Cold as Death - Chapter One
What would have happened if Merlin had never been healed magically after the Dorocha attack?
I find it a little convenient that Lancelot manages to set Merlin down by a river where some kind of spirit (Villia) is able to emerge in a bubble and heal him. So, I wrote what might have happened if Merlin had never been healed by magic at all.
Disclaimer: I do not own Merlin or any of the characters used.
His skin is as cold as ice. Arthur can feel it through his clothes like a deathly frost, and it scares him. He sets his manservant down by the wagon, watching with horror as he slumps, boneless, against the wood.
"We have to get him back to Gaius." The prince leaves Lancelot to tend to a lifeless Merlin, turning to face Sir Leon. The faithful knight frowns slightly, logically observing the situation. Yes, the servant is gravely ill, but many more would die if they didn't seal the tear made between the worlds.
"And abandon the quest?" he asks, reluctant to speak up in this way. Arthur cares for Merlin more than any noble has ever cared for his staff.
"He saved my life," he counters, expression stern. "I won't let him die."
"Sire, if we don't get to the Isle of the Blessed, hundreds more will perish."
Arthur glances at Merlin, once again startled by the paleness of his flesh and the emptiness of his eyes. A sickening fear overwhelms him, and he is relieved when Lancelot's voice cuts through his short-lived daze.
"Let me take him," he suggests, looking the prince straight in the face. Now it's Arthur's turn to frown.
"Carrying a wounded man alone, it will take you two or three days to reach Camelot." Lancelot grimaces knowingly, taking a step towards his leader.
"Not if I go through the Valley of the Fallen Kings," he says, eyes solemn. "You cannot give up on the quest." Arthur can't help but see reason, and Sir Leon voices his thoughts.
"Sire, he's right." Arthur nods at them all, understanding. He almost feels uncomfortable leaving Merlin's fate to someone else, but he knows it is the right decision.
Percival lifts the limp serving boy into his arms, and almost every knight's stomach rolls at the way Merlin's head falls back so easily, as if he is already dead. The warlock is completely paralysed; so weak he can barely move his lips to protest when Arthur straps him to a horse.
The prince purses his lips and he positions his manservant on the stallion, and there is a hint of sadness in his blue eyes. "This is my fault," he tells Merlin, and the servant observes him dazedly. "And I'm sorry."
"Take me with you, please," he chokes out, voice barely above a whisper. Arthur sighs, eyes closed.
"You would die, Merlin."
"But you don't understand," he argues, breathless. "Please, Arthur."
"Do you ever do as you're told?"
Merlin ignores him. "I have to come with you."
"Merlin-"
"We need to leave," Sir Leon interrupts, having watched the painful exchange. Arthur squeezes Merlin's shoulder comfortingly. "Go," he orders, before turning to join his party. Every man watches them leave, faces creased with concern; the sound of retreating hooves putting all at unease.
"If anyone can get Merlin back to Camelot, Lancelot can."
Merlin bounces over and over against the horses back, eyes flickering with each breath. He can't go on for much longer- his vision is darkening even more rapidly than the sky.
Thankfully, Lancelot is observant. "It's almost nightfall," he announces, slowing his horse from a canter to a trot. "We'll rest here for the evening."
He dismounts his horse next to a silver stream that lies in the shadow of a looming stone statue. Merlin looks ghostly, propped up on the neck of his horse, red-rimmed eyes moving blearily in all directions. Sir Lancelot draws him carefully into his arms, carrying him over to the river and laying him beside it.
The young warlock's breathing is shallow as he lay unmoving, eyes drifting open and closed like shadows in candlelight. Lancelot dips a cloth into the water, using it to slowly drip water into Merlin's dry open lips. "Come on, Merlin," he mutters under his breath, pulling off his cape and laying it over the boy. And still, the servant shivers, skin cooler than that of a corpse.
A scream echoes quietly through the trees, and although it does not reveal a Darocha, it's enough for the knight to jump up and begin preparing a fire. He gathers as much firewood as possible without venturing too far from Merlin, and soon there is a modest fire brewing in a pool of sticks and branches.
"I'll have to remain awake all night," Lancelot says to the empty air, and there's a soft whimper from behind him. Merlin struggles to get words past the thick tongue in his mouth, and even the fire cannot warm him enough to stop the chattering of his teeth. The cold is deep in his bones, and it's spreading through his veins like a pathogen.
"No," the warlock wheezes, fingers scrabbling weakly at the ground. "You can't."
"You need to rest," the older man states, lighting a torch with the flames beside him. "You are in no state to keep watch."
Merlin goes to argue, but he feels his strength slowly draining from him. He moans quietly before slipping into unconsciousness, the darkness shrouding him like a sorcerer's cloak.
When light begins to seep through the canopy, Lancelot is beginning to shake from exhaustion. He finally lays down his blackened stick, snuffing out what remains of the fire and washing his hands and face in the cool stream. He'd watched, horrified, as Merlin deteriorated through the night, skin adopting a greyish tinge and shivering becoming more violent. The warlock looks as if the slightest breeze might knock him from the world of the living into the world of the dead.
"Merlin," Lancelot speaks aloud, shaking the young man's shoulder. His eyes remain closed. "Come, Merlin," the knight says again, voice growing louder and more concerned. "It's growing light. We must ride."
Still, there is no response. Lancelot starts to panic, hurriedly scooping water into his hands and carefully pouring it onto Merlin's forehead. The warlock merely winces, shivering harder and remaining locked in the land of sleep.
"Oh Merlin, please," he begs, though it's hopeless. Carefully lifting him into his arms, he straps the boy to the horse once more, tilting his head so it rests on the soft black mane. "Don't worry," Lancelot says to no one as he ties Merlin's horse to the back of his own saddle. "We'll get you to Gaius by nightfall."
A sense of dread consumes Arthur as he sits around the campfire with Sir Elyan, Gwaine, and Leon. He's been on watch with a burning torch for several hours, and he has not said a single word to anyone. He knows something is wrong- the way Merlin had looked before they had rode off into the Valley of the Fallen Kings… it had scared him.
"Seen anything?"
Arthur turns to see Elyan standing next to him, holding another torch. The prince shakes his head, lips frozen shut. "Do you know what we're going to face on the Isle of the Blessed?" He shakes his head. "Do you want to tell me?"
Arthur meets the young knight's gaze, almost wanting to spill everything for one moment. But then he remembers the inevitability of his doom, and he wishes he would never be asked to speak again.
"The burden's mine," he says tiredly, looking out into the darkening forest, "and mine to bear alone."
"Look around, Arthur." The prince watches as Elyan motions to the knights around the campfire. "We would fight a thousand armies with our bare hands for you. We're never alone. We stand together." He lifts his own torch higher. "Come on. I'll take over. You need some rest."
Arthur hands Elyan his own torch and puts a hand on his shoulder. "Thank you." He's barely made it to the fire when murderous screams fill the gaps between the trees, and they all shrink inwards, torches raised, wracked with fear and weariness.
The castle coming into view in the distance should be a relief to Lancelot, but the shudders that possess Merlin's body are forcing pained moans from between his bloodless lips, and the knight can bear it no longer. The sky is darkening, and the screams of both humans and Darocha reach his ears – dismounting his horse, he quickly cuts the rope that ties it to Merlin's. Groaning, he drags the warlock from his saddle, placing him over the rear of his own stallion and mounting its back once more. It takes some effort and a few muttered curses, but eventually Lancelot is balancing Merlin in front of him with one arm, and wielding a burning stick with the other.
With a young warlock's life slipping between his fingers, he forces the horse to gallop, eyes burning with determination as he heads for Camelot.
I know it's short and broken up, but hopefully more originality and length will come in the following chapters. Enjoy.
-tapeandblades