse, his face crumpled in agony. He shakes his head and lifts a hand to his chest, and before Arthur can do anything – think anything – Merlin is falling.
He hits the ground hard, splayed over it face-down, and he’s utterly still.
No.
Arthur clambers off his own horse.
No.
‘Merlin,’ he breathes, rushing to Merlin’s side. He digs his shaking hands under Merlin’s body and turns him over onto his back. ‘Merlin – no. Merlin!’
Merlin’s pulse is weak, and though his eyes are open, they aren’t on Arthur. Something about Merlin is gone. It isn’t here.
‘Merlin, look!’ Arthur blurts desperately. ‘That’s the lake, just there! Just a few more minutes…’
Merlin breathes raggedly.
Arthur’s voice breaks. ‘We made it, Merlin. Just–’
‘Arthur.’
Arthur stops.
Merlin’s entire body trembles violently, and he cries quietly. ‘Thank you…’
‘What? No, Merlin–’
‘For trying, Arthur – thank you.’
‘We’re – it’s right there! Come on, I’ll put you on my horse or – carry you–’
‘I’m sorry,’ Merlin whispers, his voice barely audible now, ‘for everything… really…’ His breathing stutters, and then it stills.
‘Merlin.’
Merlin doesn’t speak.
‘No,’ Arthur says in disbelief.
Doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe.
Arthur stares at Merlin’s wide, unseeing eyes. His hands press against Merlin’s face.
‘We’re… we’re here, Merlin,’ he repeats. ‘They’re – they’re going to heal you.’
Silence.
‘They said they would. They said–’
Arthur’s voice dies completely, smothered by a shiver that wracks his ribcage, chokes his chest of air. Arthur presses a hand over his mouth, stifling the sob that threatens to come out.
This is wrong. This isn’t what was meant to – this isn’t – it’s cruel. It’s not right. They made it this far. Merlin can’t – not now. Not – ever.
Arthur pulls Merlin up and lifts him over his shoulder. He doesn’t know how he manages, but a cold sort of strength wrenches Arthur to his feet.
He stumbles forward. Merlin is limp in his hold, and Arthur can hardly see through the wetness of his eyes, but he keeps going. Down the grassy hillside to the shores of the lake.
At the bank, he sets Merlin down. Merlin’s hand falls into the water with a soft splash that sends an uncanny ripple across the glass-like surface of the water.
Arthur kneels next to him. What now? This whole time, he’s only ever let himself focus on the one aim. But they’re here–
Merlin, he tries to say again, as though it will make a difference this time. As though Merlin might hear him if he pleads enough. He can hardly make anything out; all he knows is the cold touch of the moon and the silence all around them. There is nobody – nothing – here at this forsaken lake, but still, Arthur hangs his head and whispers, ‘Heal him.’
He closes his eyes and drops his hands to Merlin’s chest. The blood is still warm, and he curls his fingers into the dirtied cloth of Merlin’s shirt. It doesn’t make sense. Merlin can’t be – dead. Not after the journey they made. The promises Arthur made that Merlin would get better, that they’d talk. Fix everything that was broken between them.
Merlin was meant for more. All that power, that potential, that goodness: it has to have been meant for something. He can’t just die like this. He can’t fade away from the world while he’s still so young – while he’s so close to the place he was supposed to find recovery. While there’s so much Arthur owes him.
Arthur opens his eyes once more, but it makes little difference. His hands trail up blindly, brushing past the scarf around Merlin’s neck to press, trembling, against Merlin’s cold face. The closest thing Arthur has ever known to a friend – not just a knight, a companion, a brother-in-arms, but a true friend – and he never even knew how much he meant to Arthur.
Arthur doesn’t think he himself knew the extent of Merlin’s importance to him. And now it’s too late. This is how he repays Merlin for his sacrifice.
Merlin is dead, and it’s Arthur’s fault. Arthur failed to know him, protect him, bring him to Avalon in time. Why Merlin was there at all at the Pass of Camlann is something he doesn't understand – and now never will – but Arthur can’t get the image out of his head of the way Merlin flung himself between Arthur and Mordred. Merlin should never have felt the need to protect Arthur in the first place, and Arthur knows that he himself must be to blame. He has failed Merlin.
Arthur twists away from Merlin to face the lake, which, for all its vastness, is silent. The moon is gone now, leaving the world to darkness and desolation until the dawn comes. If it ever comes again. Arthur presses both hands to his face as the first sobs begin to brim past his throat.
Merlin is dead, and it’s his fault.
Arthur’s cries are quiet. His whole body shudders with the toll of it, and he chokes on his own breath, but he hardly makes a sound as the tears roll down to his neck, hot and bitter with the curse of life while his only true friend lies dead at his feet.
He doesn’t know how long he stays there, his knees digging into sharp stone, long after his eyes dry up and his throat is squeezed raw. It feels both as though no time has passed at all and as though Arthur has knelt here on the shores of his failure for an eternity. All the while, the water, silent and immense, only watches.
The air is still. It isn’t a tense sort of stillness, like before an ambush under the cover of tall trees, nor is it an uncomfortable, maddening sort of stillness, like the evening of a humid summer’s day when no breeze can alleviate haunting agitation.
It just is. There is an absence of movement, of substance. The world simply isn’t breathing anymore, and it leaves Arthur with an unbreachable emptiness: a loss so palpable the very earth around him seems to grieve, too, lost in an endless, formless night.
He tries to focus on something to anchor his mind to reality. He glances at the stretch of the shore, and then across to the shadows beyond, where there must be the beginnings of a forest. There is a pale gold light at the far end of the lake, and it takes Arthur a moment to realise that dawn must be breaking. And once the realisation sets in, he takes in the way the ink of the sky has begun to wash away, bleeding away into the horizon.
The day is dawning. Arthur looks down at Merlin. In the growing light, Merlin’s face is clearer to see, and the blankness of his features is more difficult to deny. There is a ripple flitting across the surface of the lake, too; only a small one, but one Arthur would have missed in the full dark. The world is coming back into itself, it seems. The night is ending, and Arthur has to turn away from it.
After taking a deep breath, he clenches his hands and buries his fists into the ground, ready to push himself to his feet. And then he sees it.
Another ripple.
There is no breeze or movement in the water to have caused it. Frowning, Arthur leans over and tries to trace it back to its source, but there is no need: another ripple, this one even more prominent than the last, spreads from where one of Merlin’s hands is still lying in the shallows.
Did Arthur move him? He gets unsteadily to his feet, making sure not to touch Merlin’s body, and he looks down – and sees Merlin’s forefinger twitch, sending another tremor across the water.
Arthur’s mind reels. He can’t do this; he can’t stand here and watch Merlin’s body convulse like an abandoned corpse on a battlefield. He can’t–
Merlin’s fingers move again, even more than before. They curl slowly into a fist, and then let go, stretching out.
Arthur shakes his head in disbelief. This isn’t natural. It’s not normal. He makes to step away, and he has no reason not to, but then stupid, stupid instinct takes over. He quickly crouches again and touches the back of his hand to Merlin’s cheek.
It’s warm.
‘Merlin,’ Arthur gasps. His eyes flit over Merlin’s body, which is lifeless apart from his hand, still moving in the water.
And then Merlin’s eyes flutter open.
Arthur freezes. His mind goes white. This isn’t real; it can’t be happening. His denial and imagination have gotten the better of him, and now he’s seeing things that aren’t–
‘Arthur.’
Arthur’s hands shake.
Merlin’s eyes are bright in the weak light of dawn, and they sharpen as he frowns. ‘Arthur?’ he says again, voice barely more than a whisper, but to Arthur and the silence shrouding the lake, it is deafening. ‘What happened?’
‘You’re dead,’ Arthur says bluntly. He bites on the inside of his cheek, hard, until he tastes blood. ‘You died. You’ve been dead for hours.’
A look of confusion crosses Merlin’s face, and he pushes himself up until he is sitting. ‘I’m not – what?’
‘This isn’t real.’ Arthur weakly falls back onto his backside. ‘I – this isn’t real.’ He stares at Merlin, taking in the sincere expression, the curiosity etched into his mien, and Arthur’s voice is almost pleading when he now asks quietly, ‘Is this real?’
Merlin raises a hand, still wet from the lake, to his chest. He fumbles with his shirt for a moment, and then he manages to pull it up. The wound is all but gone, merely a shadow of what it was, as though it was inflicted years ago rather than mere days ago. Stuck to his skin is a piece of metal; Merlin picks it off carefully, and he holds it up.
‘The shard from the sword,’ Arthur says faintly, and he is back on his knees, his arm outstretched, his palm facing up. Merlin drops the shard into his hand, and Arthur stares at him for another moment – he can’t have imagined that – before looking closely at the sharp piece in his hand. It has to be the broken shard from Mordred’s sword.
‘They healed me after all, then,’ Merlin says weakly, and his mouth stretches into a nervous smile.
Arthur’s jaw is locked in place. It’s all he can do to simply look at Merlin and watch the myriad of expressions that crosses his face: an attempt at humour, and then unease, concern, and, finally, understanding.
‘Arthur,’ Merlin says softly, shuffling over to where Arthur is sitting. He hesitates for a moment before lifting his arm, and now it is Merlin’s hand on Arthur’s face, cool and clammy, but so inexplicably alive. ‘I’m alright. It doesn’t hurt anymore. I’m alright – everything’s alright.’
There are no words that Arthur can say in response.
'You brought me here, and they healed me. You saved my life.'
'But you were dead,' Arthur rasps.
'Then they brought me back to life,' Merlin says simply, as though any of this makes sense. 'What does it matter? I'm alive; I’m better.' A look of doubt crosses his face. 'Aren't you… aren't you glad?'
The vulnerability in Merlin's voice snaps Arthur out of his dazed disbelief. He opens his mouth to speak, but nothing comes out; all he can do is take Merlin by the shoulders and pull him into a fierce embrace.
Merlin is a solid, breathing weight in his arms, but he doesn't move as Arthur pulls him impossibly closer, leaving no space for death to gather in the shadows. Arthur's hands clench and unclench obsessively around Merlin’s neck, his jacket, his scarf, and he involuntarily makes a choked sound of emotion when Merlin’s arms finally wrap around him in return.
'I'm sorry,' Arthur whispers into Merlin's shoulder. He presses his face to the fabric of Merlin's jacket, and he takes a deep, shuddering breath. ‘I’m so – for everything.’
Merlin doesn’t speak, the only indication that he heard Arthur being the way his hands tighten momentarily. But then he lowers his head so that his chin is resting on Arthur’s shoulder, too, and he mutters, ‘There’s nothing to be sorry about.’
Arthur shakes his head against Merlin’s shoulder. ‘I never…’
‘You didn’t know.’
‘I should have. I should have known.’ Arthur finally raises his head, and the morning air is icy against his face. ‘I should have been better – made you feel safe enough to tell me.’
Now it is Merlin who pulls away. His eyes search Arthur’s; Arthur is tempted to look away from the intensity of it, but he doesn’t. Merlin deserves this much, and more.
‘You know now,’ Merlin says, a sheepish smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.
‘I know now,’ Arthur repeats. ‘And I’m glad. You don’t know how glad.’
Merlin’s smile widens, and he ducks his head briefly. When he lifts it again, his eyes are wet.
Arthur finds himself smiling, too, more widely than he remembers in a long time. He clears his hoarse throat. ‘But you’ve got a lot of explaining to do.’
The laugh that bursts from Merlin’s lips is what finally shatters the silence. Just like that, birds awaken in the clump of trees in the distance, and a breeze rustles through the leaves and sends little waves across the surface of the lake that lap gently at the shore.
‘I’m sure I have.’