The Virtue of a Shade

Welcome, Merlinians. Should you choose to read this story, I fully suggest that you read my notes predeceding your journey.

So, before you read anything, anything AT ALL, let me explain something: Gwaine and Elyan are ALIVE. I like to deny the fact that either of them died at all. Unfortunately for all you Lancelot lovers, he's still dead :P Blame Morgana the Bit- Witch. Witch.

So here's to my first Merlin fanfiction! Yay! Now I've got four In-Progress stories to keep track of!

*dies*

Ahem. Anyway. Please read, review, and enjoy.

Disclaimer: BBC owns Merlin.

Arthur and Lancelot set out early the next day. Lancelot puts out the remaining flickers of flame left in the small hearth, and as the fire turns to ash and smoke, Arthur pulls Freya's map from his boot and explains the intended route to the knight. Lancelot is attentive and respectful, and he heeds Arthur's words with a "Yes, sire" and another stomp of his foot on the dying fire. They reclasp their capes and swords (still at the ready, because really, this is still Camelot, and it's highly unlikely that even after fifteen hundred years, the universe will go easy on Arthur), and once Lancelot has retied Arthur's scarlet neckerchief around the king's bicep, the two leave for Camelot.

Their walk is uneventful, as was the days before, and the two make it to their roadblock within the hour. It's even larger than Arthur had imagined, and thicker as well, and he's thankful that the Valley's walls are practically made up of furrowed grooves and ruts – nature's hand and footholds, carved wonderfully for a climb. They scale the embankment quickly and carefully; it's not terribly high in this part of the gorge, but at the moment, a fall would still hinder their continuing unnervingly lucky progress. They skirt quickly through the wood and make their way around the fallen trees, and once they've cleared their way below, they make their way back down into the rift and head away from the obstruction.

About a hundred yards later, Arthur spots the White Mountains through the trees on the higher ground. They're just as beautiful as he remembers, tall and snow-capped, even in Camelot's warmest summers. They loom over the Valley like a god, and for a moment Arthur feels almost afraid of them – a deep-rooted, cautious, strange fear. In the seemingly abandoned world, in the solemness and quiet, the mountains are like monsters above him, stretching silently, deadly toward the blue of the sky, and Arthur's wariness skyrockets. He pushes it to the back of his mind, ignoring the ridiculousness of it all, and trudges on, Lancelot in stride.

After another couple hundred yards, the Valley thins out and they finally reach the stone-arched entrance. They jog up the earthen steps that descend into the rift, and when they reach the top the Valley ends and the world opens up into the far outer reaches of the Darkling Woods. It isn't quite the Darkling Woods here, really, with how far west the Valley lies, but the actual border of the woods aren't too far a walk from the Valley. The familiar forest path lies before them, and Arthur pushes away the memories of riding down this trail, Merlin beside him and his knights following him, as they always had.

Arthur reaches into his boot again, drawing out and unfolding Freya's map. He smoothes it out and studies it, Lancelot peering over his shoulder and keeping an eye out on their surroundings, his hand laid firmly on the hilt of his sword.

"There's a village a few miles from here," Arthur said, moving his finger along the map toward a small town marked off not too far from their current location. "Laxton. Small, but they're well known for bringing in the best tomato supply during the harvest season. Surely we can find someone to lend us a pair of horses-"

"If there's anyone there at all," says Lancelot, completing Arthur's thought. The king nods, replaces the map, and signals them onward.

Keeping to the forest road, it's nearly midday by the time they reach Laxton. The village itself is quite small, nestled in a cleared off part of the wood, but most of the village is a large field, covered in vine after vine of freshly-grown tomatoes, big and small, some ripe orange, others still green. A good three-quarters of the entirety of the village is tomatoes, and they all look perfectly unspoilt. The growing soil is moist to the touch, and since there's been not a bit of rain since Arthur's return, they conclude that there must certainly be people living in the village. Stealing a few of the larger, ripened tomatoes, the two make their way through the field to the main village, eating as they go.

Besides a random array of stray animals and, to their delight, a pen of horses lazily grazing and sleeping away, the town is utterly silent, and they realize with the utmost confusion that the town is completely deserted, devoid of any form of human life. They check and double-check every house, picking through every building, calling out for anyone that could hear. They hunt through the market-place and town square, listening for footsteps or voices of the people who lived there, swords drawn simply to steel their nerves.

"I don't understand it! This isn't possible," Arthur says, confounded. "The soil is watered and the tomatoes are fresh! The houses are clean, even the square is clean! Someone has to be here. If this place was really abandoned, none of this would even be possible."

"I haven't the faintest, sire," Lancelot answers. "This place, it's like it's not been touched for years. Everything's still in perfect condition: the water in the well, the crops, the flowers. Everything's been cared for, handled like any other functioning village. But it's empty. Completely empty. No families, no children, no merchants or beggars." He thinks for a moment. "Perhaps there's been an attack?"

"No," Arthur replies surely. "There would be signs of an invasion: structural damage, clear signs of a struggle, destroyed supplies and shelters torn down. It's too peaceful to have been an attack." He finally slides his sword away, disappointed and baffled.

"Surrendered without a fight?"

"There would still be signs of a forced invasion, and most of their essentials would be missing. There's still food and clothes and valuables here. Whatever happened to this town, I don't think violence was involved."

"So everyone just disappeared?" Lancelot asks sceptically. "They all just got up and left everything behind?"

"It's ridiculous, I'm aware," Arthur concedes, "but nothing here makes any sense. If this town isn't inhabited, it should be wearing down, possibly even completely ruined depending on how long it's been like this. And if it is inhabited, then where did everyone go? They wouldn't just leave, especially not without food or valuables, or anything else they would need to just leave the town behind."

"You were right about one thing, my lord," says Lancelot grimly, sheathing his sword, "something is most certainly wrong. Something's happened in the time you've been gone, there's no denying it now. Maybe in the Valley, maybe, but here, in a perfectly sound village? It's like everyone in Camelot has just vanished without a trace."

"We need to get back to the city," says Arthur sternly. "Now. We can't wait any longer, we need to find out what's happened here."

"There are saddles and supplies in most of the houses, sire," Lancelot says. "We go by horseback, Camelot shouldn't be more than a three hours ride away. Two if our way is unblocked and we ride fast enough. I think it's best we get there before the sun sets."

"Then we need to go immediately," commands Arthur. "Saddle and rein two of the horses, the best ones you can find. I'll pack some food, get some clean water from the well. Ten minutes."

Lancelot nods his assent, then right away runs off to collect two pairs of saddles and reins. Arthur watches him for a moment, then turns and approaches the nearest market shop.

The merchandise left in the market turns out to be just as fresh and cared for as everything else in the peculiar little town. Arthur enters the food shop and ducks behind the counter, finding and taking two cloth sacks and two water skins from beneath the wooden counter top, then scours the shop for food, packing tomatoes, onions, apples, carrots, corn ears, bread rolls, nuts, sugar cubes, and napkin-wrapped cheese into the cloth bags.

Once he's finished packing enough food for their trip, plus some in case their route doesn't follow smoothly as planned, he steps outside and fills the mole-skin sacks with water from a small barrel outside. Replacing the top of the barrel, Arthur grabs his things and makes a quick stop in the nearby inn. From behind the counter he collects two small knives and two woolen blankets. With everything in hand, he starts back to the horse pen.

Lancelot's beaten him to it, and when Arthur arrives, he's finishing buckling the second saddle onto the other horse. Both are young and quite muscular, well-bred to be ridden. Arthur hands Lancelot one of everything he collected and they tuck their supplies into the saddle bags before swinging up onto the horses and righting themselves on their new steeds.

"We travel east from here," Arthur says, gripping his reins tightly. "If we're fast, we should make it before evening falls."

"Yes, sire," Lancelot replies, nudging his horse with his heel.

They spur their horses immediately into a run, riding quickly out of the pen and down the main path back onto the forest trail. They curve left and begin to ride east, pushing their horses on as fast and hard as they can go without exhausting them too quickly.

The horses truly are well-bred, trained for speed, and within the first hour, the two make it halfway to Camelot. The forest path is clear, mind a coating of leaves and dirt from what the two figure is disuse. Their deductions are confirmed by the lack of any footprints along the way, human and animal alike. Even the wild animals don't seem to trespass here.

They slow their horses to a trot once they've hit the halfway point, and they keep a slow pace until Lancelot points out a stream visible through the forest foliage. They steer the horses to the stream and dismount, letting their steeds refresh themselves before they move on again. Arthur and Lancelot settle under a nearby tree and drink and eat as well, keeping an eye on the horses as they do so. They rest for a bit, finishing some of their rations and quickly rechecking the map to confirm their course, before they collect their horses, repack their food and water, and set out once more.

Arthur's anticipation mounts as they grow closer and closer, from an hour's distance to a half-hour's distance to a quarter-hour's distance. If Lancelot notices the way Arthur's hands grip the reins as if for dear life, he says nothing, only keeps speed with his king as they ride quickly down the trail.

The trees grow thicker and thicker as they finally come within sighting distance of Camelot. Arthur frowns, his nerves screaming to see Camelot once more, to see the view of the crowded market-place, to smell the scents of roasting pig in the kitchens or Guinevere's sweet-smelling hair, the sounds of the knights training, swords clashing, or Merlin's nonsensical, jovial retorts. His longing for home is increasing, rising like the ocean tides, and he almost wants to scream out loud. He might've, except Lancelot is with him here, watching over him, fighting for him, keeping him safe.

They slow as they approach familiar landmarks – a tree stump here, some flowers there, a blossoming apple tree (still blossoming, Arthur thinks grimly) they slow again, letting their horses stroll. Arthur feels nervous and tense as they approach the end of their journey. Just past those trees, he knows, just past those trees lies everything he's waited for. Camelot is past those trees. His castle and his room are past those trees. Merlin and Guinevere and Gaius are past those trees. Leon and Elyan and Gwaine and Percival are past those trees. His people are past those trees. His home is past those trees. Something inside him screams, tears and rips and fights for it all, and Arthur's stomach flips because it's finally time.

Arthur throws Lancelot a look as they reach the end, and he knows that it's uneasy and careful and gut-wrenching and terrifying, but Lancelot just nods and holds his head high and strong and keeps his face unreadable yet comforting, and Arthur realizes he's thankful for that. Lancelot has a soothing presence, he always has and did and will always have that, and Arthur is suddenly, amazing grateful because whatever is on the other side of the trees, right or wrong, good or bad, he has Lancelot, strong, loyal, true Lancelot by his side, and Arthur wonders how he ever thought he could have done this alone.

Arthur swallows and nods back, and with a deep breath, they break through the trees.

Their jaws drop open and hang, bewildered in mid-air, and Arthur's eyes widen until he feels they might pop out of his head.

"By the Lord," Lancelot whispers, nonplussed. "What in God's name – "

They look dumbstruck down the path to Camelot – or, at least, the place where Camelot had once been. The city, the entire castle, market-place, training grounds, everything, lies hidden, cocooned under a vast forest of shadowy thorns, long and thick and twisted and sharp, ensnaring the entirety of the city like a blanket of needles. The two can barely see anything; only the tallest towers of the castle rise high enough to be properly seen. The rest is entirely encircled in blackened brambles and darkness.

"What the hell happened?" Arthur asks softly, utterly confounded. "What the hell happened?"

"We need to find out" Lancelot said grimly. "Come, sire, we have to find out what's going on!"

Lancelot rears his horse and, with Arthur following his example, they set off at a run again, racing for the front gates. Arthur nearly falls off his horse when they reach the thorn-wrapped gate, practically jumping out of the saddle and rushing toward the gate. For a short moment he stops, examining the thorny vines, and then he yanks Excalibur from it's sheath and slices fiercely at the offending plant. Excalibur cuts through the vines like butter and Arthur, triumphant, hacks and cuts and slashes with new, zealous impatience.

Lancelot comes up beside him and draws his own sword, striking out. His sword bounces off the vines, leaving only the tiniest of gashes. A full cut would take hours to make. He frowns, thinking, and then it clicks in his mind.

"They're magical, Arthur!" Lancelot exclaims at once. "The vines, they're enchanted!"

"That's a bit obvious, Lancelot," Arthur retorts sarcastically, still slicing.

"I meant that they're completely resistant to anything non-magical!" Lancelot explains. "They're completely viable to non-magical weapons. Excalibur was forged in dragon's breath, that's why mine won't cut through. Excalibur disrupts magical qualities – it's the only thing that can get us inside."

"Right. Lovely," Arthur mutters through gritted teeth, but he continues his assault on the bewitched plants, cutting through layer after layer after layer of vines keeping him from his city. Lancelot replaces his sword in its hold, watching Arthur quietly as he hacks away at the thorns. Arthur can feel the ache starting in his arm from the force of his blows (it's almost desperate how he fights against it), but he ignores it, blocks it out and continues to throw himself into the strokes.

After a few long, tedious minutes, Arthur sees a sliver of light through a thick coppice of vines, and his heart races faster as he pushes himself into that spot, slicing quicker and harder than before. Lancelot shifts behind him, watching with calm face; Arthur can feel his anxiousness though, hidden under the knight's almost stoic composure, tangible in the air between them, and he knows it well because his own is floating there as well, thickening the already tense air they're sharing.

Finally there's an opening in the vines large enough to slide through. Arthur slumps, panting, flushed and sweaty from his vigorous attack. Lancelot grips his shoulder and squeezes, giving him a small smile of encouragement, and Arthur nods assent, straightening up to breathe more deeply. When he's taken his fill of clean, cool air, the king slides his sword away, then, grimacing, looks to the tall but slim passage hacked mercilessly into the fauna.

"It's not very wide," Arthur says, still a bit breathless. "So watch your face." Arthur steps forward then, and with a pointed look at Lancelot and a prayer for luck, Arthur covers his face with his arm, turns sideways, and moves carefully through the thorny passage.

The ten seconds it takes to make it to the other side are painful and irritating, and when Arthur pushes himself out of the four-foot thick brush into Camelot's village square, he groans at the multiple stinging cuts he can feel all throughout his body, some quite deep from rough meetings with aggravating magical thorns. Straight away, Arthur takes a small, indistinct scan of the area around him to draw the shortest, most needed important conclusions of his immediate surroundings: no attackers, no immediate danger from any outside forces, no magical onslaught. He nods, satisfied for the moment with the little instinctual information he's got.

Arthur calls out to Lancelot, telling him to proceed. He diligently waits for Lancelot, listening to the rustling of Lancelot verses the plant life and the muttered curses under the good knight's breath. After a moment, Lancelot pushes through the opening as well, arms over his face and thorns stuck in his body. They pull thorns from their skin with hisses of discomfort and a few more curses (because by god those thorns are horrid), and with that settled, they turn to face Camelot's marketplace, hands on their sword hilts.

"Damn," Arthur spits out darkly. "Damn it all!"

At mid-day, the market-place is shadowed and dark, the sun and sky almost entirely hidden from view by the thorny coating above, and like the rest of the kingdom, Camelot is fully deserted. There aren't even any wild animals, nor horses or dogs; the entire town is utterly silent. The two immediately take action, initiating a thorough search of the centre, checking and rechecking every house, every shop, every forgery and inn and pharmacy and tavern and trading post. They scour the entirety of the market, calling out for civilians, listening for footsteps or laughter, even the coughing of citizens dying of some illness or infliction. Their hunt leads to no avail; every house, every shop and workplace, the training grounds and the fields and gardens are all wholly abandoned. With every pocket, nook, and cranny of the whole town searched, they are once more forced to find that they are completely alone.

"This is madness!" Arthur finally exclaims, clenching his fists tightly. "Where. Has everyone. Gone? Did they just vanish into thin air?"

"But what if they did, Arthur?" Lancelot supplies, still unnervingly calm in his ways. "The entire city is wrapped in a mass of magical thorny vines, every bit of food, water, and merchandise in the kingdom is still in proper, clean shape, and suddenly every Camelotian subject has mysteriously vanished. It's obvious that whatever's happened not just to Camelot, but to all of Albion itself, has been caused by dark magic. Nothing fully human did this."

"When I left Camelot, I left it in peace," Arthur says, crossing his arms, thinking seriously. "Who would do something like this? Morgause, Morgana, and Mordred are all dead and past, and Merlin, strange as it is, has enough power to defeat an entire army of Saxons alone. I know, I saw it. He's loyal to me and to Camelot, and if I know one thing right now, just one, it's that Merlin would die before he let Camelot fall." Arthur frowns. "So what happened here? What, or who, has enough power to do something like this?"

"We've not yet been to the castle, sire," says Lancelot, turning to look at the palace curiously. "What ruler doesn't have a throne? Perhaps our answers lie there."

Arthur stares at the castle, still thinking, considering, then lets out a huff, running a hand through his scruffy hair in exasperation. "Perhaps. Whether or not it does, it's the best shot we have."

Lancelot nods affirmatively, and with a long, deep, readying breath, Arthur steels himself and leads them up the path to the castle. He tries not to think along the way.

The castle gate is already raised, the inner courtyard completely open to any passerby (meaning just them, but nonetheless). The courtyard is, as expected, entirely devoid of any life, but unlike the rest of the places Arthur and Lancelot had examined, the yard isn't as well groomed. In fact, both the yard and the castle look oddly disheveled. Cobblestones throughout the area are cracked and some are slightly stained green with gathered moss. Leaves are strewn over the ground, and through the cracks in the pavement, dark, malnourished roots stretch and squirm, reaching for sunlight they'll never find. Some already lie dead and dry on the pavement. The castle walls look dirty, sections of wall coated in age-old ash and sooty smudges, other parts darkened and discolored from lack of care-taking. Banners and flags still hang, some ripped and torn, others faded from bright red into maroon and cordovan. The breeze blows sheepishly through the yard, as if to fill the spaces left behind by the people of Camelot.

The castle's doors have also faded and rot, termite-ridden and scratched and discolored. They're still surprisingly sturdy, however, and when Arthur pushes on them they swing open willingly, creaky and moaning with age. He steps in slowly, moving a few steps into the hall, letting his eyes roam and observe the corridor as Lancelot comes up behind him, covering his flank. Empty, of course, Arthur expects nothing more, nothing less, but the castle has a more desolate feel that anywhere else. The wall torches are unlit; they look, in fact, like they haven't been used in a very long time. The stone walls are covered in a thin layer of dust, as well are the floors. The castle is unnaturally cold, and as the doors fall closed behind Lancelot, chills shoot down Arthur's spine.

"Anything?" Lancelot inquires from behind him.

"No," Arthur says evenly, holding back a sigh. "Looks like another dead end."

"Let's keep searching, then," Lancelot says, almost gently. "There's got to be something here, there's just got to be, I can feel it."

Arthur stops another sigh, replacing it with a tight-lipped nod. He begins forward again, moving at a steady, gradual pace down the corridor, Lancelot at his heels. They keep their steps as quiet as possible as they walk over the solid slabs of white-stoned floor, always watching and listening, fingers twitching near their sword sheaths. Goosebumps prickle over their skin in the cold palace; Arthur ignores the temptation to light a torch.

They reach the end of the hallway and carefully peer into the next one, scouting for anything out of the ordinary before turning the corner and starting their way down the adjacent corridor. They repeat this again and again as they move deeper into the castle, making for the center of the castle, the noise of their breaths their only sounds for a good half-hour or so.

"Nothing?" Lancelot asks as Arthur moves carefully around the corner of the eighth hallway, still treading lightly, cautiously listening and observing.

"I don't think so," Arthur replies after a moment. "This one's empty too. I don't think – "

CLANG!

Both men jump in surprise, hearts pounding as the crashing noise rips through the quiet stillness of the hallway. They both freeze, not daring to move or speak or even breathe, listening intently for another sound, anything to indicate where the noise had come from. Their hearts are still pounding fiercely, jumping into their throats and back. Their hands have started to their sides, gripping their hilts tightly. They strain their ears, waiting.

A few long, nerve-wracking moments pass, and then they hear a shuffling echo from nearby. Slowly, the king and his knight turn back down the hallway they had just come up, twisting around to look back at the shut doors of the throne room they had passed only moments ago, standing mutely, and now quite eerily, in the middle of the hallway. The shifting noise stops for a moment, silence, and then the something is stirring again, scrambling softly around inside the room.

Lancelot throws Arthur a look and Arthur returns it, weighing his thoughts on Lancelot's silent question. After a moment of quick deliberation in his mind, Arthur nods at the knight and Lancelot's dark eyes whisper assent. The shifting noise from within the throne room continues as Arthur steps forward, Lancelot at his side, moving as quietly and swiftly as possible toward the wooden doors. They stop directly in front of the doors. The noise pauses again, and they wait, and then it continues on again, almost like it's pacing. Whatever it is.

The king thinks quickly, letting his instincts fuel his thoughts. Ideas and plans flash through his mind, deliberations on what to do and how to do it. He stares at the doors, still listening, quieting his breath as his mind races and processes and comes to a spry decision.

They need to know what's on the other side of that door. And they need to know now. This may be their only chance – and their only plan.

Arthur braces himself, then looks quietly at Lancelot, meeting his eyes. He draws his sword slowly and silently from its hold, and holds a finger from his empty hand to his lips as he gestures for Lancelot to do the same. Lancelot carefully parrots the move, waiting on Arthur's orders. Arthur holds his sword ready and Lancelot copies, lifting his defensively. The knight catches Arthur's eyes again, nodding.

Ready.

Arthur gives one quick nod in understanding, grips his sword ever tighter, and listens one last time. The noise continues unhindered, unaware of the knights standing just outside its lodging.

Arthur lifts his empty hand, signaling. Lancelot falls into a battle stance as Arthur flicks his fingers up in a countdown.

One.

Breathe.

Two.

Set.

Three.

Go.

With that Arthur leans back, kicks, and breaks open the doors with loud, resounding clatters. The two rush in, swords raised, adrenaline in their veins and battle cries on their lips –

"Hello, Arthur Pendragon."

JUST. JUST NO. GOD JUST NO. HERE, LISTEN TO M Y PITY PARADE.

I just finished sophomore year. I was kept from updating by the presence of four MAJOR GRADE AS IN 65% OF MY FINAL FREAKING GRADE projects all due around the same time, an AP History Test, a college level entry test for Duel Credit U.S. History, a surprise trip to Orlando in which I rode the Harry Potter ride EIGHT AMAZING FREAKING TIMES, my cousins visiting for the Anime Convention in Dallas TX, a week-long church camp, another week-long vacation to my family's lakehouse, my weekly counseling sessions, two reading assignments for school in August, my workbook for driver's ED, and my new responsibilities since my parents have decided to separate.

Whoopedy freaking DOO.

I'm sorry if I seem tense, I'm actually very very angry at myself for taking so much time to just sit down and let my writerness flow. And I'm not really defending myself either, I'm just informing you why I've waited/been held up for so very long. I really am sorry for the wait, do forgive me. My updates have been, and definitely will be now with all of my extra responsibilities around the house, sporadic, and I hate that I can't just ignore all of my priorities and just sit down and write forever.

God, I really am very sorry. You're all so patient with me and I just take that for granted sometimes. I don't even know how you put up with me and waiting for me to update ANYTHING.

I'm going to go ahead and stop here, I'm just too tired to get down on myself right. I do hope you still have it in yourselves to forgive me. AGAIN. UGH.

If any of you see any mistakes in this, please let me know. I can't think well enough to beta at the moment, my head is killing me. Thanks again.

I welcome all reviews, comments, concerns, and insults. Like SERIOUSLY.