The sky burned red in a way that made Arthur question whether or not this was a dream. They had been walking all day after going in circles in that damned forest the night before. Then Merlin of all people had confidently lead them out of the green maze.
Maybe this was still a dream. He had improved since coming to Camelot, but the man was not a woodsman.
And now they were dragging their feet across the desert. A blisteringly hot desert. It was February. It should not be this hot. There were a lot of reasons to hate magic, but putting a desert in Northern Albion ranked high on the list.
He squinted up at the sun, trying to determine if it had moved at all. It was still just above the tower, directly in their eyes. If he wasn't rushing to rescue Guinevere, he might have suggested circling around and approaching from another direction. Although with the amount of magic and trickery in this place, he wouldn't be surprised if the sun would be in his eyes no matter which direction they approached from.
He glanced back to make sure everyone was still with him. Percival was sitting down, one boot off. "Come on, we have no time to rest," he barked. The others looked at him, perhaps wanting to tell him to calm down, but no one spoke up.
Everyone else felt the urgency. She was more than their queen. She was a friend, a sister, a wife. And she was being held by Morgana. In the Dark Tower.
As they marched on, Arthur's thoughts turned to what he knew about this place. It was a nightmare to every young knight in Camelot, probably to most young boys. It was said to have been built by a powerful sorceress in the past, designed to torture her enemies and break them to her will.
Arthur remembered as a young boy pridefully declaring he was a prince and he wouldn't ever be broken because he was strong. His father had reminded him that sorcerers cheated and could break your mind, where you can't fight back. It was always safer to kill them at a distance. If you got close enough for them to speak to you, the most mundane words could be spells used to control you.
Guinevere was likely being tortured right now, fighting to keep her own will.
Arthur picked up the pace. It had taken ages for him to marry her. Some of the setbacks had been his fault, he couldn't deny that. But the love they had for each other had survived beyond that. He was determined that he would not fail her in this. Expressing his love was hard; rescuing a damsel in distress was what he had trained for.
The path, if you could even call it a path, was becoming more hazardous. The wind had grown stronger, the sand whipping into their eyes. The flat sand had become hills, the sides worn away by the wind. Glancing to the side, he could see the skeletal remains of those who had tried to cross before them.
But that was them. Arthur was different. He had a greater purpose and he would let nothing slow him down. They marched on. The tower hardly appearing to grow any larger. He only knew they were getting closer because he thought he could hear the sounds of screams on the wind. It was faint, but it drove him to go faster.
He wiped the sweat off his brow with the back of his hand. He had drank the rest of his water hours ago. He would press on.
The rhythmic sound of six pairs of marching feet tried to lull him into stopping but he wouldn't let it. The drop offs on either side were becoming deeper. He marched on.
Suddenly he heard a falter in the rhythm. The skitter of sand. Percival shouting "Merlin!"
Arthur looked back just in time to see Merlin slide down the side of the hill, his arms flailing as he tried to gain purchase on something, anything. But the sand was unforgiving.
He tumbled down, rolling, and then flying away from the side and into the bones. Into the sword.
Arthur stared in horror. Gwaine and Percival rushed down the hill as carefully as they could, needing to confirm what they saw. Gwaine reached him first. He looked back up at Arthur and he could read the truth in his eyes.
Merlin was dead. Impaled through the chest by a sword sticking out of the sand. A long dead knight making on final kill.
Percival lifted Merlin's body off the blade. Gwaine ripped off his glove and checked for any signs of life. Not that they could do much out here in the wastelands. Merlin was the trained physician among them. And with a wound like that he would never survive the journey back to Gaius.
Gwaine pulled back. He shook his head. Merlin was dead.
Arthur felt numb, it didn't seem possible.
"Arthur?" That was Elyan. Elyan whose sister they were going to rescue.
"We have to continue on," Arthur said, though it hurt him ot do so.
"But what about Merlin?" Gwaine asked. He and Percival were still standing below.
"Wrap him in one of your cloaks and lay him here on the sand," Arthur decided. "We can't carry him with us, but we won't leave him behind on our way back either."
"I'll stay here and-," Gwaine started.
"And what?" Arthur asked. "Guard a dead body? I won't order you to come with, but there is nothing we can do for Merlin right now. We need all the help we can get rescuing Guinevere."
He expected Gwaine to stay behind, but instead he carefully wrapped Merlin in his cloak and nodded solemnly to Arthur. They walked on.
.
.
.
Arthur trekked back across the desert with far less energy than when they began. He had completed his mission, saved his queen, but at what cost? Percival was carrying Elyan's body in his arms. He had been slain trying to reach his sister. Arthur had only made it up to the room in time to watch as he took his last breaths, cradled in Guinevere's arms. If she wasn't so weak from her ordeal, he knew she would have insisted on bearing his body.
And although he couldn't see it yet, he knew that ahead of him lay Merlin's body, wrapped in red. It didn't feel real to him yet. It wasn't uncommon for Merlin to vanish for a day or two, but this was different. He'd never be coming back.
Arthur would carry his body back to Camelot and both of them would receive a proper burial and period of mourning.
But something was wrong. When they got closer, they saw the red cloak, but it was not wrapped around a body.
"Did we go the wrong way?" Leon asked.
Gwaine lifted the corner of the cloak, the bit with the tear from the vines. "This is mine." He moved the breastplate that was sitting on his cloak, holding it down. He shook off the sand, but then he picked up the breastplate again. "There's a message on here. Engraved on the breastplate."
"What does it say?" Arthur asked.
Gwaine read it silently to himself, smiled, then read it out loud. "I'll just walk it off. See you in Camelot. And then Merlin signed it."
Merlin felt a pain in his chest. And he felt an awful lot of sand on his face. Actually why was he on his back in the sand? Had he fallen?
He turned to the side and reached up to brush the sand off his face before opening his eyes.
And why was he wrapped in a cloak?
Oh. Now he remembered. He had fallen, slipped down the sand dune and impaled-his hand gingerly felt his chest. His tunic was sticky, blood quickly dried with the heat of the desert, but he couldn't feel a hole.
He groaned and dropped his head back to the sand. That dratted immortality again. And by the looks of it, this time he couldn't pass it off as just another miraculous healing. They had wrapped him in a cloak and left him to rescue Gwen.
He wondered if he should feel bitter about being abandoned, but to be fair, they thought he was dead and Gwen was the queen. Much higher priority. He pushed himself to his feet, holding the cloak so it didn't blow away.
Merlin looked toward the tower. Even with enhanced sight, he couldn't see the knights. They must be inside already. Morgana was in there.
He took a determined step in that direction and nearly fell over. Sard it all. He may be alive, but that didn't mean he was in any condition to walk, let alone fight. What did Arthur call it? Oh right, a tactical retreat. That sounded like the wise plan. At least until he was healed.
Throwing his head back, he roared out a summons to Kilgharrah. He needed a quick transport somewhere safe and there was none better. He looked back down at the cloak in his hands. They did care, and they would worry; he should let them know he was fine. A message of some sort.
Merlin levitated a breastplate from some dead guy up to where he stood. Would that be clear enough to show that he was alive, just not here anymore? Probably not. Arthur's head didn't seem to be working optimally the past few years. Better to be explicit.
He was still staring at the breastplate when Kilgharrah landed beside him. "What troubles you, young warlock?"
"Immortality. This time they thought I was dead. Impaled on a sword." He looked up at Kilgharrah with a wry smile. "Just another Wednesday."
"You're feeling better already though. Why have you called me here?"
"I might be alive, but I can hardly walk and I've no desire to stay in this enchanted desert," he replied. "I just figured I should let Arthur know I'm not dead but I don't know how."
"Write it on the armor," Kilgharrah suggested as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.
"But they would know I used magic."
"Merlin, they thought you were dead, and you aren't. I think they will figure it out either way."