The first thing Merlin noticed was that he was cold.
There was a chilly wind across his face. His hands felt numb. And he was so stiff. So tired.
He shivered.
Where was he?
Slowly, he tried to make the gears in his mind turn. His eyes were closed. Was he asleep? He seemed to be outside. He thought hard, trying to remember.
He tried to turn his head and it barely moved. He felt weak and sick. He tried again, this time trying to use his stomach muscles again, maybe to sit up.
That didn't work. Pain pushed through his side, taking his breath away. He fell back. With the pain came sudden memories - of Finna. Of Morgana. Of the arrow and the sword.
He grimaced in sadness.
Yes. He was alone on the roof of a watchtower. He had heard Finna die. Her bloodstains, mixed with his own, lay dry and dark one floor beneath him. He'd collapsed on that roof and called for the dragon. And then he had passed out.
But where was Kilgharrah?
Merlin's luck seemed to have run out.
He could not say how long he had lain there, unknowing. There was no more moon in the sky. It must have been hours. But the great dragon had not come.
Shivering, he tried to curl himself into a tighter position. Nothing worked. His body felt frail, weak, broken. He kept shivering and couldn't stop. He felt himself still sluggishly bleeding from the arrow wound. He tried to heal himself, murmuring an incantation, his eyes glowing in the night.
It didn't work. It never did.
Healing, he thought wryly, had never been one of his gifts.
I don't want to die here, he thought. I have to get back to Arthur. I have to protect him.
I will call for the dragon again, he thought. He coughed, drawing the words from his parched throat. And more importantly, as always, he reached out with his mind. Come, my old friend! I am in my hour of greatest need. Hear my call, O great winged one!
He called, coughing and retching, and called again. His eyes flashed with fire and he breathed hard with the effort.
But no one came. The great dragon did not hear him, or could not hear him.
Worry pushed into Merlin's thoughts. Kilgharrah had never failed him. Something, or someone, must be keeping the dragon from coming. There would be no help from the skies tonight.
Merlin felt his shivers deepen. He was beginning to wonder if he would indeed last much longer, freezing and bleeding in a tiny bloody ball on this cold stone roof.
He was so tired, and so cold…
He felt his mind drift. He found himself thinking of Arthur. His dearest Arthur. Arrogant prat; noble king. Merlin's closest friend. His destiny.
Would that Arthur could fly and come to his rescue!
Arthur.
Rescue.
His thoughts were cold and tired and leaden, but somehow, slowly, he realized that his brain was trying to tell him something...what was it?
Arthur.
He could call to Arthur.
Could he?
Well, why not? He had nothing to lose; he would be dead on this roof within days.
He closed his tired eyes and reached his mind out to Arthur.
Help me, my friend…
He tried with all he had to send his thoughts to the one man he hoped could hear him; could reach him; could find him.
Could bring him home.
Arthur...
