What's the best way to deal with finals? Start a new story, of course! Feel free to offer critiques or let me know what you think. Hope you like it!
Rated T: For some violence, possibly some language, mentions of alcohol and so forth.
Timeline: This is set after the end of the series, so there are spoilers for a vast majority of episodes in the entire series. Consider yourself warned.
Genre: Adventure, friendship, action, suspense, mystery, some hurt/comfort, family, humor. A bit of everything wrapped up in one.
Slang: I'm not British and I've never been to Britain. Therefore, some of the words I use may not be correct. If I've done something wrong, please feel free to let me know and I will do my best to change it.
Notes: THIS IS NOT A REDO OF THE SERIES. While there will be some similarities between the happenings in the chapters and the episodes, this is not a story where it's the series just written in modern times. What has happened in the series has already happened for the characters in this setting, and influences the way they act. This is set after the series, not in the series.
You can also find this over on AO3 if you prefer that format. Both my penname and the title are the same on that website.
It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll.
I am the master of my fate,
I am the captain of my soul.
-Invictus, William Ernest Henley
~1995~
It's always the simple tasks that go horribly wrong. All he wanted was a sandwich, maybe some crisps, and, if he was feeling indulgent, a pie. Go into town, grab some food, head back home: it's an easy enough task most normal humans manage daily without any kind of near-death experience.
But Merlin's never considered himself to be normal. Which is probably why his "simple" trip into town has ended with a gun being pointed at his chest.
The alleyway feels like its own private world, nestled between two shops that closed long ago. Light from a streetlamp seeps into the alley to brush the side of the would-be robber's face, highlighting the pinch of his lips and the desperate glint of his eyes in a sickly orange glow.
"Go away, old man." There's not enough fake bravado to cover the tremor in the robber's voice, a shaky note that almost matches that of his original victim.
For a brief moment, Merlin allows his eyes to flicker over to the woman. She's young. Though really, nowadays everyone he comes into contact with appears to be breathtakingly young. She presses herself against the dirty wall, as if hoping the bricks will swallow her whole, her fingers digging into the fabric of her purse like it's a lifeline. She's crying, great heaving gasps that send shudders throughout her body, and it's that sound- so broken and pleading and scared- that dragged Merlin off his determined path to the market and sent him barreling into the alley. Every now and then, her sobs will stutter to a halt long enough for her to choke out a whisper, "Please."
Merlin pulls his gaze away from the woman after giving her what he hopes is a confident nod and turns back to the younger man. The robber's eyes don't seem to focus on one object, flickering from Merlin to the woman to the front of the alley and back with a nervous speed. A light sheen of sweat glistens across his forehead and his hand shakes, the pale fingers wrapped around the black metal of the gun vibrating hard enough to be noticeable even in the almost non-existent light of the alleyway.
Merlin knows he should pay more attention to the weapon that's being pointed in the general vicinity of his heart, but it's not the gun that sends worry twisting a knot in the Warlock's gut. It's the fear, so strong that it's palpable, rolling in waves off the man.
And if there's one thing Merlin's learned in his long life, it's that fear makes everyone ten times more dangerous.
Merlin holds up his hands- old and wrinkled after so much, too much, time- in what he hopes is a placating move. Or at least one that will drag the robber's attention fully away from the woman. "There's no need to do this." It isn't hard to make his voice soft and gentle, it comes out that way of its own accord. There's panic and fear and a frantic desperation swirling in the other man's eyes. A combination Merlin's seen far too many times, and he knows that one wrong word, one wrong tone, will send the man over the edge.
The Warlock's plan works and the young man's gaze rests on him and away from the woman, his face crumpling underneath the fear and worry. And then everything happens too quickly. The woman moves, jerking towards the head of the alley with a small cry that sounds too much like a sob. The man whips around and the woman crumples as the sound of a gunshot echoes between the brick walls.
Merlin jerks forward with a cry of his own, his arm outstretched towards the fallen woman, magic rushing towards his fingertips, but the man is already spinning around, gun raised.
There's a sudden pressure on his torso, one point on his stomach and the other just a hair off center on his chest, and then he hears them. They sound like thunder; loud, sharp, two sounds that echo in his ears until they're all he can hear.
He thinks this is silly. He's heard gunshots before, far more times than he would like, but they've never sounded quite like this.
The cement feels rough and cool against his cheek. He can't remember how he ended up on the ground, but from the ache in his stomach and chest, lying down is the best idea he's had all night. His head throbs hard enough to make him think one of the cracks he thought was a gunshot might have actually been his head smacking against the cement. An odd, gurgling noise trickles into his ears and it takes him a moment to realize it's the sound of him trying to breathe. He doesn't think it's ever been this difficult to suck air into his lungs. Maybe he should talk to Gaius about it later.
But Gaius is dead.
(And somehow that thought hurts more than the sharp agony tearing at his chest.)
The thought of his old friend steals what little remains of his breath and that's when he realizes he's not the only one making strange gurgling noises.
Merlin turns his head, a simple enough movement that seems to take an eternity, and sees her sprawled out on the ground just a foot or so away. Her hair is splashed around her face, her eyes wide with fear and pain. Long fingers covered in blood glint in the streetlight, her body spasming in pain.
She looks like Gwen. He's not sure why he didn't notice before. Maybe he didn't want to.
Merlin holds her gaze, a wave of calm crashing over him even as he realizes there's not enough time. Not enough time to heal himself and the woman dying beside him. Not enough time to stop the steady river of red that's flowing out of them both. He knows it in the way his limbs feel heavy, in the way his thoughts are swirling sluggishly around in his head. There's only time to save one of them.
And it's not even a choice.
He stretches his hand out, a delirious part of him wondering why his fingers are covered in blood, and brushes the woman's arm with his fingertips. His lips move, the tiny bit of air he managed to capture in his lungs escaping to fuel the words that fly crookedly from his lips, harsh and low, a jumbled series of sounds that would be gibberish to anyone who isn't him. His eyes flash gold and he feels some of the warmth seep from his body and flow into hers.
Her gurgling slows to a stop, her eyes flutter and close, and he's left to wait until he sees her chest rise and fall before he allows his fingertips to leave her arm.
He turns his head to stare up at the empty sky and it feels like the black expanse swallows him whole. No mortal blade can kill me. He knows this is true, he's been through so many accidents that would have left any normal person, even a sorcerer, dead and yet has managed to survive. Using his magic. He wonders if he'll survive this, if his magic will come to his aid even after he's passed out. If it will save him.
He's not sure he wants it to.
There's a selfish part of him, a part that's rejoicing because maybe, finally, after all these impossibly long years, he'll get to see them again. All of them. He finally won't be alone anymore.
Arthur.
Numbness settles into his skin, weighs heavy on his bones, and he can feel the panic building inside of him, pushing back his desires, because he needs to be here for Arthur when the king comes back. He can't fail Arthur again. He can't.
His magic builds inside of him, growing stronger even as the blood continues to leak out and he loses his grip on his panic, on everything but the way his heart steadily slows down. It's a powerful surge of energy, bigger than he's felt before, and he knows he should feel exhilarated, recharged and powerful, but all he feels is tired.
For one blissful moment, he's back at Camelot and he can see them. Arthur, the knights, Gaius, Gwen, Freya, even Morgana. All smiling and laughing. All waiting for him to reach them and he almost can. It's close to unrecognizable, the feeling that flutters in his stomach, but for one moment, before the darkness drags him under, he's happy.
~21 years later~
In the brief moment the woman emerges from the shadows, in the split second when the light glints off the knife clutched in her hand, Arthur realizes this is all a big mistake. He feels more aware of it than anything else. He knew it was a mistake from before he decided to take the shortcut down this alley to his favorite pub, since before he snuck out of his window, since before he dismissed a distressed looking Morgana who spent five minutes begging him to stay home that night, since the moment the idea hatched in his brain. He knew it was all a mistake.
He can feel everything; the slight tremor in his hands, the stiffness in his back, every frantic thud of his heart. His breath fills and leaves his lungs in short, panting gasps and little beads of sweat roll down his face, terror tightening his throat. He tells himself it's silly, ridiculous even, to be afraid. She's just an old woman. He's fought bigger and stronger before. But the fear still twists inside of him choking him because there's something off about her.
"An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth, a son for a son."
She's talking gibberish now about his father and her son, spitting the words at him fiercely, not even pausing in her rant to judge if he knows what she's talking about. Her words seem to slide over him like water, unimportant next to the rising panic surging through him because he's been trying to talk for the past thirty seconds but his lips won't move. No part of his body moves no matter how hard he tries. All he can do is watch.
Her eyes are stretched wide, her thin lips twisted into a snarl, forming words that are lost underneath the roaring in his ears, the shouting of this can't be happening in his head. Her hand moves and there's a flash of silver that embeds itself deep into his chest. Again and again and again.
Her lips stretch into a smile as pain screeches across his body, steals his breath away, and highlights his vision in a harsh red.
Someone screams, whether it's him or the woman or someone else doesn't concern him. Arthur's too busy trying to figure out when he started lying on the floor and since when has it ever been this difficult to breathe?
A series of thuds reaches his ears. His heart? No, someone's running towards him. He's vaguely aware of someone falling down beside him, of a voice babbling over his head, of hands exploring his chest.
His shirt is wet and sticky. How odd.
Someone's telling him not to die. Repeating the words over and over and over again like a broken record. An annoying, high pitched, cracking record.
A scream tears itself from his throat as pain rips through his chest again and the hand moves away. Now someone is telling him that they're sorry.
He wants to tell them exactly what he thinks of their apology but his mind is fuzzy and the words can't seem to make it to his lips.
Something warm fills the absence, pressing against his chest and the person is saying it again, telling him not to die, to please don't die. In a voice that's wavering and panicky and . . .
Familiar.
"Please don't die. Please don't you dare die."
There's a high pitched sound in the distance, growing steadily closer, but Arthur doesn't listen. His vision goes black as he concentrates on the voice drifting over his head and the hands pressing against his sticky chest and thinks it doesn't even hurt. And some part of him, some long-hidden part, thinks that he's done this whole dying thing before, once more won't make a difference.
The voice is speaking gibberish now and a flow of warmth spreads across his body.
Funny, he always thought he'd feel cold.
"Please."
It's the last word he hears, whispered on a broken and pleading voice. The darkness doesn't so much as claim him. He dives into it, embraces the chilling numbness with open arms, and happily falls into unconsciousness.