A/N: A Camlann alternative, in three parts. Will include Merlin pov in the next two parts (which are longer, too).
To Carry the Fire
We can never go home… We no longer have one
I'll help you carry the load… I'll carry you in my arms
The kiss of the snow… The crescent moon above us
Our blood is cold… And we're alone
But I'm alone with you
…
Help me to carry the fire
We will keep it alight together
Help me to carry the fire
It will light our way forever
…
If I say shut your eyes… If I say look away
Bury your face in my shoulder… Think of a birthday
The things you put in your head… They will stay here forever
Our blood is cold… And we're alone
But I'm alone with you
…
If I say shut your eyes
If I say shut your eyes
Bury me in surprise
If I say shut your eyes
~ the Editors
(Arthur)
I have felt the fire.
I have borne the physical agony of wounds, run in feverish dream-circles alone in my mind wondering if my race was over already.
So many times. Yet here I stand, without so much as a scar, to face the greatest battlefield yet.
Camlann.
An enemy army assembled and on the move – a threat I have faced only once before, and these will never take an apology or give a champion. Were I even inclined to deal so. An enemy army and impossible magic. Like any monster or sorcerer, impossible to fight and conquer with only men and our edges of willing, noble blades. Yet… that threat has been faced before also. So many times. And here we stand.
I have felt the fire.
The eternal flame of betrayal, each a solitary, inextinguishable tongue that has threatened to sear my soul charry and unforgiving.
My father. His part in my mother's death to this day unknown to me, that truth surprisingly subjective and inexplicable. And also, the old sorcerer I trusted against reason to save his life. A killer, with whom I share responsibility? or not?
Morgana. The hardest. Because she had shared my life for so long, and I can not yet put my finger on the when of her betrayal. Or a reason, why she hates with such undying passion, why she's twisted herself and everyone around her to such criminal evil, why she seeks my life with such relentless cruelty, regardless of the innocents between us. Magic alone, is not a sufficient excuse. Nor fear. Nor her own betrayal at our father's hands.
Others had magic, and rather fled than turn to murder. Others hid; it can be done, and has been done, and with my help at least once. Others have been betrayed – I think of druids, and one man I knew but briefly. A strange bearded hermit, a dragonlord, who saved the life of his enemy's son in a cave, then died protecting the son of an unknown father in the forest.
Guinevere. And Lancelot. The most painful, because the closest to my heart. The scar is there still, if such things were visible to the eye. And yet, forgiven both. One received back, so completely it still scares me sometimes; one released to travel past the veil. Twice.
My uncle. Bitter because it could have been prevented. Because innocents around me had suffered for a blindness to his character that was willful, at times, on my part.
I have felt the fire.
I have endured the pyre of loss, simpler than the rest because by nature so beyond control, and ultimately inevitable for everyone. Yet in some ways not entirely quenchable, because often it is linked to the feeling of betrayal. The guilt of failure, deserved or not.
All my family. Mother. Father. The sister I never had – the brother my wife shared with me. Knights – guards – citizens – children. The names I remember, and the names I never knew. I feel like they're standing with us here tonight, joining in the righteousness of our cause.
I have felt the fire.
The torches of the ranks of fighters behind me remind me of those times, too, over the years. The heat on my face as I stretch the light out to see my way in the dark. My way, which becomes the way of the kingdom I lead, the weight of their trust a burden I shoulder – willingly, most days.
I think of the moments of imminent death averted by the purity of incineration. Two memories, separate and yet linked by principle – in the closed chambers of the earth, facing a deadly creature of mud – in the chill open night-air hearing the shriek of spectral death approaching. Fire was our friend in both instances, our defender, our weapon and shield. Afanc and dorocha.
I think of the dragon's fire, too. A raging inferno… from which I woke without so much as a scorch mark.
We all face the fire, tonight. The hot agony of wounding, mortal and minor and everything in-between. We are all betrayed by the infidelity of the woman leading our enemy, we all face loss. That is inevitable. As is the magic she will surely attack us with.
And will the light of all we have fought for, so long, be extinguished?
All. All leads me to the thoughts of one man I believed I had dismissed from my mind in the preparation and imminence of battle. I labeled him unfit to join the ranks of the brave, heartlessly and deliberately. Because I wanted – needed so desperately it scared me – his contradiction, usually so ready when I was being an ass.
Because always. Always before, he has been here.
Every fight I faced, he'd stood with me, preparing my body as I prepared my heart and mind; I'd felt his heart fighting with me on occasion, though he was barred from the struggle by his status as servant and lack of physical ability. But every wound I'd borne, he'd seen. Some he'd tended personally. Other times, he tended my surroundings and my temper, through the impatient process of healing.
Every betrayal, he suffered as well. Some, he seemed to suffer more – and yet he was my example in forgiveness. His the words that I'd listened to – You don't want to do this, put the sword down…
- You have a duty to your people, you can't give up on them now…
- Can you find it in your heart to forgive her? people won't find you weak or a fool, they'll find you merciful, understanding…
- They don't hate you, they just crave your power for themselves…
Every pyre, his vigil kept mine company. Save for my mother, because he hadn't yet been born.
Every inferno of magic, he'd faced with me, even if it was trembling with nerves or watching from cover and concealment.
Every torch of enlightenment, together. Raised encouragingly, his hand on mine – or thrust spontaneously, but truly, from his to mine. I wonder briefly, if it has ever been the reverse. If I have ever given anything back to Merlin.
I feel the fire, close and hungry. And this time, it may take me.
Because for the first time since I have known him, since we have knocked and tumbled and smoothed our way into something strangely inseparable – he is not here.
It seems a betrayal, and feels a loss, and I cannot even think about wounds, or… magic.
"For the love of Camelot!" I cry to the knights at my back, and lead the charge.