Chapter 4 The knowing comes...

Merlin lifted the horn to his lips. The humming of its power grew into a torrent of sound, piercing through the fog that filled the circle of the Stones of Nemeton. The immense age of the dark stones soothed him. They were a bulwark of magic, replete with a deep sense of familiarity and danger, with an echo of legend. He felt the first breath of the unworldly wind race against him. His magic skirled against the constraints of the stones, calling into the depths of another world. To hold the opening as he moved into the circle, took no more strength than moving aside a curtain. Closing his eyes, he stepped forward into the sacred space. But where he expected to find the figure of the Cailleach, where he half-expected to see Arthur seething at him, he saw only shadows in the fog. He heard the soft sounds of breathing, the rustle of clothing.

"Arthur" called Merlin. His voice was soft, tentative. It sank into the unnatural stillness of the fog.

His handfire shot up into the sky, it's blue light shining through the fog in an eerie way. Figures began to move; vague, almost substantial fingers plucked at him. The whisper touches suddenly grew stronger; invisible fingers were snatching at his clothing, quickly growing into shoves. Insubstantial faces swam in the cold mist. Merlin turned slowly, comprehension dawning. He was surrounded. The circle of stone was filled with dead.

Bandits, assassins, mercenary soldiers, archers, old threats materialized out of the fog. The face of a bandit, his face disfigured by a blow to his head, leered at Merlin. He heard the ring of steel. Skeletal hands shoved him behind the knees and he stumbled into a dark grunting shadow. The figure shoved his face up to Merlin's, still reeking of filth and blood and spat in his face.

"You killed me," he whispered in Merlin's ear, and then he screamed. With his horrific squeal, the shadows clawed forward.

"Crushed me!" The voices surged and the blows came harder as the warlock fought his way to his feet again.

"Burned me!"

"Broke my neck!"

"Killed me you did, you skinny bastard!"

The crowd surged at him, fate written on their ghostly bodies, their eyes reflecting their desperation at the moment of their death and Merlin was being swept into their retribution. Invisible bodies shoved at him. They hurled him amongst themselves; he lost his balance, stumbling into the insubstantial wave of anger that clutched at him. But his own anger came to his defense. It surged out of him, like a torrent of lava, destroying mindlessly, his eyes flaring gold as he swept the field clear effortlessly. "Forlætaþ," he shouted. *

The spirits were tumbling now, dissolving into wisps and tatters of anger, an ash of darkness swept away by the golden motes that shot from his hand as his spell dismissed them, like so much chaff in the wind.

As he turned, the figure of Uther came at him though the mist, his eyes shining with unholy contempt and a righteous anger.

"What have you done?" His voice thundered through the fog, but Merlin had no time for this confrontation. He cursed the delay. He had to find Arthur. The scar on Uther's forehead stood out starkly on his pale face as he swam into view.

"It is you who have brought my son to this terrible fate. It was your influence, you thrice damned sorcerous bastard. All of this is on your hands!"

He reached out to strangle Merlin. His wraith hands fastened around his throat with a burning cold, but Merlin threw him off with contemptuous shove.

"You can do nothing here, Uther! You could not face the truth when you were alive and now you are nothing more than a vicious memory. Go!" With a warding gesture of his hand, the sputtering figure of Uther faded into a fog of red and muted silver. His clutching hands were the last to disappear and Merlin looked ahead into the fog with a sudden stab of satisfaction. The slight figure of a blond woman reached out to him in sadness but he strode past her. Somewhere in this cold nightmare was his King.

"Arthur!" he called again. He ran forward, but in the fog he was quickly lost in the shifting obscurity.

Glowing snakes on a shield surged by in an eddy of golden motes, a scarred and hideous face leered, the Sidhe of Avalon glared at him from the roiling mist that now surrounded him. But Merlin could not be deterred. He brushed the energies aside, his eyes scanning the clouds of his enemies, who even now surged towards him their silent mouths frozen in a wordless rictus, forever screaming his name. His eyes blazed and the mists faded once more.

There in the mist, he glimpsed a figure that made him rush ever more quickly through the fog. Lancelot. He was sure of it. His cape swirled as he moved in the dim light. The knight turned to face him, his eyes grave and kind as always. "Merlin," the knight began softly.

"Help me Lancelot," cried Merlin, rushing to embrace the knight. "You must help me find Arthur!, Quickly, or we are lost!" The figure did not move , even as Merlin turned as if to continue looking. "He must return to the world of the living in my place." His voice slowed as a sinking fear began to uncoil. "Where is he?"

But Lancelot did not answer, his eyes pleading for understanding as he looked down at his friend. Merlin's eyes filled with horror.

"Merlin, he's..."

The warlock twisted in pain, gasping as he shoved at the knight. Merlin tore himself away from his former friend with an inarticulate cry, his frustration and anger piercing through the fog. Lancelot's immaterial hands scrabbling at nothing as he tried to call Merlin back.

"Listen to me," he shouted, but the warlock was gone, slipping through the fog like a spirit himself. More chain mail shimmered in the nightmare dark. Lancelot called to him again. The thought he glimpsed Elyan, trying to turn him, urging Merlin to wait. But he could not pause.

In the shifting fog, in the doubts and fears of his heart, he could not find Arthur. The surging shapes and voices took on a delusional sharpness and his heart pounded in his chest. His brain was thundering with power and despair and the voices of those he had lost called out to him.

The warlock tripped, crashing headlong into Will, who was red faced and shouting. He shoved Merlin backwards and then caught him by his shirt again. He pulled Merlin to himself roughly, "Listen," he growled, but the dark haired young man jerked away from him, ignoring the biting truth in Will's voice as he called to him. "You will have to listen!"

Merlin panted in the darkness, trying to choke back sobs that threatened his focus. His eyes searching still for some sign of the King. He glimpsed a slight dark figure in the shifting mists. Freya. His heart exploded with hope once more as he rushed towards her. She called his name and he found her pliant form pressed against his own with wonder. Freya looked up at him with a terrible sorrow, with a soul shaking compassion in her dark eyes.

"He's not here, Merlin." There was nothing but sadness and love in her voice and Merlin felt his heart sink. It couldn't be. He could not understand. He shook his head.

"No," he whispered desperately "Not this! No!"

"Merlin, please listen to me... He's waiting."

"No," he screamed, backing away from Freya, as if she had become his worst nightmare. He stumbled backward, running once again.

He was here to take his place. This was part of the trial he told himself. He was being tested,the dead were only testing his resolution. The surety that been his when Arthur lived, gushed from his aching heart like a fatal wound. He was certain of nothing. He looked about hopelessly. Faltering.

Merlin saw only the curling swirls of the fog that obscured his vision. Cold and damp, the air was still thick with the cries of the dead seeking their retribution. They echoed strangely through the fog. It shimmered,almost like a heat haze, but it was unnaturally cold. The mist curdled and shifted. He rushed forward, seeing a figure in the depths of the fog, but he crashed into another shape that rose up before him suddenly. It was a figure so familiar that Merlin felt no start of fear but then his heart began to pound anew. Guilt and sorrow filled him .

"Gawaine" he whispered.

"No, please, not...," he murmured brokenly, his anguish too deep for more than this . "Gawaine, I've killed you all," he whispered. The agony in his eyes was deeper than tears, he shook with the pain as he looked up at his friend. But the knight reached for him with a terrible neediness, as if his heart could not rest.

"I failed..." said Gawaine. His whisper was heart-broken , but Merlin could not bear to hear any more. The warlock fell to his knees as if his friend had run him through with a sword, and he collapsed at the knight's feet, sobbing incoherently.

His heart was pleading as he looked at the ghost of the man who had embodied the very strength and joy of mortal life. "What have I done? Gawaine, I'm sorry... I'm lost... There isn't much time." Struggling to speak, he reached blindly towards the knight. "Help me. I have to find Arthur..."

The knight's hands touched Merlin's shoulders, his grip still strong and sure, but Merlin could not bear the comfort he found there. He tried to twist away but Gawaine held him firmly.

"Merlin," said the knight, quietly. "Listen mate. He's not here. Arthur's not here."

"But he died, Gawaine! He died in my arms and I..." He choked on his words.

Elyan and Lancelot were beside them suddenly. Their dark, tragic eyes were focused on him, as he looked back at them uncomprehending.

"He's not here," he said, as if to himself, shocked and shattered. "Not here." He staggered to his feet, his face a mask of stunned disbelief. He tried to breathe into his denial, but the truth sang to him. The truth struck through him with a fatal agony. There was no escape.

Planting his feet, he breathed into the magic that eddied and swirled against the stones of the circle. The mist cloyed at him, the ghosts of tears. The dead were nearing. The waves of dead came through the fog, riding a crest of retribution, weapons and limbs and faces shimmering blood. The trio of knights turned and rose as one, as if to defend him. The warlock felt as if his heart was giving out at last, gashed open by this last irony. The hopeless courage of his companions wounded him; their friendship struck him through with an unnameable pain. The Merlin they remembered and sought to defend was no more. It no longer mattered that he had never needed their protection. It no longer mattered that they would never know who he truly had been.

He was no longer Merlin. Arthur was beyond his reach. Gone to a place where even the most loyal friend could not follow. Even in the spirit world, his king could not be found. The fires of his anger filled him. The injustice, the fate that had driven them to this unbelievable hell consumed him. Was it for this that he had sacrificed all he loved, all he might have been. Had he lost everything, only to face this, his last and most despairing failure? The roiling mass of souls surged towards them. His power swept around him like a wave, swelling and tumbling, sending every apparition it touched into a column of fiery pulsing. But even that was not enough to quell the anger that possessed Merlin in that moment.

"Then let me burn," he cried. He let his magic consume him, to flood him, to make him blaze like lightning. He screamed with the pain of the convulsing earth itself.

Fire blazed from the circle of stone, it surged against their magical confines and towered into the endless dark of the night. Dragonfire could not hold the agony that filed him, that blazed out of him, that lit him like a living pyre as he screamed his loss into the land of shadows. In the end, when the morning rose cold and heavy with clouds, only ash blew in the silent, half toppled circle of stones.

* Forlætaþ - Leave/surrender

A/N I am not completely evil. (ha!) Merlin still lives. One more chapter and then the epilogue. My deepest and most heartfelt thanks to everyone who is reading this story. Your support means more to me than you can know.