Author: Georgia (Merlin'sGeekyFan)
Synopsis: Camelot is in danger from an unspeakable evil and Merlin never lived to find his prince. Avalon's Enforcers is their only chance now; Camelot's only chance for freedom, Uther's only chance for repentance, and Arthur's only chance for his destiny.
Pairing: Arthur/Merlin
Chapter Rating: PG-13
Story Rating:R
Word Count: 1137
Special Notices: Inspired by 'A Bad Dream' by Keane. Also HUUUUUGE thanks to draig_glas for more or less co-writing this story. She is amazing! XD
Disclaimer:I don't own Merlin, but I do own some maracas. Wanna see?! …you don't. *sigh* Fine, just read the fic, courtesy of Auntie Beeb…


Chapter Three
A Bad Dream Without You

"We sometimes seem to forget that the lesser of two evils is evil nonetheless." – Me

Merlin visited the blond stranger every night without fail. "Are you real?" the man had asked him, and Merlin had been so terribly excited, so exhilarated to finally convince this man that yes, he was real and he did need his help that when he was awakened by the roar of the beast the blonde's perplexed face still swam in his vision…


The fires had never burned as high as they did today. Towering trees from the forest were cut down just to fuel the fire. Posts and shackles were forgone as flailing thrashing bodies were simply thrown onto the raging pyre. The now ruby axe fell over and over until the courtyard was flooded with the viscous blood and ashy remains of thousands of sorcerers.

Miles below Camelot, in a cavern pitch as night, the steady drips of blood turned into a gushing torrent. Merlin watched in horror as the beast tripled in size, large as a dragon and ten times as fierce. The balance broke, the blood was no longer needed to fortify the monster and it raged around the cavern freely, lunging with deadly claws the length of Merlin's entire body and teeth as sharp as any knight's sword. A powerful limb flew through the opaque air, smashing brutally into Merlin's ribs. A resounding crack reverberated around the cavern. Face scrunched in anguished pain Merlin forced his great wings up into non-existent air currents, pushing vainly against a vacuum and clawing his way along walls he couldn't see until he tumbled into a cavity, huddling tight and scrambling for spells.

He regretted spending so long learning cleaning charms now.

Drawn up against the wall Merlin noticed for the first time quite how acute the raw stench of blood and flesh really was here. Hands numb with cold and blood and fear he slid them across the slick ground, letting their slightly fainter glow illuminate charred bones and rotting limbs and-

Sour bile rose up in Merlin's throat and exploded from his lips without consent. Crawling along the lurid ground Merlin forced his glow away from Lance's twisted rotten body. Too much. He lay on the icy blood-glossed ground and tried not to breath in the scent of vomit and death and thick evil magic which grew stronger every day. It didn't take a genius – which Merlin wouldn't claim to be – to work out what was happening. The blood of countless victimized sorcerers had blended into one concentrated liquid, tinged with hatred and lust for vengeance against one man; the king of Camelot. And from it this thing, this beast, the monster of odium, had been born.

Shivering against the remnants of his fellow angels, of his friends, Merlin struggled against his harsh breaths, straining to stay silent, for Avalon's sake be silent! The overpowering reek of death and blood and burning and rotting would conceal his scent from the monster, but any noise would be like a mighty crash of thunder in the cavern and his magic couldn't stand against this beast. Not anymore.

Time almost seemed to grind to a halt. Slowly, slowly, the creature of claret scales and deadly teeth and coal black eyes, darker than the crushing air of the cavern, moved past Merlin's hiding spot. Merlin didn't sleep until the beast did. And this time he truly believed he would never wake.


The mysterious man that had lingered upon Arthur's dreams was noticeably absent that night. Every single night for the past five days he had been there, urging him to stop The Purge but he hadn't known how, hadn't been able to face his father's raw fury. Now the man – angel, his mind whispered - was gone and it terrified Arthur like nothing else. Jerking awake he found himself incapable of drifting into slumber again.

Lying awake, moonlight streaking over his face and pained cries floating through his windows, Arthur wished for the angel to return to him. He never said much, just begged him night after night to end The Purge, to stop the deaths, to make the blood stop flowing. And yet the man's voice was soothing and gentle in a way that relaxed Arthur without fail. How was it possible to miss something that may not even be?

Eyes drooping but refusing to close and surrender Arthur to the bliss of sleep, a new voice, a darker stronger, more gravelly voice, resounded through Arthur's fatigued brain.

Kill him. Kill the king. Stop their suffering, kill the king.

And he listened. Trance-like Arthur stood, hand reaching blindly for his sword, gripping the hilt tight in a white-knuckled fist. He knew what he was doing. The truth of his soon-to-be actions roiled through his veins ceaselessly and churned in his stomach. Doubt gripped his heart. Maybe he should ask Morgana if the angel had visited her? As far as he knew she had never heard the elusive stranger, but what if tonight was different?

Foolish boy. You hear their shrieks, they are dying. Uther must die. Kill him!

Steeling his resolve and tightening his grasp on the cool metal of his sword even more, Arthur stepped into the draughty corridors of the castle, bare feet burning with the icy cool touch of flagstones. Mindless of his inappropriate apparel Arthur strode past guards, men who should have been ready and were failing their sire as they did nothing to stop their entranced prince.

Push on heavy oak, glossy with coat upon coat of lacquer, into the fire-warmed room, logs still blazing in the hearth. The same wood that was ending lives at that very second. The voice was growing restless 'Now! Do it now, stop this! End his life, end the purge! Kill him!'. That soft voice, his angel, had left him, abandoned him, this was his only choice now.

Silver gleamed high above golden hair and a lone, silent tear slipped down Arthur's cheek as the metal sliced through the air-

-and jarred against nothing. Glancing up, confused and afraid, bright blue eyes met dark warm brown. Guinevere. Her face was written with terror and shock but she continued to tug at the halted sword, prising it away from Arthur's frozen hold. Silently she led him away, yanking him by the arm all the way to Morgana's rooms and easing him in until the door shut softly behind them. Immediately Morgana was on her feet, dressed in her nightgown, the windows on the far wall firmly closed.

"Gwen? What happened? Why have you got Arthur's sword?" In a hushed voice Gwen explained the rather disturbing scene she had happened upon while she gently pushed a pale Arthur into a chair. Aghast Morgana turned to the trembling prince, the glare smouldering in her eyes softening at the sight of the broken prince. Smoothing back the sweat-soaked hair on Arthur's forehead Morgana softly asked Arthur why he would try such a thing – even if Uther was a cold bastard of man.

Turning hurt, vulnerable eyes to his adoptive sister Arthur spoke cryptically, his voice breaking;

"He didn't talk to me tonight Morgana. He wasn't there. Where'd he go?" Without an answer she simply stroked his hair and whispered him to a dreamless sleep.