Merlin fic: Warlock [1/2]
Title: Warlock
Author: aftertherain
Pairing: Arthur/Merlin
Rating: R
Warnings/Spoilers: Spoilers for all of Season 1 (set a few years down the road after the end of S1.) Violence.
Length: Around 18000 words, split into 2 parts because of LJ limits.
Author's Notes: Many heartfelt thanks to the wonderful snarkyducky for beta and encouragements. ♥
Summary: Take me up; cast me away. What happens in the aftermath of a truth revealed.
I. A father's resolve
Like salt on a fresh wound, the unbearable burn of it was that Merlin had been so cautious, never using his powers inside the castle gates and only when Arthur's propensity for endangering himself forced Merlin's hand. With the passage of time, and in the most mundane fashion, Merlin had somehow learnt the meaning of restraint-much to Gaius's surprise as well as his own. That reckless rush of invincibility in his youth had been tempered with the years, honed by a growing understanding of the role he was meant to play and the wisdom and discretion required to truly protect someone.
This much, Merlin remembered of the otherwise ordinary night: the wind whistling through the fields and through his mail to dry his sweat, the rowdy laughter of Arthur's men around the small fire, its proximity alone warming their hands and feet. He and Arthur had been treading cautiously around each other despite trading their usual quips, keeping their promises unspoken-and he'd felt then that they stood together at the brink of change sharing a common indrawn breath, something monumental happening between them. He remembered Arthur dropping his glove on the log, spilling some of his ale with it, to place a callused palm on the nape of Merlin's neck and giving him a firm shake as Arthur recounted to all listening Merlin's remarkable ineptitude with a sword.
But not too dreadful, Arthur had relented. If one happened to be senile and drunk as well as a tad blind.
And the men passed the drink around the fire and laughed heartily at his expense. Merlin had replied, with more ale than food sitting warmly in his stomach, that the pupil learnt best what the teacher exemplified.
The raiders had eventually surrendered-though the two who were no more than boys vying to become men had escaped after Arthur made the mistake of tying them with a length of old rope-but the thrill of fighting alongside Arthur had taken its toll on Merlin and he almost nodded off to sleep leaning against Arthur's shoulder. His forehead came to rest on the uncomfortable ridge of the pauldron. Arthur grumbled then hauled Merlin up by his armpits, away from the log they were sitting on and towards the bedrolls already spread out by the fire.
What woke him hours later had been but a mere noise. The light of the moon reflecting off polished armour remained unchanged, the bound raiders hadn't attempted to escape, and most of the knights were dozing or staring thoughtfully into the distance. But fear gripped him for no discernible reason and Merlin came fully awake in the next instant to shove Arthur behind him, shielding him with his body while Arthur, stirring, tried to do exactly the same.
The flash of an arrow might have been easy to miss; less so was the arrowhead glowing white hot as it stopped in mid air before the shaft abruptly snapped itself in two pieces and crumpled to the dirt at their feet.
"At last, the sorcerer reveals himself."
Merlin wouldn't have believed it had he not witnessed with his own eyes, but Uther-a king who almost never left the city gates even when disasters ravaged his lands and his people prayed for relief, lest his position as ruler of Camelot be diminished-had travelled one day's journey on horseback to reach their camp. He strode in like a spectre, flanked by his trusted guards holding torches too close to Merlin's face.
With the intruder being the king himself, knights who had stepped in front of Arthur and Merlin lowered their swords one by one and respectfully moved back.
Uther stepped over the broken arrow with a dark look on his face and commanded all the knights of Camelot present to bear witness to Merlin's deeds-it was unimaginable that Uther would risk the life of his own son in order to trap and put to rest a lingering doubt, but one look at the distinct arrow confirmed that it came from the best archer in the kingdom who, of course, had been aiming straight for Merlin's heart. The king spoke at length of how Merlin had insinuated himself into the royal household and bewitched them all since the first day-for that act of deception alone he ought to have been beheaded long before.
But his crimes were far more serious: he'd shared bread and gossip and lived amongst the men and women of the castle like a seed sinking insidious roots into their kindness, over months, over years, until he finally gained the crown prince's trust.
To Merlin, the king said, "It was my misjudgment that allowed you to become Arthur's servant years ago. To watch you now wearing the Pendragon crest and fighting alongside my son-"
Arthur's expression revealed nothing, not whether he had known of his father's suspicions or perhaps suppressed doubts of his own. He stared coldly into the woods where shouting rang out about the men crowded around watching the capture of the sorcerer. He looked as he had that day in Ealdor before the burning pyre, when he had chastised Merlin for keeping a dead man's secret-You know how dangerous magic is.
"-is simply unthinkable. Guards, seize him."
Behind them, the commotion grew louder with branches snapping in rapid succession and panic creeping into the muffled shouts. The raiders had worked free of their ropes in all the distraction and made a run for the horses tethered beyond the camp. A horn sounded, bleak in the darkness. All of Arthur's knights drew their swords and moved to protect their king while their prince moved to investigate the threat.
Arthur, the name finally made it out of Merlin's mouth when Uther's guards struck him to his knees and clasped his wrists in iron. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Arthur stop, back rigid. A voice in his mind that sounded like Will's whispered to him that three years was a long time to spend in one place-too long, for he'd grown careless and started to think he belonged-but having his head cut off would neither subtract nor add to those years.
When the guards jerked his arms behind his back, choking him with his own chains, he began struggling in earnest, shoving back and kicking out and rolling instinctively to avoid their blows like Arthur had trained him to. He landed a few kicks, but someone hit him hard enough that his ears buzzed. The torches clutched in each of their hands all flared as one, flames licking high into the rustling branches, an unearthly bright procession. The men appeared visibly shaken.
Uther stumbled backward. Merlin had bought himself a few more seconds-to draw in harsh breaths, to consider what more he could say to sway the king when he had already sworn his loyalty, many times over, with every peril he willingly walked into for Arthur's sake and every scar written on his skin. It was a complete surprise, then, that of all the knights who approached with their blades drawn, it was Arthur who stepped in from out of nowhere and delivered a crushing blow to Merlin's side with his fist, dropping him gracelessly into darkness.
* * *
The time that Merlin spent drifting in and out of consciousness in the dank cell was reminiscent of the worst nightmares of his childhood in their unending morass of terror. His moments of wakefulness were spent curled up and coughing damply into the rags, aggravating the bruises all over his body and the numb ache in his chest that couldn't be blamed on physical injuries. Countless men and women accused of using magic had spent their last day imprisoned in this small space, wondering if they would meet their deaths by fire, by water, or by the blade of a sharpened axe. If he looked closely at the edges of flagstones clawed jagged by human fingers and streaked with dried blood, he would find many last curses placed on the kingdom.
When they finally came for him with the first sound of the horn at daybreak, his knees and elbows had locked up with the damp cold and his body shook uncontrollably. He'd been unable to stand on his own, so they dragged him from the chamber by his arms while his knees scraped along the sharp stones. But instead of bringing him up to the courtyard where he was certain to meet his death, they travelled further down in the dimness of twisting tunnels that descended deep below the castle.
After all the trouble to capture him, it was possible the king finally put his foot down on the unnecessary waste of royal resources-including the executioner's time-and simply decided to feed Merlin to the dragon instead. With that thought, a slightly hysterical sound escaped him to echo in the passageways, the torch flames unmoved by his shallow breath. Beside him, the nervous-looking guard cursed, no doubt suspecting Merlin of casting a spell on them, and kicked him in the back of his knees. Wobbly fingers dug mercilessly into Merlin's arms the rest of the way until the ground began to level. They stepped through an iron gate.
Long chains trailed over the rough stones, permanently bolted on one end to the half excavated wall farthest from the gate. Their length would allow one limited movement across the rocky ledge before uneven ground gradually sloped off into cavernous darkness. Small pebbles shaken by their footsteps rained down the sides into the emptiness, no sounds of them hitting bottom. A single torch burnt on the outside of the iron grating, out of reach. In the shadows, streaks of the rock surface glimmered wetly. This would be his dungeon, Merlin realised.
"I thought the punishment for magic was death." He eyed the long chains and weighed their permanence against the quick drop of an axe.
"It's early yet," the older guard threatened as he shoved Merlin to the wall and secured the largest metal collar around his neck. Although the smooth surface felt cold as ice against Merlin's sweaty skin, the areas it touched smarted like they had been suspended over a fire-something in him was being reshaped over a forge. The pulse in his neck beat so loudly that he wondered nobody else could hear it trying to jump out of the restraints. Manacles locked around each wrist with the same blistering heat. There was magic in them that clashed dissonantly with his own, thinning his powers.
The guard, mistaking Merlin's pained haze for the prayers of a desperate man, granted him the truth:
"I've served the king long before the Great Purge and the ban on magic in Camelot. When a sorcerer is captured, trial and execution go hand in hand. It shall be quick."
* * *
II. The price paid
But they did not come for him.
When he opened his eyes some time later, he could still feel every scrape and bruise on his body, but the spell in the chains had faded to a dull hum in the background, one he could almost tolerate. In fact, a sense of healing and calm pervaded his limbs, and that was what worried him. The roiling fear in his gut worsened with every hour-until Gwen's ashen face appearing apparition-like on the other side of the iron lattice told Merlin all he needed to know.
In the silence of his thoughts, he knew that Gaius was dead. He knew this without understanding how-and still, like a fool, he had to ask.
Gwen's voice was barely audible when she answered, "Yes, Merlin. He's gone."
They had burnt Gaius at the stake for sheltering a sorcerer under the king's aegis. Merlin should have been drained, a husk with everything else beaten out of him, but the tears swelled out of his eyes, unstopping.
"Morgana is doing everything she can-"
"No!" The chains trailing serpentine from his wrists jangled at the sudden movement. Merlin staggered up to meet Gwen's gaze, made sure she understood everything he was saying."You must tell her, Gwen-tell Morgana to save herself."
She stared back undaunted, and he was grateful that Gwen-dear Guinevere whose father had not a drop of magic in him but was executed anyway-looked at Merlin as if she would never blame him for Gaius's fate.
"Why won't you escape?" she whispered.
Was the magic within him stronger than the stale enchantment on his shackles-could he have shattered every link of the chains using the very spells they feared? The answer hardly mattered.
"I gave Arthur my word," he lied.
Because he knew not to underestimate Uther, though it was a lesson learnt too late. Even Gwen's luck at slipping past his jailers to deliver the news of Gaius's death seemed to be no mere coincidence. Looking at her tear-stained cheeks half hidden behind iron bars, he could not forget the image of a younger, more trusting girl crying out her innocence as guards dragged her away. Many of the people Merlin cared about were considered dispensable to the king.
Footsteps and gravel trickling down the tunnels signalled that the guards who had conveniently disappeared now returned, bringing food and water for their prisoner to sustain him through his punishment. Chained in the deepest dungeons as a cautionary tale, the sorcerer who dared live amongst the good folks of the castle and beguile their prince. Thereafter no one with magic shall dare tread so close.
Gwen whispered to him not to give up, her fingers reaching briefly through the grate, and disappeared as soundlessly as she came.
* * *
In the silence, in the endless days of darkness that blurred together, Merlin clung to the words that once spurred him with a sense of purpose when he'd struggled to find his place in this beautiful but harsh castle all those years ago: None of us can choose our destiny. And none of us can escape it.
Inevitable paths, a dead end long foreseen. The same words now galled his wounds and brought him no comfort.
The dragon had been able to simply think Merlin's name and rouse him from bed, but no matter how Merlin concentrated on sending out his ire, or when he eventually resorted to yelling-Answer me!-at the rocks around him, all he got for his trouble was a ruined voice and an extra bucketful of cold water flung at him through the iron bars.
He didn't always move fast enough to dodge the water without tearing his wrists raw. A wet, wracking cough followed him from his waking hours into restless sleep, never quite letting him go. There was no one to reprimand him for his stupidity while healing him with herbs and potions that tasted like toad-water. No fatherly hand on his brow. Some days, if the guard positioned in the passageway was feeling hostile, the food and water were thrown on Merlin along with humiliation. The stocks had prepared him well: all of it slopped easily off him, down the slopes and into the darkness. Only a gnawing hunger remained.
The dragon was right to ignore him; Merlin was the one who cut their ties.
He was truly alone this time.
The first thing he lost in the dungeons was his anger. Next to go was the hunger. And because he counted his days by the bread and water they brought him, after that it was easy to lose track of time.
The dead air in Merlin's prison betrayed no sign of the changing seasons, but his hair had grown long and a beard covered his face the first time Arthur stood outside the gate.
Arthur leant against the wall with his arms crossed. His expression was as dark as the one time he'd been bitten by the hunting hounds he trained. Whatever happened to them? Merlin wondered. Arthur spoke, but Merlin didn't understand a word he said.
When the crunch of Arthur's footsteps faded away, it seemed to Merlin that he'd hallucinated the whole visit.
* * *
Time flowed around him, and it was also time that tempered the wariness of the guards.
He first heard of troubles in the kingdom from the one who turned to singing bawdy tales when inebriated. As there had been wine leftover from the feasts happening above ground, this was how Merlin learnt that the king had sent Arthur and his men to quell uprisings on the outlying regions of Camelot. People within the city were feeling apprehensive that new strife was boiling up before the last turmoil had completely subsided.
In the prince's absence, the duties of selecting soldiers for the cavalry and the training of the knights were handed over to Sir Geraint, one of Arthur's trusted men. And even though Uther decreed that the annual tournament must go on as planned-"It is important, now more than ever, for the people of Camelot to see this display of skills and true bravery"-it would be the first year that the reigning champion had withdrawn from competition. A kitchen maid who woke early to heat water for the morning meal claimed to have seen Arthur and his men riding out towards the northern borders, in the gloom before daybreak.
Lady Morgana-her name spoken on a reverent breath-had not challenged the king's authority in an uncommonly long while, and in fact accompanied Uther at the signing of treaties with allies and enemies both, an abiding presence at his side. The king seemed pleased that his ward understood the sacrifice and diplomacy needed to keep a kingdom from sinking into chaos and had finally learnt to show him respect long due.
Merlin rattled his chains to signal he was still listening when the guard paused. Once upon a time, a dragon had said in a roundabout way that Morgana possessed a gift sharper than the edge of a blade, but lacked the right scabbard to hold it in-Unlike you, Merlin. She was the change in the air before a storm, a primitive force setting into motion the series of events that would bring magic back to Camelot. Above ground, the winds whipped the shed leaves into a frenzy.
It was possible that in the shadow of Morgana's smile, from the fire beneath her lowered lashes, Camelot began to fall.
When Merlin saw Arthur again, there was a startling bruise spanning the skin at Arthur's open collar. The glimpse of dull, mottled purple suggested that the real damage lay hidden and extended all the way to his left shoulder. There were no fighters in the kingdom fast or strong enough to deliver such a blow that would have surely knocked out a lesser man. Arthur's face was more gaunt, and the way he stood stiffly upright, the way he seemed to be carefully holding himself together, told Merlin how bad things really were.
He should have been the last person to worry about Arthur, given that Merlin himself was hardly the picture of health. Still-there was an ache in his chest, as natural and as instinctive as breathing, for the prince he used to serve.
Arthur placed his hand on the bars, an echo of what Guinevere had done, and Merlin took that as permission to start talking. His voice cracked, hollow and insubstantial from disuse.
"You must know, I would never have hurt you."
"Wouldn't you?" He recognised this from years of watching over Arthur, the effortless parry before the quick strike that could overpower the toughest opponent. And when it came, it flayed him anyway. "I doubt I ever knew you at all."
Arthur studied Merlin with the caution and distance he reserved for strangers. Every word Merlin said now or in the future would come under scrutiny; every act in his past would be dug up, pulled apart and re-examined.
"Did you know, Merlin. You killed a village hero that night."
"One of the archers in the trees, by the name of Marabon-he was a widely respected man who had served my father for over twelve years. In fact, Marabon's father had been a personal guard to King Constantine. You didn't lay a hand on him, Merlin, but he fell dead to the ground still bleeding from his eyes."
Merlin never much cared for hiding, and nobody had spoken to him in far too long for him to bother reining in his emotions. The guilt and the surprise cracked his face wide open, he was sure of it.
"I didn't know anyone had died," Merlin answered, doing his best to pull himself upright. How could he have known? His beard itched and his eyes felt hot. His words refused to obey him. "I thought, the youths you pardoned, they might have followed our trail and returned to take revenge."
His lungs burnt as the silence dragged on and Arthur stood warily watching his moves. Eventually Merlin found himself back on the ground, curled miserably on his side. Arthur left with the words, "I wish I believed you."
Each time he disavowed his magic, every day he swallowed his words and the longing to be known, the strata they stood on cracked and shifted further apart until a chasm formed between them, deep and unscalable. Their beginning was an isle lost in the mist. He forgot that Arthur didn't know him, that Arthur's simplistic view of Merlin's limits and Merlin's apparent willingness to redefine them had diverged since his first act of loyalty-his service to Arthur began with a mother grieving for her sorcerer son, and seemed destined to end the same way.
And so Merlin never found the chance to confess to Arthur: That night was in no way a first; I suppose I was bound to disappoint you. The old woman who wailed at her son's execution, the scarred man whose parents burnt before his eyes, a druid boy I would have turned my back on-I regret none of it. When we were young and idealistic, you talked to me of gallantry and honour, of noble hearts meeting on the battlefield. I nodded as I worked on your armour and wiped my hands clean on the polishing cloth. You worry about your men, Arthur, but to protect you and your family I have murdered my own hunted kind.
* * *
III. The weapon by your side
His dungeon had turned into a living crypt, the air cold and still. Of the countless spells Merlin had foolishly raced through with experimental glee in the heyday of youth, the invocation of warmth was the one he yearned most to use. He was moving slower-growing weaker-his thoughts scattering with each passing moment.
He watched the slow journey of drops of water rolling off the mossy stones above his head to collect in the corner where a shallow indentation in the rocks had been worn smooth by this trickling yet unyielding flow. A testament to the power of time. For all his magic, he was no stronger than the rock, his edges wearing away little by little until what was left of him was also smooth and unrecognisable.
The guard in the passageway shifted and Merlin blinked, his eyes gone dry and gritty from staring fixedly at nothing-losing track of time. Again. He was fated to lose his mind in this place.
If you hear me, please-talk to me.
It wasn't difficult to see that the dragon had forsaken him as well.
The gates were unlocked and not one but two guards entered, followed by a servant who looked rather green around the mouth. Arthur remained standing outside, dressed in armour and carrying his sword. His pauldron shone in the torchlight, no doubt benefiting from the care of better servants.
"Prepare him within the hour," Arthur ordered the servant. To Merlin, he said, "Camelot has need of your services."
The guards unlocked the collar from his neck and unshackled his wrists, then prodded him to start walking on unsteady feet-through the labyrinthine tunnels, past the guards' post and their abandoned game of dice, then up the staircase and through the empty corridors. Two steps inside of the servants' quarters, he stopped in his tracks and the guard at his back nearly skived him, first by accident and then in irritation. Merlin muttered an apology, gesturing toward the soft pre-dawn light visible through the small window, a sight he hadn't seen in far too long. Above the woods the sky glowed a subdued orange, not harsh to behold and yet his eyes watered.
The servant made use of his distraction to cut away the threadbare clothes and made quick work of wiping Merlin's face and chest with a washcloth. He was outfitted in a clean tunic before the guards chained his wrists together and led him outside, where he was helped onto a horse and soon found himself flanked by a small group of Arthur's men. Before they crossed the drawbridge, he looked over his shoulder and thought he spotted a figure watching their departure from the vantage of the battlements-perhaps the king sending him to die in a faraway land.
They rode at a fast pace out of the city, chasing the winter sun rising to their right. He followed in Arthur's dust for two days and slept fitfully on the ground for two nights while enduring the frosty silence by the fire. Nobody spoke of the plans in his presence. By the time they were galloping across the barren plains of Linnuis, the tension began to show in their shoulders; even the horses turned intractable.
On the foggy morning of the third day, they arrived on the banks of the river Dubglas, which Merlin surmised from the grim looks on their faces was where Arthur had lost some of his knights in a previous battle. Arthur drew his sword, the steel ringing in the frozen air, and a hush enshrouded the area. They did not have to wait long.
Battle cries ululated from the other side of the river, floating above the roaring of the water. His vision accustomed to the shifting shadows, Merlin could make out the crouched forms of the Saxon soldiers springing into action. What he first thought were patches of light through dense foliage he then recognised as the deadly tips of their enemies' spears, dipped in some dark poison and poised to attack. Heavy trees fell like dying giants across where the river narrowed and currents whirled turbulent and unpredictable, one deafening crash after another.
The chains came off Merlin's wrists. He touched the roughened texture of abraded skin, feeling around for a magic that wasn't returning, and heard only bits of the dire threat made against him.
"-if you dare use sorcery against Camelot or scurry from battle-"
Arthur cut in impatiently, "The executioner sharpens his blade in Ealdor as we speak, should Merlin be more foolish than usual to attempt treason or escape-yes, Sir Tor, Merlin already knows." The last words were lost as Arthur turned to signal at his men.
But Merlin knew nothing of their terms except the sudden fury flaring inside him.
"Ealdor?" After burning Gaius at the stake, they would try to take his mother from him too?
Arthur shot him a look, mouth set in a grim line. "Not now, Merlin," was all the explanation he offered in a voice pitched low and almost impossible to hear as the first wave of Saxons crossed the river and the battle thundered to life. Those soldiers charged fearlessly across felled wood, as ruthless with their spears and bows as with their magic. Along the river, sharp horns began to emerge from the erratic surface currents, water streaming off the sleek dark flanks taking shape before their eyes: bulls with five horns and the tail of a sea serpent. Quinotaurs, Merlin thought. Mythical creatures of the deep that should never have found their way this far inland.
In that moment Merlin understood why they brought him here. Camelot may have banned all forms of magic, but the dark arts thrived stronger than ever in her enemy kingdoms. The wet, heaving creatures charged at them with enraged bellows as if the act of being summoned had seared their hides with an invisible brand. The brave knights stood their ground, quickly pulling their shields together to withstand the full impact of the rampaging beasts. Their defences did not hold. Those that weren't gored by sharp horns or trampled to the ground were quickly cut down by the merciless Saxon soldiers.
Merlin called on the wind to divert the battering of their front lines-his powers felt sluggish in his hands, a shadow of what they used to be. But while their human enemies slowed or hunkered down at the sudden blasting wind, the quinotaurs rushed unimpeded up the riverbanks, further provoked by the added resistance, and through the lines of terrorised soldiers. More of the creatures continued to rise from the eddying waters of the river; the men's blades grew dull, their shields shattering into pieces on the sharp horns.
They may have unlocked the chains around Merlin's wrists, but he'd been given nothing with which to defend himself-no armour, no sword, no shield. A trial by water, his survival dependent on how effectively he neutralised their enemy and proved his worth-such was the fate of Camelot's warlock.
"Lend me one of their swords," he begged of Sir Tor who had towered over him earlier with threats and refused to let him out of a choking arm's reach, but who was right then entirely preoccupied with dragging one wounded soldier after another, by their feet and by their belts, back into the folds of their regrouping defences. Arthur's knight blithely ignored him, instead yelling at the men with less mortal wounds to keep their wits about them, to get back up and fight. There were unmoving bodies less than an arrow's flight away, an unnatural jumble of legs and arms of men who had been trampled, or gored then tossed into the wet grass-some still clutching their swords and useless shields. In the midst of the chaos, Merlin broke into a run towards the bodies, dodging spears from the Saxons who, suspecting him to be the source of the strange wind, advanced in his direction. He reached their dead and stumbled to his knees, only to be stopped from prying loose a hilt from stiff frozen fingers by the cold sensation of a blade at his neck.
"You're a sorcerer, not a knight," Sir Tor hissed, his barbute knocked off at some point, the blood running down his forehead into his scarred brow making him look dangerous and crazed.
Merlin heard his name over the wind. He ignored the sharp sting of Tor's blade under his throat as he hobbled from his crouch and flung an arm out to catch the sword Arthur threw toward him pommel first, a move Arthur had done twice in training before and caught Merlin off guard both times. This time, the grip snapped obediently into Merlin's waiting palm. He switched his hold so the sword's point was to the ground, wrapped his fingers tightly around the grip all the way to the cross-guard-one hand over the other-and rammed the blade with all the remaining strength in his shoulders and arms into the earth beneath his feet. A fallen soldier's dulled sword would serve as Merlin's staff while he called on earth to conquer water.
An expansion of energy channelled through the weapon and down, deep into the earth which gave a low-pitched rumble before a succession of violent quakes visibly rippled the blood-stained grass. Shock waves rolled out to the riverbank, valleys and hills formed and destroyed in the blink of an eye. Dirt and small rocks spilt forth from the gash opened in the earth into the river, the heft of a small mountain's worth of silt turning the water thick and muddy. At the shores and across the plains, the quinotaurs slowed, then came to a standstill. Some of the creatures of water were poised mid-attack, their horns and sinewy forms sublime as stoneware from a sea-god's kiln-and just as breakable.
Not ones to be daunted, the Saxons let loose their war cries and rushed the Camelot front lines, spears meeting shields and axes clashing against swords. How the prevailing winds had changed since his imprisonment, how differently the battles were being fought, with old warfare and magic flowing together like blood dripping into ceremonial wine. In comparison the power of Camelot waned by the day, their crown prince worn down to the bone. This last thought made Merlin look back at the scattered bodies, searching for a weapon-one he could wield the way he'd been trained to long ago, now that his magic had been drained into the ground. He would fight until their enemies cut him down, for a Camelot that spurned him.
Arthur shouted at him, voice raw and furious and yet Merlin could not recall Arthur ever sounding so afraid. He dove for a spear and stole it from a dead Saxon's grasp. His neck was damp and his head felt far too light for the heaviness in his arms, but Merlin's mind was a perfect silence at the centre of a storm even as the Saxons converged on him in twos and threes.
The exasperated tone that had once been his constant companion through grimy, rewarding days of endless work and training-days long gone-resurfaced after its lengthy absence as Merlin fended off a savage attack, as he dodged a blow but slipped and twisted his ankle in the mud. Because he doubted he would ever hear those words cross Arthur's lips again, the way Arthur managed to soften the insult at the last with a wry twist, he indulged himself and paid attention to the voice rising out of the silence: Merlin, you idiot.
Waves of fog tore swiftly by, thin clouds smearing on the banks and morphing right behind his eyes as their men gained the upper hand for the second time in the confusion and never let it go. The sound of battle warped and folded in on itself, a thundering river in his ears. Merlin held his ground; he thought he would have made even Arthur proud, sinking to his knees when the last of the Saxons retreated and not a moment sooner.
* * *
IV. Lasting
There was little time for the wounded to recover during a period of turmoil-especially if one happened to be a prisoner at the mercy of the king. The disappearance of the heavy collar from Merlin's neck was considered a sign of leniency from Uther. Merlin spent what felt like days curled in a swamp of pain, trembling weakly and hair matted with sweat, sore everywhere but lacking the energy to toss and turn on the uncomfortably sharp stones of his dungeon. They should have left him for dead by the swelling river.
When the bandage around his neck no longer showed red, two royal guards and the familiar servant travelled down the tunnels to fetch him, their footsteps and commands not quite as strident, for which he was grateful. Arthur was not with them. Merlin levered himself up against the rough surface at his back, feeling every day of his imprisonment in the heavy thudding of his heart, and readied himself for battle.
He would like to think that on his expeditions he brought more of Camelot's sons, husbands of sleepless wives, home safely. They no longer led him out with chains wrapped around his wrists. By his fourth battle, he was dressed in armour by the servant and given his own sword and shield. And yet, as gradual as the decline of Uther's kingdom, with each battle they used his powers in, Merlin lost more of himself.
If Gaius's execution and the dungeons were not punishment enough, perhaps Merlin needed to be killed in service to recompense for the trespass of once possessing the prince's trust. So-called destiny was determined to teach him a lesson, in Arthur's silences, in the ever growing distance between them and the view of Arthur's back as he followed after him out to battle. They drained him on the field, and each time he gave them all that he had.
Was this what the dragon had tolerated in those days when Merlin deigned to traipse down into the cavern with another favour to ask, a break from the monotony of eternity, until this speck of a human severed the thread between them in accusation, in blame? So it was that each time the guards showed up outside the iron gate, a pride that had never been stamped out in Merlin would hope, This is the last time.
He did not die on the fields, although he should have. He did not waste away. But the effects of the open countryside, gusts rushing through links of his mail and the sun's glare in his eyes, stayed with him for only so long before the smell of blood and charred landscape pervaded every pore of his skin. To be submerged again in darkness upon his return became more unbearable each time.
Their encounter with the Picts in the forests of Celidon was a grisly, drawn out war of attrition, where soldiers from both sides endured slippery, cursed branches and mossy shadows to hunt and ambush their enemies, and more human blood was shed on the ancient roots of those moving trees in a single day than the scant rainwater that would never wash their armour clean. After three long days, Arthur's men defeated the Pictish tribes and held off their southward advance for the time being. A tenth of their men perished amongst the lush pine needles.
Sir Calogrenant's dexterity with the sword had saved Arthur from a spear, though the splintered wood then pierced his thigh below the hauberk. Arthur had ignored his young knight's flustered insistence that it was but a scratch and bound up Calogrenant's bleeding leg himself with the cleanest strips of cloth he could find, with an efficiency honed by experience. He gave terse orders for the men to set out, the blame he placed on himself translating, in Arthur's typical convoluted fashion, into a deliberately relaxed stance-knowing their eyes were watching him-but a foul temper nonetheless.
A few days into their hushed journey back to Camelot, Merlin found himself veering from the dust-stirred paths, instinctively drawn toward the westerly highlands where the clouds gathered, building up like pillars. "Wait," he called out. Those who were distrustful of Merlin immediately reined in their horses to keep a wary eye on him, but others seemed not to hear him. He caught up to Arthur and said, "I want to show you something."
"Now is not the time, Merlin." As he spoke, Arthur glanced in the direction of Sir Calogrenant who had also slowed, jaw tight but posture faultless above his obedient mount-clearly staying upright by willpower alone.
Merlin knew better than to argue with this Arthur, who would have pushed his steed to the limit to hasten their return, had the cause for his urgency been able to keep apace. He quietly guided his horse off the trail with a soft murmur in the flicked ears and headed into the deciduous woodlands by himself. The outline of horse and rider was soon obscured by thick shrubs and tussock grasses; the men called to him to come back, some hurling vulgar threats and others almost conciliatory, but after spending days trapped in the bewitched forests of Celidon, most were reluctant to chase a wizard who had probably gone mad from the realities of war through dangerous depths of gnarled roots and decaying leaves.
It seemed his horse had barely worked himself into a sweat when the visible patches of sky warned Merlin he was rapidly losing the light. To one side of him stood the same birch tree with its papery trunk, crooked as an old man's back; either Merlin had been going in circles, or the place he was searching for didn't wish to be found-he was no longer the same person, with the same hopes, who had set foot on this ground years ago. Low branches cut his face but he rode on, not wanting to waste any time or give up easily. He could hear the sounds of others catching up to him, but the threats weren't the worst he'd ever heard and only spurred him to move faster. As Arthur's voice drew closer and the skeletal branches-darkened rents in the sky-skimmed over Merlin's head in a blur, up ahead in the distance the copse of trees finally parted for him. The lake appeared exactly as he remembered it, opening up like a mirror to the heavens. Pristine and untouched, without a trace of mankind or their wars. The encircling mountains bowed to meet the water's edge and the surface of the lake reflected the entire evening sky.
Merlin jumped off his horse and waded through the water, the frigid level rising from his ankles to his knees, then up to his chest. His breath hitched; Arthur's men were right to doubt him-perhaps Merlin had gone mad, diving into a vast lake in the dead of winter looking for a piece of metal that could be anywhere. But when he dipped his head under the surface, the freezing water sluiced the dried blood off his face and mud from the stained skin between his fingers-in that moment, he was clean.
The world below was endless, his search impossible. What he remembered of the sword he'd hidden beneath this lake was its perfect balance, the white gleam of its blade and the gold that burnt bright like Arthur-so Merlin closed his eyes and reached out to it, thinking, Come back, it's time, and You are needed.
He stayed underwater as long as he could, waiting for an answering echo until he ran out of air. None was given save for Arthur calling his name from shore. There was the sound of armour and helm hitting the ground; Merlin blinked in surprise and squinted to see the knights attempting to dissuade their prince, who shrugged them off as he bent to strip off his boots.
He'd known he would be punished the moment he turned his horse off the path, but Merlin had hoped his disobedience would've been worth it.
The lake and the gathering clouds remained stoic to his pleas-until Arthur's fingers dug into the round of his shoulder to tug him angrily towards the reedy shallows. The moment they touched, a reverberating ringing echoed through the surroundings like metal sliding out of stone. The knights heard it too, judging by how quickly they drew their weapons. A wave of apprehension swept through them. From the middle of the lake, a bright creature, silver and gleaming like a fish, swam towards Merlin and Arthur with incredible speed, but what broke the surface of the water was a sword-heeding the call of its master. The elaborate hilt flew into Merlin's hand. His fingers tingled with the impact, the skin of his palms stinging.
The men on dry land were shocked into silence. Behind him, Arthur, too, was strangely subdued.
He flicked the still wet blade, hearing the water moving on steel, making it sing. A quick turn of his wrist and Merlin presented the sword pommel first to Arthur, who stared intently at Merlin's wrist with eyes very blue above the once more placid waters. He made no move to accept.
Merlin laughed but it was a strange sound, scraping his lungs like lake water. If only Uther knew the power Merlin had just offered his son, there would be no further need for threats of razing Ealdor to the ground, no reason for the chains; Arthur could slay any magical creature with the weapon. And as for Merlin-well, Arthur had always been able to take him apart with less than that.
Spurred by the reaction, perhaps suspecting Merlin of laughing at him, Arthur took the sword, his fingers touching Merlin's but immediately pulling away. After all the faces that turned from him and the silences he'd become accustomed to, that particular rejection still hurt more deeply than he thought it would.
"It's the strongest sword made by Gwen's father, and burnished by the breath of a dragon-forged for you so that you could defeat the Black Knight. This will protect you-I swear."
Grudging admiration as Arthur tested the blade eased the tightness around his mouth. To him there was no finer gift than a well-made weapon. "Was this the weapon you provided my father when he fought in my place?"
Not willingly, Merlin thought. He didn't deny it, only grimly soldiered on with what needed to be said.
"Arthur, listen. You must stop expecting your enemies to fight fairly-"
"I know that, Merlin."
"-and you'll need a means to defend yourself, against those who break the laws of nature without thought of consequences, if you are to have a hope of victory when I'm not there."
This was his lasting answer. The prophecies of Arthur uniting Albion with Merlin by his side may no longer come to pass; the valleys, the towering mountains and snow-covered cliffs were never theirs to conquer. And yet-millennia shall pass and the ancient face of the land will change, the boundaries carved by oceans and the very paths of stars may drift, but this sword alone will stand as a relic of Merlin's loyalty
Arthur looked up sharply from examining the engraving on the blade. "Planning to go somewhere, Merlin?"
"No, sire. Just trying to ease your trials as you have mine."
The denial, and the careful way Arthur sheathed the sword inside his scabbard when they reached dry land confirmed to Merlin what he should have seen all along-that the reason he was dragged into the vortex of a long war, witness and provenance of a thousand deaths, was not to punish him, not intentionally, but to stop him from becoming something warped beyond recognition in the darkness of his confinement. Arthur had perhaps even defied his father in order to bring Merlin on these long campaigns-even if adding a sorcerer to their ranks had proven over time to be tactically sound, Uther would not see it as such.
In the end, he still knew Arthur as well as he thought.
Through the bruising afternoons of training in that first year largely for Arthur's entertainment, to Arthur instructing him in earnest on finding opponents' flaws and never giving ground no matter how harsh the blows-Merlin's words were still true. They would always be true.
He would be happy to serve this man, till the day he died.
* * *
"Stay down," Arthur shouted at him over the din in his ears.
Merlin tasted blood in his mouth and turned his head to one side to spit, the world tilting sickeningly with his move. He was hanging half off the parapet. Not far below, where the bridge used to be, small shapes that were the infantry scrambled in the ditches while the gatehouse of the fortress stood engulfed in flames. The stone felt sodden beneath his cheek, and the fields loomed in his vision as a near-vertical precipice awash in red tones-ramparts littered with the bodies of Camelot's fallen soldiers.
Not under his watch, he vowed.
He rolled away from the edge then crawled to get up, but Arthur shoved him back with more force than was necessary and swung around to run his sword through a Guinnion guard. More of them surrounded Arthur, attacking at once. Merlin could have sworn that he saw a sword's point dip past Arthur's shield-he used all the power that remained in him to lift his hand just a dagger's length above ground. He only slowed the guards, but Arthur dispatched them one by one with quick artless swings of Excalibur, then kicked a stubborn few off the battlements.
Arthur was by his side again, not wasting his breath berating Merlin, only touched gloved fingers to Merlin's pounding head before returning to quash the trickle of Saxons who still sought to cut them off from the others. Merlin had never been more glad to hear the distinctive voice of Sir Bedivere; then he noticed the huge boots that could only belong to Sir Tor, standing by his head. Shielding him. The knights had broken through the wall of fire and caught up with Arthur. Merlin thanked the gods and shut his eyes for a moment.
When he opened them the battle was over. He was lying on the grass, the fortress burning still, columns of smoke billowing up to blot out the hazy sun. Someone was helping Merlin to his feet, but the hand grasping his arm was patient, almost kind. Nobody called him a bloody fool or threatened to roll him in the ditches. Merlin turned to see Arthur somewhere to his left, quietly swinging himself onto his horse-not stopping atop the saddle, but slipping in one horrifying, fluid motion to slide off the other side. Arthur's sword produced a loud clanging as it crashed into his armour. The horse whinnied in distress, and Sir Tor hurried to where Arthur lay unmoving. For a moment, they might all have tried to convince themselves it was a clumsy mistake.
Arthur was never clumsy.
Arthur, Arthur, some pitiful voice was saying. It was him, it was Merlin's own voice dashed on the hard shores of the pieces of armour being peeled off Arthur's body, one by one. With the removal of the pauldron, blood swelled freely out of a hidden wound under his sword arm, seeping stark between the fingers of anxiously pressed hands. Merlin stumbled closer, whispering incantations to staunch the bleeding-words that were nonsense in his panic. The knight who had helped him stand up suddenly tugged him back, wrenching Merlin's shoulder as he knocked him to the ground.
All words deserted him as he watched Arthur's soaked tunic turn a deeper red.
* * *
Part 2 of 2 here
Author: aftertherain
Pairing: Arthur/Merlin
Rating: R
Warnings/Spoilers: Spoilers for all of Season 1 (set a few years down the road after the end of S1.) Violence.
Length: Around 18000 words, split into 2 parts because of LJ limits.
Author's Notes: Many heartfelt thanks to the wonderful snarkyducky for beta and encouragements. ♥
Summary: Take me up; cast me away. What happens in the aftermath of a truth revealed.
I. A father's resolve
Like salt on a fresh wound, the unbearable burn of it was that Merlin had been so cautious, never using his powers inside the castle gates and only when Arthur's propensity for endangering himself forced Merlin's hand. With the passage of time, and in the most mundane fashion, Merlin had somehow learnt the meaning of restraint-much to Gaius's surprise as well as his own. That reckless rush of invincibility in his youth had been tempered with the years, honed by a growing understanding of the role he was meant to play and the wisdom and discretion required to truly protect someone.
This much, Merlin remembered of the otherwise ordinary night: the wind whistling through the fields and through his mail to dry his sweat, the rowdy laughter of Arthur's men around the small fire, its proximity alone warming their hands and feet. He and Arthur had been treading cautiously around each other despite trading their usual quips, keeping their promises unspoken-and he'd felt then that they stood together at the brink of change sharing a common indrawn breath, something monumental happening between them. He remembered Arthur dropping his glove on the log, spilling some of his ale with it, to place a callused palm on the nape of Merlin's neck and giving him a firm shake as Arthur recounted to all listening Merlin's remarkable ineptitude with a sword.
But not too dreadful, Arthur had relented. If one happened to be senile and drunk as well as a tad blind.
And the men passed the drink around the fire and laughed heartily at his expense. Merlin had replied, with more ale than food sitting warmly in his stomach, that the pupil learnt best what the teacher exemplified.
The raiders had eventually surrendered-though the two who were no more than boys vying to become men had escaped after Arthur made the mistake of tying them with a length of old rope-but the thrill of fighting alongside Arthur had taken its toll on Merlin and he almost nodded off to sleep leaning against Arthur's shoulder. His forehead came to rest on the uncomfortable ridge of the pauldron. Arthur grumbled then hauled Merlin up by his armpits, away from the log they were sitting on and towards the bedrolls already spread out by the fire.
What woke him hours later had been but a mere noise. The light of the moon reflecting off polished armour remained unchanged, the bound raiders hadn't attempted to escape, and most of the knights were dozing or staring thoughtfully into the distance. But fear gripped him for no discernible reason and Merlin came fully awake in the next instant to shove Arthur behind him, shielding him with his body while Arthur, stirring, tried to do exactly the same.
The flash of an arrow might have been easy to miss; less so was the arrowhead glowing white hot as it stopped in mid air before the shaft abruptly snapped itself in two pieces and crumpled to the dirt at their feet.
"At last, the sorcerer reveals himself."
Merlin wouldn't have believed it had he not witnessed with his own eyes, but Uther-a king who almost never left the city gates even when disasters ravaged his lands and his people prayed for relief, lest his position as ruler of Camelot be diminished-had travelled one day's journey on horseback to reach their camp. He strode in like a spectre, flanked by his trusted guards holding torches too close to Merlin's face.
With the intruder being the king himself, knights who had stepped in front of Arthur and Merlin lowered their swords one by one and respectfully moved back.
Uther stepped over the broken arrow with a dark look on his face and commanded all the knights of Camelot present to bear witness to Merlin's deeds-it was unimaginable that Uther would risk the life of his own son in order to trap and put to rest a lingering doubt, but one look at the distinct arrow confirmed that it came from the best archer in the kingdom who, of course, had been aiming straight for Merlin's heart. The king spoke at length of how Merlin had insinuated himself into the royal household and bewitched them all since the first day-for that act of deception alone he ought to have been beheaded long before.
But his crimes were far more serious: he'd shared bread and gossip and lived amongst the men and women of the castle like a seed sinking insidious roots into their kindness, over months, over years, until he finally gained the crown prince's trust.
To Merlin, the king said, "It was my misjudgment that allowed you to become Arthur's servant years ago. To watch you now wearing the Pendragon crest and fighting alongside my son-"
Arthur's expression revealed nothing, not whether he had known of his father's suspicions or perhaps suppressed doubts of his own. He stared coldly into the woods where shouting rang out about the men crowded around watching the capture of the sorcerer. He looked as he had that day in Ealdor before the burning pyre, when he had chastised Merlin for keeping a dead man's secret-You know how dangerous magic is.
"-is simply unthinkable. Guards, seize him."
Behind them, the commotion grew louder with branches snapping in rapid succession and panic creeping into the muffled shouts. The raiders had worked free of their ropes in all the distraction and made a run for the horses tethered beyond the camp. A horn sounded, bleak in the darkness. All of Arthur's knights drew their swords and moved to protect their king while their prince moved to investigate the threat.
Arthur, the name finally made it out of Merlin's mouth when Uther's guards struck him to his knees and clasped his wrists in iron. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Arthur stop, back rigid. A voice in his mind that sounded like Will's whispered to him that three years was a long time to spend in one place-too long, for he'd grown careless and started to think he belonged-but having his head cut off would neither subtract nor add to those years.
When the guards jerked his arms behind his back, choking him with his own chains, he began struggling in earnest, shoving back and kicking out and rolling instinctively to avoid their blows like Arthur had trained him to. He landed a few kicks, but someone hit him hard enough that his ears buzzed. The torches clutched in each of their hands all flared as one, flames licking high into the rustling branches, an unearthly bright procession. The men appeared visibly shaken.
Uther stumbled backward. Merlin had bought himself a few more seconds-to draw in harsh breaths, to consider what more he could say to sway the king when he had already sworn his loyalty, many times over, with every peril he willingly walked into for Arthur's sake and every scar written on his skin. It was a complete surprise, then, that of all the knights who approached with their blades drawn, it was Arthur who stepped in from out of nowhere and delivered a crushing blow to Merlin's side with his fist, dropping him gracelessly into darkness.
* * *
The time that Merlin spent drifting in and out of consciousness in the dank cell was reminiscent of the worst nightmares of his childhood in their unending morass of terror. His moments of wakefulness were spent curled up and coughing damply into the rags, aggravating the bruises all over his body and the numb ache in his chest that couldn't be blamed on physical injuries. Countless men and women accused of using magic had spent their last day imprisoned in this small space, wondering if they would meet their deaths by fire, by water, or by the blade of a sharpened axe. If he looked closely at the edges of flagstones clawed jagged by human fingers and streaked with dried blood, he would find many last curses placed on the kingdom.
When they finally came for him with the first sound of the horn at daybreak, his knees and elbows had locked up with the damp cold and his body shook uncontrollably. He'd been unable to stand on his own, so they dragged him from the chamber by his arms while his knees scraped along the sharp stones. But instead of bringing him up to the courtyard where he was certain to meet his death, they travelled further down in the dimness of twisting tunnels that descended deep below the castle.
After all the trouble to capture him, it was possible the king finally put his foot down on the unnecessary waste of royal resources-including the executioner's time-and simply decided to feed Merlin to the dragon instead. With that thought, a slightly hysterical sound escaped him to echo in the passageways, the torch flames unmoved by his shallow breath. Beside him, the nervous-looking guard cursed, no doubt suspecting Merlin of casting a spell on them, and kicked him in the back of his knees. Wobbly fingers dug mercilessly into Merlin's arms the rest of the way until the ground began to level. They stepped through an iron gate.
Long chains trailed over the rough stones, permanently bolted on one end to the half excavated wall farthest from the gate. Their length would allow one limited movement across the rocky ledge before uneven ground gradually sloped off into cavernous darkness. Small pebbles shaken by their footsteps rained down the sides into the emptiness, no sounds of them hitting bottom. A single torch burnt on the outside of the iron grating, out of reach. In the shadows, streaks of the rock surface glimmered wetly. This would be his dungeon, Merlin realised.
"I thought the punishment for magic was death." He eyed the long chains and weighed their permanence against the quick drop of an axe.
"It's early yet," the older guard threatened as he shoved Merlin to the wall and secured the largest metal collar around his neck. Although the smooth surface felt cold as ice against Merlin's sweaty skin, the areas it touched smarted like they had been suspended over a fire-something in him was being reshaped over a forge. The pulse in his neck beat so loudly that he wondered nobody else could hear it trying to jump out of the restraints. Manacles locked around each wrist with the same blistering heat. There was magic in them that clashed dissonantly with his own, thinning his powers.
The guard, mistaking Merlin's pained haze for the prayers of a desperate man, granted him the truth:
"I've served the king long before the Great Purge and the ban on magic in Camelot. When a sorcerer is captured, trial and execution go hand in hand. It shall be quick."
* * *
II. The price paid
But they did not come for him.
When he opened his eyes some time later, he could still feel every scrape and bruise on his body, but the spell in the chains had faded to a dull hum in the background, one he could almost tolerate. In fact, a sense of healing and calm pervaded his limbs, and that was what worried him. The roiling fear in his gut worsened with every hour-until Gwen's ashen face appearing apparition-like on the other side of the iron lattice told Merlin all he needed to know.
In the silence of his thoughts, he knew that Gaius was dead. He knew this without understanding how-and still, like a fool, he had to ask.
Gwen's voice was barely audible when she answered, "Yes, Merlin. He's gone."
They had burnt Gaius at the stake for sheltering a sorcerer under the king's aegis. Merlin should have been drained, a husk with everything else beaten out of him, but the tears swelled out of his eyes, unstopping.
"Morgana is doing everything she can-"
"No!" The chains trailing serpentine from his wrists jangled at the sudden movement. Merlin staggered up to meet Gwen's gaze, made sure she understood everything he was saying."You must tell her, Gwen-tell Morgana to save herself."
She stared back undaunted, and he was grateful that Gwen-dear Guinevere whose father had not a drop of magic in him but was executed anyway-looked at Merlin as if she would never blame him for Gaius's fate.
"Why won't you escape?" she whispered.
Was the magic within him stronger than the stale enchantment on his shackles-could he have shattered every link of the chains using the very spells they feared? The answer hardly mattered.
"I gave Arthur my word," he lied.
Because he knew not to underestimate Uther, though it was a lesson learnt too late. Even Gwen's luck at slipping past his jailers to deliver the news of Gaius's death seemed to be no mere coincidence. Looking at her tear-stained cheeks half hidden behind iron bars, he could not forget the image of a younger, more trusting girl crying out her innocence as guards dragged her away. Many of the people Merlin cared about were considered dispensable to the king.
Footsteps and gravel trickling down the tunnels signalled that the guards who had conveniently disappeared now returned, bringing food and water for their prisoner to sustain him through his punishment. Chained in the deepest dungeons as a cautionary tale, the sorcerer who dared live amongst the good folks of the castle and beguile their prince. Thereafter no one with magic shall dare tread so close.
Gwen whispered to him not to give up, her fingers reaching briefly through the grate, and disappeared as soundlessly as she came.
* * *
In the silence, in the endless days of darkness that blurred together, Merlin clung to the words that once spurred him with a sense of purpose when he'd struggled to find his place in this beautiful but harsh castle all those years ago: None of us can choose our destiny. And none of us can escape it.
Inevitable paths, a dead end long foreseen. The same words now galled his wounds and brought him no comfort.
The dragon had been able to simply think Merlin's name and rouse him from bed, but no matter how Merlin concentrated on sending out his ire, or when he eventually resorted to yelling-Answer me!-at the rocks around him, all he got for his trouble was a ruined voice and an extra bucketful of cold water flung at him through the iron bars.
He didn't always move fast enough to dodge the water without tearing his wrists raw. A wet, wracking cough followed him from his waking hours into restless sleep, never quite letting him go. There was no one to reprimand him for his stupidity while healing him with herbs and potions that tasted like toad-water. No fatherly hand on his brow. Some days, if the guard positioned in the passageway was feeling hostile, the food and water were thrown on Merlin along with humiliation. The stocks had prepared him well: all of it slopped easily off him, down the slopes and into the darkness. Only a gnawing hunger remained.
The dragon was right to ignore him; Merlin was the one who cut their ties.
He was truly alone this time.
The first thing he lost in the dungeons was his anger. Next to go was the hunger. And because he counted his days by the bread and water they brought him, after that it was easy to lose track of time.
The dead air in Merlin's prison betrayed no sign of the changing seasons, but his hair had grown long and a beard covered his face the first time Arthur stood outside the gate.
Arthur leant against the wall with his arms crossed. His expression was as dark as the one time he'd been bitten by the hunting hounds he trained. Whatever happened to them? Merlin wondered. Arthur spoke, but Merlin didn't understand a word he said.
When the crunch of Arthur's footsteps faded away, it seemed to Merlin that he'd hallucinated the whole visit.
* * *
Time flowed around him, and it was also time that tempered the wariness of the guards.
He first heard of troubles in the kingdom from the one who turned to singing bawdy tales when inebriated. As there had been wine leftover from the feasts happening above ground, this was how Merlin learnt that the king had sent Arthur and his men to quell uprisings on the outlying regions of Camelot. People within the city were feeling apprehensive that new strife was boiling up before the last turmoil had completely subsided.
In the prince's absence, the duties of selecting soldiers for the cavalry and the training of the knights were handed over to Sir Geraint, one of Arthur's trusted men. And even though Uther decreed that the annual tournament must go on as planned-"It is important, now more than ever, for the people of Camelot to see this display of skills and true bravery"-it would be the first year that the reigning champion had withdrawn from competition. A kitchen maid who woke early to heat water for the morning meal claimed to have seen Arthur and his men riding out towards the northern borders, in the gloom before daybreak.
Lady Morgana-her name spoken on a reverent breath-had not challenged the king's authority in an uncommonly long while, and in fact accompanied Uther at the signing of treaties with allies and enemies both, an abiding presence at his side. The king seemed pleased that his ward understood the sacrifice and diplomacy needed to keep a kingdom from sinking into chaos and had finally learnt to show him respect long due.
Merlin rattled his chains to signal he was still listening when the guard paused. Once upon a time, a dragon had said in a roundabout way that Morgana possessed a gift sharper than the edge of a blade, but lacked the right scabbard to hold it in-Unlike you, Merlin. She was the change in the air before a storm, a primitive force setting into motion the series of events that would bring magic back to Camelot. Above ground, the winds whipped the shed leaves into a frenzy.
It was possible that in the shadow of Morgana's smile, from the fire beneath her lowered lashes, Camelot began to fall.
When Merlin saw Arthur again, there was a startling bruise spanning the skin at Arthur's open collar. The glimpse of dull, mottled purple suggested that the real damage lay hidden and extended all the way to his left shoulder. There were no fighters in the kingdom fast or strong enough to deliver such a blow that would have surely knocked out a lesser man. Arthur's face was more gaunt, and the way he stood stiffly upright, the way he seemed to be carefully holding himself together, told Merlin how bad things really were.
He should have been the last person to worry about Arthur, given that Merlin himself was hardly the picture of health. Still-there was an ache in his chest, as natural and as instinctive as breathing, for the prince he used to serve.
Arthur placed his hand on the bars, an echo of what Guinevere had done, and Merlin took that as permission to start talking. His voice cracked, hollow and insubstantial from disuse.
"You must know, I would never have hurt you."
"Wouldn't you?" He recognised this from years of watching over Arthur, the effortless parry before the quick strike that could overpower the toughest opponent. And when it came, it flayed him anyway. "I doubt I ever knew you at all."
Arthur studied Merlin with the caution and distance he reserved for strangers. Every word Merlin said now or in the future would come under scrutiny; every act in his past would be dug up, pulled apart and re-examined.
"Did you know, Merlin. You killed a village hero that night."
"One of the archers in the trees, by the name of Marabon-he was a widely respected man who had served my father for over twelve years. In fact, Marabon's father had been a personal guard to King Constantine. You didn't lay a hand on him, Merlin, but he fell dead to the ground still bleeding from his eyes."
Merlin never much cared for hiding, and nobody had spoken to him in far too long for him to bother reining in his emotions. The guilt and the surprise cracked his face wide open, he was sure of it.
"I didn't know anyone had died," Merlin answered, doing his best to pull himself upright. How could he have known? His beard itched and his eyes felt hot. His words refused to obey him. "I thought, the youths you pardoned, they might have followed our trail and returned to take revenge."
His lungs burnt as the silence dragged on and Arthur stood warily watching his moves. Eventually Merlin found himself back on the ground, curled miserably on his side. Arthur left with the words, "I wish I believed you."
Each time he disavowed his magic, every day he swallowed his words and the longing to be known, the strata they stood on cracked and shifted further apart until a chasm formed between them, deep and unscalable. Their beginning was an isle lost in the mist. He forgot that Arthur didn't know him, that Arthur's simplistic view of Merlin's limits and Merlin's apparent willingness to redefine them had diverged since his first act of loyalty-his service to Arthur began with a mother grieving for her sorcerer son, and seemed destined to end the same way.
And so Merlin never found the chance to confess to Arthur: That night was in no way a first; I suppose I was bound to disappoint you. The old woman who wailed at her son's execution, the scarred man whose parents burnt before his eyes, a druid boy I would have turned my back on-I regret none of it. When we were young and idealistic, you talked to me of gallantry and honour, of noble hearts meeting on the battlefield. I nodded as I worked on your armour and wiped my hands clean on the polishing cloth. You worry about your men, Arthur, but to protect you and your family I have murdered my own hunted kind.
* * *
III. The weapon by your side
His dungeon had turned into a living crypt, the air cold and still. Of the countless spells Merlin had foolishly raced through with experimental glee in the heyday of youth, the invocation of warmth was the one he yearned most to use. He was moving slower-growing weaker-his thoughts scattering with each passing moment.
He watched the slow journey of drops of water rolling off the mossy stones above his head to collect in the corner where a shallow indentation in the rocks had been worn smooth by this trickling yet unyielding flow. A testament to the power of time. For all his magic, he was no stronger than the rock, his edges wearing away little by little until what was left of him was also smooth and unrecognisable.
The guard in the passageway shifted and Merlin blinked, his eyes gone dry and gritty from staring fixedly at nothing-losing track of time. Again. He was fated to lose his mind in this place.
If you hear me, please-talk to me.
It wasn't difficult to see that the dragon had forsaken him as well.
The gates were unlocked and not one but two guards entered, followed by a servant who looked rather green around the mouth. Arthur remained standing outside, dressed in armour and carrying his sword. His pauldron shone in the torchlight, no doubt benefiting from the care of better servants.
"Prepare him within the hour," Arthur ordered the servant. To Merlin, he said, "Camelot has need of your services."
The guards unlocked the collar from his neck and unshackled his wrists, then prodded him to start walking on unsteady feet-through the labyrinthine tunnels, past the guards' post and their abandoned game of dice, then up the staircase and through the empty corridors. Two steps inside of the servants' quarters, he stopped in his tracks and the guard at his back nearly skived him, first by accident and then in irritation. Merlin muttered an apology, gesturing toward the soft pre-dawn light visible through the small window, a sight he hadn't seen in far too long. Above the woods the sky glowed a subdued orange, not harsh to behold and yet his eyes watered.
The servant made use of his distraction to cut away the threadbare clothes and made quick work of wiping Merlin's face and chest with a washcloth. He was outfitted in a clean tunic before the guards chained his wrists together and led him outside, where he was helped onto a horse and soon found himself flanked by a small group of Arthur's men. Before they crossed the drawbridge, he looked over his shoulder and thought he spotted a figure watching their departure from the vantage of the battlements-perhaps the king sending him to die in a faraway land.
They rode at a fast pace out of the city, chasing the winter sun rising to their right. He followed in Arthur's dust for two days and slept fitfully on the ground for two nights while enduring the frosty silence by the fire. Nobody spoke of the plans in his presence. By the time they were galloping across the barren plains of Linnuis, the tension began to show in their shoulders; even the horses turned intractable.
On the foggy morning of the third day, they arrived on the banks of the river Dubglas, which Merlin surmised from the grim looks on their faces was where Arthur had lost some of his knights in a previous battle. Arthur drew his sword, the steel ringing in the frozen air, and a hush enshrouded the area. They did not have to wait long.
Battle cries ululated from the other side of the river, floating above the roaring of the water. His vision accustomed to the shifting shadows, Merlin could make out the crouched forms of the Saxon soldiers springing into action. What he first thought were patches of light through dense foliage he then recognised as the deadly tips of their enemies' spears, dipped in some dark poison and poised to attack. Heavy trees fell like dying giants across where the river narrowed and currents whirled turbulent and unpredictable, one deafening crash after another.
The chains came off Merlin's wrists. He touched the roughened texture of abraded skin, feeling around for a magic that wasn't returning, and heard only bits of the dire threat made against him.
"-if you dare use sorcery against Camelot or scurry from battle-"
Arthur cut in impatiently, "The executioner sharpens his blade in Ealdor as we speak, should Merlin be more foolish than usual to attempt treason or escape-yes, Sir Tor, Merlin already knows." The last words were lost as Arthur turned to signal at his men.
But Merlin knew nothing of their terms except the sudden fury flaring inside him.
"Ealdor?" After burning Gaius at the stake, they would try to take his mother from him too?
Arthur shot him a look, mouth set in a grim line. "Not now, Merlin," was all the explanation he offered in a voice pitched low and almost impossible to hear as the first wave of Saxons crossed the river and the battle thundered to life. Those soldiers charged fearlessly across felled wood, as ruthless with their spears and bows as with their magic. Along the river, sharp horns began to emerge from the erratic surface currents, water streaming off the sleek dark flanks taking shape before their eyes: bulls with five horns and the tail of a sea serpent. Quinotaurs, Merlin thought. Mythical creatures of the deep that should never have found their way this far inland.
In that moment Merlin understood why they brought him here. Camelot may have banned all forms of magic, but the dark arts thrived stronger than ever in her enemy kingdoms. The wet, heaving creatures charged at them with enraged bellows as if the act of being summoned had seared their hides with an invisible brand. The brave knights stood their ground, quickly pulling their shields together to withstand the full impact of the rampaging beasts. Their defences did not hold. Those that weren't gored by sharp horns or trampled to the ground were quickly cut down by the merciless Saxon soldiers.
Merlin called on the wind to divert the battering of their front lines-his powers felt sluggish in his hands, a shadow of what they used to be. But while their human enemies slowed or hunkered down at the sudden blasting wind, the quinotaurs rushed unimpeded up the riverbanks, further provoked by the added resistance, and through the lines of terrorised soldiers. More of the creatures continued to rise from the eddying waters of the river; the men's blades grew dull, their shields shattering into pieces on the sharp horns.
They may have unlocked the chains around Merlin's wrists, but he'd been given nothing with which to defend himself-no armour, no sword, no shield. A trial by water, his survival dependent on how effectively he neutralised their enemy and proved his worth-such was the fate of Camelot's warlock.
"Lend me one of their swords," he begged of Sir Tor who had towered over him earlier with threats and refused to let him out of a choking arm's reach, but who was right then entirely preoccupied with dragging one wounded soldier after another, by their feet and by their belts, back into the folds of their regrouping defences. Arthur's knight blithely ignored him, instead yelling at the men with less mortal wounds to keep their wits about them, to get back up and fight. There were unmoving bodies less than an arrow's flight away, an unnatural jumble of legs and arms of men who had been trampled, or gored then tossed into the wet grass-some still clutching their swords and useless shields. In the midst of the chaos, Merlin broke into a run towards the bodies, dodging spears from the Saxons who, suspecting him to be the source of the strange wind, advanced in his direction. He reached their dead and stumbled to his knees, only to be stopped from prying loose a hilt from stiff frozen fingers by the cold sensation of a blade at his neck.
"You're a sorcerer, not a knight," Sir Tor hissed, his barbute knocked off at some point, the blood running down his forehead into his scarred brow making him look dangerous and crazed.
Merlin heard his name over the wind. He ignored the sharp sting of Tor's blade under his throat as he hobbled from his crouch and flung an arm out to catch the sword Arthur threw toward him pommel first, a move Arthur had done twice in training before and caught Merlin off guard both times. This time, the grip snapped obediently into Merlin's waiting palm. He switched his hold so the sword's point was to the ground, wrapped his fingers tightly around the grip all the way to the cross-guard-one hand over the other-and rammed the blade with all the remaining strength in his shoulders and arms into the earth beneath his feet. A fallen soldier's dulled sword would serve as Merlin's staff while he called on earth to conquer water.
An expansion of energy channelled through the weapon and down, deep into the earth which gave a low-pitched rumble before a succession of violent quakes visibly rippled the blood-stained grass. Shock waves rolled out to the riverbank, valleys and hills formed and destroyed in the blink of an eye. Dirt and small rocks spilt forth from the gash opened in the earth into the river, the heft of a small mountain's worth of silt turning the water thick and muddy. At the shores and across the plains, the quinotaurs slowed, then came to a standstill. Some of the creatures of water were poised mid-attack, their horns and sinewy forms sublime as stoneware from a sea-god's kiln-and just as breakable.
Not ones to be daunted, the Saxons let loose their war cries and rushed the Camelot front lines, spears meeting shields and axes clashing against swords. How the prevailing winds had changed since his imprisonment, how differently the battles were being fought, with old warfare and magic flowing together like blood dripping into ceremonial wine. In comparison the power of Camelot waned by the day, their crown prince worn down to the bone. This last thought made Merlin look back at the scattered bodies, searching for a weapon-one he could wield the way he'd been trained to long ago, now that his magic had been drained into the ground. He would fight until their enemies cut him down, for a Camelot that spurned him.
Arthur shouted at him, voice raw and furious and yet Merlin could not recall Arthur ever sounding so afraid. He dove for a spear and stole it from a dead Saxon's grasp. His neck was damp and his head felt far too light for the heaviness in his arms, but Merlin's mind was a perfect silence at the centre of a storm even as the Saxons converged on him in twos and threes.
The exasperated tone that had once been his constant companion through grimy, rewarding days of endless work and training-days long gone-resurfaced after its lengthy absence as Merlin fended off a savage attack, as he dodged a blow but slipped and twisted his ankle in the mud. Because he doubted he would ever hear those words cross Arthur's lips again, the way Arthur managed to soften the insult at the last with a wry twist, he indulged himself and paid attention to the voice rising out of the silence: Merlin, you idiot.
Waves of fog tore swiftly by, thin clouds smearing on the banks and morphing right behind his eyes as their men gained the upper hand for the second time in the confusion and never let it go. The sound of battle warped and folded in on itself, a thundering river in his ears. Merlin held his ground; he thought he would have made even Arthur proud, sinking to his knees when the last of the Saxons retreated and not a moment sooner.
* * *
IV. Lasting
There was little time for the wounded to recover during a period of turmoil-especially if one happened to be a prisoner at the mercy of the king. The disappearance of the heavy collar from Merlin's neck was considered a sign of leniency from Uther. Merlin spent what felt like days curled in a swamp of pain, trembling weakly and hair matted with sweat, sore everywhere but lacking the energy to toss and turn on the uncomfortably sharp stones of his dungeon. They should have left him for dead by the swelling river.
When the bandage around his neck no longer showed red, two royal guards and the familiar servant travelled down the tunnels to fetch him, their footsteps and commands not quite as strident, for which he was grateful. Arthur was not with them. Merlin levered himself up against the rough surface at his back, feeling every day of his imprisonment in the heavy thudding of his heart, and readied himself for battle.
He would like to think that on his expeditions he brought more of Camelot's sons, husbands of sleepless wives, home safely. They no longer led him out with chains wrapped around his wrists. By his fourth battle, he was dressed in armour by the servant and given his own sword and shield. And yet, as gradual as the decline of Uther's kingdom, with each battle they used his powers in, Merlin lost more of himself.
If Gaius's execution and the dungeons were not punishment enough, perhaps Merlin needed to be killed in service to recompense for the trespass of once possessing the prince's trust. So-called destiny was determined to teach him a lesson, in Arthur's silences, in the ever growing distance between them and the view of Arthur's back as he followed after him out to battle. They drained him on the field, and each time he gave them all that he had.
Was this what the dragon had tolerated in those days when Merlin deigned to traipse down into the cavern with another favour to ask, a break from the monotony of eternity, until this speck of a human severed the thread between them in accusation, in blame? So it was that each time the guards showed up outside the iron gate, a pride that had never been stamped out in Merlin would hope, This is the last time.
He did not die on the fields, although he should have. He did not waste away. But the effects of the open countryside, gusts rushing through links of his mail and the sun's glare in his eyes, stayed with him for only so long before the smell of blood and charred landscape pervaded every pore of his skin. To be submerged again in darkness upon his return became more unbearable each time.
Their encounter with the Picts in the forests of Celidon was a grisly, drawn out war of attrition, where soldiers from both sides endured slippery, cursed branches and mossy shadows to hunt and ambush their enemies, and more human blood was shed on the ancient roots of those moving trees in a single day than the scant rainwater that would never wash their armour clean. After three long days, Arthur's men defeated the Pictish tribes and held off their southward advance for the time being. A tenth of their men perished amongst the lush pine needles.
Sir Calogrenant's dexterity with the sword had saved Arthur from a spear, though the splintered wood then pierced his thigh below the hauberk. Arthur had ignored his young knight's flustered insistence that it was but a scratch and bound up Calogrenant's bleeding leg himself with the cleanest strips of cloth he could find, with an efficiency honed by experience. He gave terse orders for the men to set out, the blame he placed on himself translating, in Arthur's typical convoluted fashion, into a deliberately relaxed stance-knowing their eyes were watching him-but a foul temper nonetheless.
A few days into their hushed journey back to Camelot, Merlin found himself veering from the dust-stirred paths, instinctively drawn toward the westerly highlands where the clouds gathered, building up like pillars. "Wait," he called out. Those who were distrustful of Merlin immediately reined in their horses to keep a wary eye on him, but others seemed not to hear him. He caught up to Arthur and said, "I want to show you something."
"Now is not the time, Merlin." As he spoke, Arthur glanced in the direction of Sir Calogrenant who had also slowed, jaw tight but posture faultless above his obedient mount-clearly staying upright by willpower alone.
Merlin knew better than to argue with this Arthur, who would have pushed his steed to the limit to hasten their return, had the cause for his urgency been able to keep apace. He quietly guided his horse off the trail with a soft murmur in the flicked ears and headed into the deciduous woodlands by himself. The outline of horse and rider was soon obscured by thick shrubs and tussock grasses; the men called to him to come back, some hurling vulgar threats and others almost conciliatory, but after spending days trapped in the bewitched forests of Celidon, most were reluctant to chase a wizard who had probably gone mad from the realities of war through dangerous depths of gnarled roots and decaying leaves.
It seemed his horse had barely worked himself into a sweat when the visible patches of sky warned Merlin he was rapidly losing the light. To one side of him stood the same birch tree with its papery trunk, crooked as an old man's back; either Merlin had been going in circles, or the place he was searching for didn't wish to be found-he was no longer the same person, with the same hopes, who had set foot on this ground years ago. Low branches cut his face but he rode on, not wanting to waste any time or give up easily. He could hear the sounds of others catching up to him, but the threats weren't the worst he'd ever heard and only spurred him to move faster. As Arthur's voice drew closer and the skeletal branches-darkened rents in the sky-skimmed over Merlin's head in a blur, up ahead in the distance the copse of trees finally parted for him. The lake appeared exactly as he remembered it, opening up like a mirror to the heavens. Pristine and untouched, without a trace of mankind or their wars. The encircling mountains bowed to meet the water's edge and the surface of the lake reflected the entire evening sky.
Merlin jumped off his horse and waded through the water, the frigid level rising from his ankles to his knees, then up to his chest. His breath hitched; Arthur's men were right to doubt him-perhaps Merlin had gone mad, diving into a vast lake in the dead of winter looking for a piece of metal that could be anywhere. But when he dipped his head under the surface, the freezing water sluiced the dried blood off his face and mud from the stained skin between his fingers-in that moment, he was clean.
The world below was endless, his search impossible. What he remembered of the sword he'd hidden beneath this lake was its perfect balance, the white gleam of its blade and the gold that burnt bright like Arthur-so Merlin closed his eyes and reached out to it, thinking, Come back, it's time, and You are needed.
He stayed underwater as long as he could, waiting for an answering echo until he ran out of air. None was given save for Arthur calling his name from shore. There was the sound of armour and helm hitting the ground; Merlin blinked in surprise and squinted to see the knights attempting to dissuade their prince, who shrugged them off as he bent to strip off his boots.
He'd known he would be punished the moment he turned his horse off the path, but Merlin had hoped his disobedience would've been worth it.
The lake and the gathering clouds remained stoic to his pleas-until Arthur's fingers dug into the round of his shoulder to tug him angrily towards the reedy shallows. The moment they touched, a reverberating ringing echoed through the surroundings like metal sliding out of stone. The knights heard it too, judging by how quickly they drew their weapons. A wave of apprehension swept through them. From the middle of the lake, a bright creature, silver and gleaming like a fish, swam towards Merlin and Arthur with incredible speed, but what broke the surface of the water was a sword-heeding the call of its master. The elaborate hilt flew into Merlin's hand. His fingers tingled with the impact, the skin of his palms stinging.
The men on dry land were shocked into silence. Behind him, Arthur, too, was strangely subdued.
He flicked the still wet blade, hearing the water moving on steel, making it sing. A quick turn of his wrist and Merlin presented the sword pommel first to Arthur, who stared intently at Merlin's wrist with eyes very blue above the once more placid waters. He made no move to accept.
Merlin laughed but it was a strange sound, scraping his lungs like lake water. If only Uther knew the power Merlin had just offered his son, there would be no further need for threats of razing Ealdor to the ground, no reason for the chains; Arthur could slay any magical creature with the weapon. And as for Merlin-well, Arthur had always been able to take him apart with less than that.
Spurred by the reaction, perhaps suspecting Merlin of laughing at him, Arthur took the sword, his fingers touching Merlin's but immediately pulling away. After all the faces that turned from him and the silences he'd become accustomed to, that particular rejection still hurt more deeply than he thought it would.
"It's the strongest sword made by Gwen's father, and burnished by the breath of a dragon-forged for you so that you could defeat the Black Knight. This will protect you-I swear."
Grudging admiration as Arthur tested the blade eased the tightness around his mouth. To him there was no finer gift than a well-made weapon. "Was this the weapon you provided my father when he fought in my place?"
Not willingly, Merlin thought. He didn't deny it, only grimly soldiered on with what needed to be said.
"Arthur, listen. You must stop expecting your enemies to fight fairly-"
"I know that, Merlin."
"-and you'll need a means to defend yourself, against those who break the laws of nature without thought of consequences, if you are to have a hope of victory when I'm not there."
This was his lasting answer. The prophecies of Arthur uniting Albion with Merlin by his side may no longer come to pass; the valleys, the towering mountains and snow-covered cliffs were never theirs to conquer. And yet-millennia shall pass and the ancient face of the land will change, the boundaries carved by oceans and the very paths of stars may drift, but this sword alone will stand as a relic of Merlin's loyalty
Arthur looked up sharply from examining the engraving on the blade. "Planning to go somewhere, Merlin?"
"No, sire. Just trying to ease your trials as you have mine."
The denial, and the careful way Arthur sheathed the sword inside his scabbard when they reached dry land confirmed to Merlin what he should have seen all along-that the reason he was dragged into the vortex of a long war, witness and provenance of a thousand deaths, was not to punish him, not intentionally, but to stop him from becoming something warped beyond recognition in the darkness of his confinement. Arthur had perhaps even defied his father in order to bring Merlin on these long campaigns-even if adding a sorcerer to their ranks had proven over time to be tactically sound, Uther would not see it as such.
In the end, he still knew Arthur as well as he thought.
Through the bruising afternoons of training in that first year largely for Arthur's entertainment, to Arthur instructing him in earnest on finding opponents' flaws and never giving ground no matter how harsh the blows-Merlin's words were still true. They would always be true.
He would be happy to serve this man, till the day he died.
* * *
"Stay down," Arthur shouted at him over the din in his ears.
Merlin tasted blood in his mouth and turned his head to one side to spit, the world tilting sickeningly with his move. He was hanging half off the parapet. Not far below, where the bridge used to be, small shapes that were the infantry scrambled in the ditches while the gatehouse of the fortress stood engulfed in flames. The stone felt sodden beneath his cheek, and the fields loomed in his vision as a near-vertical precipice awash in red tones-ramparts littered with the bodies of Camelot's fallen soldiers.
Not under his watch, he vowed.
He rolled away from the edge then crawled to get up, but Arthur shoved him back with more force than was necessary and swung around to run his sword through a Guinnion guard. More of them surrounded Arthur, attacking at once. Merlin could have sworn that he saw a sword's point dip past Arthur's shield-he used all the power that remained in him to lift his hand just a dagger's length above ground. He only slowed the guards, but Arthur dispatched them one by one with quick artless swings of Excalibur, then kicked a stubborn few off the battlements.
Arthur was by his side again, not wasting his breath berating Merlin, only touched gloved fingers to Merlin's pounding head before returning to quash the trickle of Saxons who still sought to cut them off from the others. Merlin had never been more glad to hear the distinctive voice of Sir Bedivere; then he noticed the huge boots that could only belong to Sir Tor, standing by his head. Shielding him. The knights had broken through the wall of fire and caught up with Arthur. Merlin thanked the gods and shut his eyes for a moment.
When he opened them the battle was over. He was lying on the grass, the fortress burning still, columns of smoke billowing up to blot out the hazy sun. Someone was helping Merlin to his feet, but the hand grasping his arm was patient, almost kind. Nobody called him a bloody fool or threatened to roll him in the ditches. Merlin turned to see Arthur somewhere to his left, quietly swinging himself onto his horse-not stopping atop the saddle, but slipping in one horrifying, fluid motion to slide off the other side. Arthur's sword produced a loud clanging as it crashed into his armour. The horse whinnied in distress, and Sir Tor hurried to where Arthur lay unmoving. For a moment, they might all have tried to convince themselves it was a clumsy mistake.
Arthur was never clumsy.
Arthur, Arthur, some pitiful voice was saying. It was him, it was Merlin's own voice dashed on the hard shores of the pieces of armour being peeled off Arthur's body, one by one. With the removal of the pauldron, blood swelled freely out of a hidden wound under his sword arm, seeping stark between the fingers of anxiously pressed hands. Merlin stumbled closer, whispering incantations to staunch the bleeding-words that were nonsense in his panic. The knight who had helped him stand up suddenly tugged him back, wrenching Merlin's shoulder as he knocked him to the ground.
All words deserted him as he watched Arthur's soaked tunic turn a deeper red.
* * *
Part 2 of 2 here