Cold as Death- Chapter Three
A/N This chapter is a little longer than the last. As the story progresses and I can create my own storyline I find that I'm able to write more, so that will probably happen from now on. I hope you're enjoying it so far, I'm certainly enjoying writing it! Not that I want Merlin to suffer of course... Angst is kind of just my only writing style...
Reviews are always a pleasure to read!
Cold.
It's all he can feel. In every pore, every cell – he is ice, he is frozen. His mind is consumed with chill, his fingertips itch for warmth – he shudders, he breathes, he shudders.
Oh what he would give to be set alight right now.
He can feel himself drifting away from it, every so often. He can't tell whether this is a good thing, but he automatically feels himself sinking towards it. Towards reprieve, towards comfort – to die is easy, they said. It is living that is hard.
He can no longer feel his lungs breathing. His body, this rimy vessel, is no longer his. It is a whole separate entity, beating weakly against life's current. And Merlin, he is trapped within it, a frosty soul unable to escape the hell he's been forced to live.
He can no longer feel his heart beating. He is sure his blood must be solid, gelid, unmoving – like iron, like steel. But it must be molten still, molten despite everything. It is cruelly keeping him alive.
He can no longer feel his mind moving. It's a lump of meat sitting slovenly inside a crumbling skull. It's a useless thing that is doing nothing to save him. Nothing but throb with a perpetual ache, nothing but hurt until he's screaming-
But none of this scares him the most. Not the fact he cannot feel, not even his lungs or his heart or his brain. Not the fact he is not sure if he is alive or passed on. Not even the fact there's a chance he'll be encased in this agony forever.
No – what scares him the most, is that Merlin can't feel his magic.
With a silent wail, Merlin's lungs stutter and choke.
Lancelot is holding Merlin upright when he starts struggling to breathe.
"Gaius!" the knight calls, voice teetering on panic. The physician appears next to him, a fresh bowl of Hawthorne tea in his hands. "There's something wrong. He… his breathing…"
In one swift motion, the old man sets the tea aside, motioning for Lancelot to sit him up further. The warlock's head lolls threateningly, limp as a doll. Gaius lifts his chin, listening to his breath, before moving his ear down to his chest. The sounds he hears are erratic – pained. "His lungs are beginning to seize up," he confirms, helping Lancelot lay him back on the pillows. "They are struggling to support him. Come," he says, moving to hold Merlin's legs, "we need to move him to the cot by the fire."
After a few minutes of heaving and panting on Gaius' part, the young man is positioned next to the fire, shivering all the more. "I don't understand," Lancelot sighs helplessly, hands falling to his sides. "He's just getting colder. Why is nothing helping?"
Gaius observes his ward morosely, using a hand to stroke his hair back. Lancelot can't help but be moved by this fatherly gesture, and his expression softens as a pang of grief for the physician overwhelms him. "The cold is deep in his bones," Gaius provides finally, eyes never moving from Merlin's ashen face. "It's inside him. I believe… I believe only strong magic could fix it."
Lancelot stares at the old man, eyes widening. Strong magic…
"Like Merlin's magic?" he ventures, hope tickling the ends of his nerves. If Merlin's magic were strong enough, then maybe with persuasion it could heal him…
"Perhaps." He gets to his feet, retrieving the bowl of Hawthorne infused water. "We cannot know for sure. No one has ever survived this." Lancelot's hope withers. "But then, no one has held out for this long."
The knight glances back down at his friend. The warlock sucks in another shuddering breath, choking on it as it makes it's way out. Come on Merlin, he urges, eyes bright with desperation. You can fix this. I know you can.
He thinks he can see Merlin's mouth twitch, but he cannot know for sure.
When the knights finally reach the fort, night is beginning to fall. The screams of the Darocha begin to fill the spaces between the stars, and every man shivers at the thought of the spirits.
"Let's get inside." Arthur leads the way through the entrance, weaving in between pillars and finding themselves in a reasonable hall. Sir Leon strides over to a grate in the centre and begins to lie out wood for a fire. "Gwaine, light the torches. And Percival, get the supplies out. I need to see how much food is left."
While they get to work, Arthur's mind once more wanders back to Merlin. He wonders if his servant has made it back to Camelot, or if he has made it at all. He doesn't want to think like this, but the state he handed Merlin over to Lancelot in… It makes his stomach churn just thinking about it.
Despite his station, Arthur secretly cares greatly for his manservant. He knows his father would most likely disagree with his sentiments, and possibly many other nobles, but that did not stop the warmth that spread over him in Merlin's presence. Seeing his friend harmed so terribly (and quite possibly fatally) has left a raw, empty feeling in the prince's chest. If he were to lose Merlin – well, he is sure it would feel much like losing a limb. He just couldn't imagine a life without his servant's idiotic and incessant chatter.
If someone were to give him the news that Merlin had in fact died on his trek back to Camelot, and all for Arthur's sake, he wouldn't want his last memory of him to be the pale, shivering heap that he had piled onto a horse. He didn't want to see those red-rimmed eyes and bloodless lips when he pictured Merlin's face. He wanted that carefree smile, full of banter and cheek, and those mirthful, twinkling eyes.
Not that it mattered. Because Merlin wouldn't die. Even if Arthur were never to see him again, even if at the end of this journey, he would be sacrificing his life to the Cailleach… Merlin would live. He would not be meeting Merlin on the other side.
Once the fire was set up and all the knight's were settled around it, Percival begins to hand out the dried meat and bread from the satchel that Merlin had been carrying up until a few days ago. Silently, and without much vigour, they start to eat. It seems that most if not all of them were anything but hungry, and were only eating because they need to keep their strength up. Arthur planned to eat the bare minimum, not certain his stomach could manage much else.
Eventually, the banter begins to play out, no one much enjoying the pressure of the silence and instead filling it will meaningless jokes about Gwaine's feet and his burning socks, and Arthur watches them as they laugh, shoving each other playfully and throwing smiles around like rotten fruit. To an outsider, this scene would seem careless, of no consequence – merely a few knights satisfying their taste for humour. To the prince, it is forced. Their quips are strained, their laughter hollow.
After all, isn't Merlin usually the instigator of their hysterics?
Arthur turns to the side, watching the entrance to the hall. It is dark, empty. The wind whistles through it lazily, tossing up dust and leaves on the cold stone floor. He almost expects Lancelot to walk through, Merlin bouncing eagerly in tow – but it never happens. The space between the pillars remains empty, void of life, void of anything resembling a honourable, handsome knight and a clumsy, cheerful servant.
Agravaine hurtles through the forest, wary of the danger this late at night but unwilling to let Morgana go without this news for long. It will satiate her for now, something to latch on to while Arthur makes his way to his death. He is almost gleeful himself – that pest of a servant was wiser than Arthur thought, he was sure of it.
When he finally reaches her door, torch still blazing, he takes a moment to collect himself. The silence is normal – the lady is probably asleep, and with her sister's bracelet, she is no longer tormented with nightmares. Taking a deep breath and smiling to himself, he knocks gently on the door before entering.
Morgana, eyes bleary with sleep, sits up in bed, leaves caught in her hair. The moment is brief, but Agravaine spots humanity in her gaze – no one could look evil while dreaming. With a few more blinks and an angry sigh, her expression sharpens into something more lethal, more volatile. She throws herself upright, and is gracefully on her feet within seconds.
"What is it?" she demands, eyes burning with aggravation. "I take it you didn't wake me for some meaningless drivel. It must be something important."
"Yes, m'lady," he bows his head to her slowly, eyes closed with respect. Best to treat this as gently as possible – Morgana is ten times more irritable when tired.
"Spit it out then!"
"It's Merlin," he says, face twisting into a grin. "I have some news concerning him that may please you."
She raises her eyebrow, intrigued. Ever since poisoning her, Morgana has harboured a personal hatred for the servant – not to mention the fact that he is always in the way, always right behind Arthur, setting things straight. It is beyond irritating; sometimes her fingers itch to just squeeze the life from him with her bare hands. To clamp her nails around that pale neck… Oh, he makes her so angry.
"Tell me," she orders, using a hand to urge him on. She sits down at her table, motioning for Agravaine to sit. "Is he dead?"
"No," he answers, watching as her face falls. "But he might as well be."
"What do you mean?"
"I have received word that he was touched by the Darocha." Morgana looks up, eyes wide. "Sir Lancelot returned him to Gaius just a night ago. He is not dead yet, but I do not think he is for this world much longer."
"No mortal has ever survived their touch," the witch mutters, expression morbidly hopeful. "There's no way he can survive it. His death will be slow, painful…"
"Almost everything you could have asked for." Agravaine removes his gloves, placing them on the table. "He will not be bothering us in the future."
"And Gaius," Morgana continues, spreading her hands victoriously on the table, "how does he feel about this?"
"I haven't been to visit him personally but…" A smirk assaults him once more, creasing his skin cruelly and portraying his true nature. "I am certain this will break him."
"Soon, both Arthur and his servant will be dead, and Gaius too riddled by grief to serve his king," Morgana concludes quietly, voice almost amused. "Camelot will be mine for the taking."
"You mean 'ours'?" Avgravaine corrects with a hint of warning, but Morgana does not hear him – she is too busy plotting Uther's demise.
Both Lancelot and Gaius take turns keeping vigil throughout the night, both prepared to wake the other if there is any change. Gaius, having spotted the knight's head dipping with exhaustion upon awakening, sent him to sleep in Merlin's room, and despite all the protesting, Lancelot was grateful for the rest – they were no use to the warlock fatigued.
Gaius sits silently, worrying the hem of his tunic, eyes darting about the room for anything else to do. He had already mixed up extra potions, thrown more wood on the fire, and checked Merlin's pulse and breathing – both were erratic and weak – and now, he has nothing to do but watch his ward die. It's agonising, monitoring his every breath, grieved with the possibility that every one could be his last. Every time his chest falls, Gaius is gripped with a choking fear. His only reprieve is when it rises once more, and even then, it is brief.
He wants to be busy. He can't stand how helpless he feels – he has already spent each waking hour poring over books and papers in search of an answer he already knows is not there. If he did, no one would be dead. There would be no casualties. The only reason Merlin has held on this long is probably due to his magic.
But in the end, would that be enough?
Merlin's magic has always been temperamental. In some cases, it has acted instinctually – like when Gaius had fallen and Merlin had stopped time to save him. Often it never requires words – sometimes he had thrown people back in anger, or caught things flying off tables with one glare of his molten eyes. He doesn't have to be aware to use it, to utter words of magic. Gaius remembers clearly when he had sent the light to guide Arthur out of the cave early on in their relationship. His magic often acted on it's own to protect people, to save them – would it do the same for Merlin? Would it heal him without words, without awareness?
The physician sighs sadly, running a hand over his face. Even the boy himself was a self-sacrificing idiot. His magic would probably be the same. It would be useless, perhaps even stubborn, without a selfless incentive, without a purpose. Gaius leans over his ward, brow furrowed, deep in thought. "Merlin," he murmurs, gripping the warlock's wrist, "you can't leave yet. Arthur needs you."
The warlock's breath hitches, and Gaius freezes, waiting with bated breath. In the silence that follows, he isn't sure what to think – the only thing he can see is Merlin's face, skin a sickly grey mottled with a frosty blue, eyes sunken and inexplicably tired. His lips are parted slightly, chapped and white. Everything about it is wrong – this is the face of a corpse, not a powerful warlock.
Just as Gaius is beginning to panic, Merlin exhales, too slowly to be considered at all healthy. The physician breathes out, the air stuttering as he does so. He uses his thumb to find a pulse again, closing his eyes when he feels the faint, but ever-present, beat.
He hadn't expected much, but even the smallest sign of improvement would have given Gaius hope. He had thought at the mention of the prince's name, Merlin, if he were still in there, would fight. That didn't mean there wasn't time to keep trying. He would stop at nothing, and if the prince could save Merlin, then Gaius would not give up.
After all, if Merlin lived for anyone, it was Arthur.
Okay so I've never done any reviews before because it's not often I get many reviews. However I have seen other writer's replying to them at the bottom of their chapters, so I thought I would do so.
thegirlwiththerainboweyes: Thank you :) I hope you like the new instalment as well! And of course, Arthur is too stubborn to ever lose faith. Like I said, he just simply wouldn't allow Merlin to die! Also, Lancelot will most likely live now, as he won't be present to sacrifice himself in Arthur's place. He would never leave Merlin anyway, even if he could get there in time. I love Lancelot and wouldn't mind a scenario in which he lives :)
Kirstie1: Thank you so much! I hope I am providing a good story for you :) Reviews like this make me want to keep writing - I've kind of lost the motivation as of late and I really appreciate your support!
Also, thank you for anyone else who has followed and favourited. I have really enjoyed writing this so far and you keep me going :)
-tapeandblades
