Fog
The fog was freezing and damp, but it seethed in his lungs with a fire that spurred him to move even faster. He could barely breathe. He forced his legs to keep going. Each step was a decision that propelled him further into agony. His lungs strained and burned. He paused for a breath, working hard to carefully draw air deeply into himself, knowing there was no time to rest and try to regain his strength. He kept going.
Arthur fought for balance, thrown off by the weight he carried. He staggered a bit, but his pace never slowed. The fog curled and swirled with his movements, but the thick mist was eerily still only a few feet in front of him. It was impossible to see. He stumbled again as his boots slid on a slick of deep mud. He sank to his knees, but took a deep breath and came up again, struggling under the burden he carried. To his horror, the weight he bore seemed heavier with each tortured moment. He trudged through the burgeoning fog, but everything looked strange and still, his own breath echoing in the dense cloud that surrounded him. His heart was thundering. Merlin was a dead weight. His shoulders ached as he fell once more to his knees, tripping over something in the path. He could not find the strength to come to his feet again. His heart sank as he tried to catch his breath.
The dead weighed heavier than the living.
The thought circled in his brain, turning into a fear that consumed him. Even as he fought his way to his feet once more, resolving to keep going, Arthur sank to his knees once more. A sob, that could have been a gasp of sorrow or pain, escaped him, as he rolled Merlin's body off his back and into the circle of his arms. HIs friend slid limply to the ground, his head lolling weakly against Arthur's supporting embrace.
"Merlin,"
Even to his ears, Arthur's voice sounded small and terrified. That made him feel angry and he hung on to that strength. To his shame, tears still threatened, burning in his eyes. Merlin's clothing was cold and damp, and he lay hopelessly still. He couldn't bear to know if Merlin lived. Hardly able to register what he was doing, Arthur felt for the pulse in the base of his servant's throat. Yes, there under his ridiculous neckerchief, the idiot's heart was still beating. He took a breath of pure relief and the world righted itself. He swatted softly at the dark haired boy's face. "Wake up, you numbskull," he growled, with just hint of disdain. There was no response.
"C'mon now, Merlin! I can't haul your lazy ass anymore. Wake up!" Despite his words, he laid a careful hand on the other man's forehead for a moment, before briefly touching his hair. He felt for his pulse again, as if to reassure himself. "You idiot," he said softly. "You stupid, loyal idiot! If you...What were you...Merlin, please!" Arthur's voice had lost it's mocking edge, verging on real desperation.
It had all happened so quickly. Merlin and Arthur had gotten separated from the knights as they followed the trail of a group of bandits. They had passed the entrance to the glade , coming upon it obliquely, as it lay hidden near the bend of a stream in the ravines and hills of the forest. In the growing dark of the early evening, Arthur had not noted the Druid flags that guarded the entrance to the copse of trees, so intent he had been in holding fast to the trail, keeping his eyes trained on the ground even as the light died from the sky.
Too late he heard Merlin's cry of warning. His hand had gone at once to his sword, drawing Excalibur. Arthur had seen the warning flags only as shadows as a blast of blue light surged from the darkened alcove of thick trees. His armor had tingled, sparking lightning blue, and the air was thick with the smell of magic, and then suddenly, Merlin was in front of him. Merlin was between him and the blue fire, without a word and in the blink of an eye. The energy of the blast had hit his servant first and thrown him back on top of Arthur. They had been airborne for a long second, and then the sickening fall had ended. He had hit his head, everything going black for a long moment and then he was trying desperately to catch his breath. He reflexively shoved at the weight resting limply on his chest, only to recognize it was his servant. Even worse, Merlin had not moved again; he had not roused to Arthur's cries. Fog poured from the darkened alcove of trees that had been the origin of the attack.
It skirled and gathered, chilling everything into a unnatural silence. The darkness was dead and cold. As the fog surrounded him, seeping everywhere, Arthur's heart bled in horror while his mind denied what had happened. Merlin wasn't moving, wasn't waking up. His head reeled with relief at having escaped death, but the lifeless weight of his servant was unbearable. Unthinkable. Thrumming with adrenaline, Arthur picked up his unconscious friend with a fluid strength and ease, and began to run. It didn't matter where, just away from the fog, away from the magic. Away.
And yet here they were,after running for a long, terrible time, his strength gone, the fog burning in his lungs, still completely lost in the thickening cloud that made the way ever more dark. Reality clawed at his heart.
He looked down at his friend, hardly able to see him in the pale darkness. He carefully lay the servant down again, pulling at the water flask at his hip, he dribbled some water across his forehead. There was not a flutter of response. Arthur poured a few drops into Merlin's mouth, stroking his throat, but the boy didn't move, even though he swallowed reflexively. He took the swallow as a good omen.
Arthur had to keep going. He pulled the servant into a half sitting position, leaning against him and gently, slowly, maneuvered him into position to lift him.
"You owe me!" Arthur grunted as he lifted, and swayed as he regained his balance, starting to climb. If he climbed, he could get above the fog. He had to get away from the fog. Merlin didn't groan or cry out throughout the entire time and that frightened Arthur even further. His friend was still alive, he told himself. That thought stood at the center of this nightmare of uncertainty.
"Hold fast, Merlin," Arthur said as commandingly as he could. There were none to see if it was sweat or tears that streamed down his face, in the unnatural, swirling mist. The moonlight made ghosts of the trees, made them into blasted shadows of devastation, writhing in the pale fog. Arthur moved upward, grinding into the slope with his boots to gain leverage. He had to get out and above the fog. He knew it.
"We're going to get out of here."