Chapter 7 - Hope

"Is it possible?" Percival asked, helping Merlin to lean against a tree. "What about the peace treaty?"

"If Lot thinks I'm dead, he could make that an end to our peace," Arthur said. They had talked about it before the battle. They had to consider scenarios in which their presumed allies would turn against Camelot in the event of Arthur's fall.

"But Camelot isn't defenseless," Percival pointed out.

"No. But it's clearly weakened. Besides, Lot needs to see the ruler as a threat, not as a sovereign. He's not afraid of Guinevere and that's enough for him to take his chances."

"He's no better than Cenred," Percival said. "You think he's just testing his boundaries?"

"If he's alone, then it's possible. If he found an ally..." he left the thought unfinished, contemplating anyone who would plot against him. Camelot had been at peace with the four kingdoms for more than five years now and none of his allies had broken the treaties when Morgana attacked. It seemed improbable that Lot would dare to gather the surviving members of Morgana's army and take his chances with Camelot by himself. Improbable, but not impossible.

He knew that their safety was secondary now. They needed to focus on the people of Camelot, and he needed to warn Guinevere, but even with a horse chances were they wouldn't be able to get there in time. And they certainly didn't have a horse.

"I should go," Percival suddenly offered, as if he could read Arthur's thoughts. "If I run through the night, I might be able to warn Camelot."

But Arthur only shook his head. "Alone... it's not worth the risk."

He looked at Merlin, consideration shifting in his eyes. Merlin was still trembling slightly, and naturally, Arthur wondered if he was capable of any sort of magic, though the thought made him feel ashamed of himself. After everything his servant had been through, he simply found it ridiculously arrogant to ask him for more help.

But perhaps, there was one thing Merlin would be able to do.

"Merlin?" Arthur asked carefully. "Can you warn Guinevere? The way you warned me?" he suggested and nervously crouched by the warlock again. Percival was sitting opposite, so they created a circle just like they used to in Camelot around the round table.

Merlin shook his head. It was painfully obvious how much he hated to disappoint Arthur. "I've tried," he admitted. Without a firm hold on his magic and without a crystal, he couldn't see a way to do it.

Arthur nodded in acceptance, and his warrior's instincts started to kick in. They needed a plan. Merlin first heard the army two days ago. Arthur presumed it had taken them a day to reach the border of Camelot, though he couldn't be sure. It had been three days since Camlann and Lot's army could have been already waiting on the border when the battle started. If that was the case, they could expect the first advanced guards in a matter of hours.

Merlin suddenly shifted, trying to get closer to the lingering fire behind Arthur. He slowly lifted his hand and Arthur moved away in respect or caution, he didn't know. Something was telling him this wasn't a good idea, but they needed to make sure Merlin's magic was truly not an option.

As the spell crossed Merlin's mind, the space between his outstretched hand and the fire exploded with lightening. Merlin's hand jerked back with the spell's recoil, flying like a rag doll through the air, taking the rest of his body with him and pushing him harshly to the hard earth.

Arthur hissed compassionately. "At least we cleared that up."

"I'm sorry," Merlin said slowly. His hand was still shaking, but luckily no serious harm was done. It was a good sign that he didn't black out.

Arthur exchanged a worried look with Percival. "You have nothing to apologize for. We'll wait," Arthur decided at last. He hated to say it, but from his perspective, there was really nothing they could do but to wait till Merlin healed enough to rule his magic again. "Take some rest. We'll carry on in an hour."

"I'll take the watch," Percival offered himself, suggesting that Arthur should rest for a while as well. The king nodded. "Be careful."

"Come on, let's get you back," Arthur took Merlin's forearm to get him away from the smoking fire.

"Something's bothering you," Merlin whispered when Arthur lowered him down to the base of a tree, tightening the bandage around his ribs. "You are quiet. Percival doesn't even look at me..."

The knight was collecting firewood a few feet away from their position. Arthur looked in his direction with compassion. He sighed and licked his lips.

"It's Gwaine," he said, carefully looking into Merlin's uncomprehending face. "He stood up to Morgana," Arthur explained. He swallowed hard, realising that his own eyes were suddenly flooded with tears. His throat constrained. "He didn't have a chance."

Merlin stared blankly, his breath hitching silently. He thought he should cry, but no tears fell and he hardly felt the hollowing pain of loss that usually bore into his heart. Instead of everything he expected to feel, there was just emptiness. "I think I knew," Merlin said in the shortness of his breath. "I think I felt it."

"I'm sorry," Arthur said honestly, giving Merlin's shoulder a reassuring squeeze. "I know you were good friends," he added, standing up.

"What happened," Merlin urged, trying to make Arthur look in his eyes.

The king crouched down again, speaking slowly, carefully and with such kindness that it reminded him of Gaius's soothing voice. "The girl you treated, Eira-"

Merlin's heart sank at the mention of that name.

"Gaius managed to warn Guinevere before she could do any more harm, but... Gwaine felt responsible. Wanted to set things right."

Merlin closed his eyes shortly. It made sense. It was exactly what Gwaine would do.

"Rest now," Arthur whispered, once again squeezing the warlock's shoulder. He was glad Merlin didn't have more questions. Telling him that Gwaine was tortured to death wouldn't help anything, and he was determined to conceal the whole truth for as long as possible.

...

Merlin was staring into the fire, holding a piece of a roasted rabbit in his hand, but Arthur noticed he wasn't actually taking a bite. His eyes were dark with sorrow, but no tears fell. Merlin looked like a shadow of his usual self and Arthur knew he must have lost a few pounds in the past few days.

"The dark magic. How does it work?" Arthur asked, tearing Merlin out of his thoughts.

Merlin blinked at him in a surprise. "I don't know," he admitted. "I've never..."

It was ironical. Merlin was permitted to talk about magic in front of Arthur, but suddenly he had nothing to say. He realised he didn't understand magic more than Arthur or Percival did. There was nothing special about him. Without his powers, he had nothing to offer.

"May I suggest something, sire," Percival said carefully when he returned to their camp. Merlin realised he must have been listening to their conversation. "You said that Mordred's sword and your sword were both forged in dragon's breath."

Arthur nodded shortly.

"Can't they react to each other somehow?" he asked simply.

Arthur frowned in confusion and looked at Merlin. "I carried my sword all the way to Avalon. It didn't seem to have any influence-"

"Yes, but you don't-"

"- have magic," Merlin finished Percival's sentence, his glassy eyes leaving the fire and resting on Percival. He swallowed and put the untouched rabbit on the ground, still processing the idea.

"That might actually work," Merlin confirmed. He knew that there was a difference between things made with the help of magic and things created out of magic. Arthur's sword carried magic so strong it became the sword itself. And such an artefact could become a never-ending source of magic.

"It might be able to quicken the healing," Merlin explained. His voice was filled with a hope and enthusiasm that had become rare in the past few days. He gave Percival a short grateful smile, beckoning Arthur to hand him his sword.

"It's just like you said, Percival. It's filled with Kilgharrah's magic," Merlin explained, looking at the sword lying in his lap, lightly touching the engraving on it with his fingers. "Magic that opposes the dark magic of Mordred's sword."

"Merlin," Arthur stopped him, "you just proved that using magic is a complete madness. If the spell goes wrong..." he went silent, trying not to imagine what would happen. The healing was bad enough the way it was.

Merlin knew what Arthur meant. He believed that the pain in his side was caused by the piece of Mordred's sword moving towards the entrance of the wound under the influence of Kilgharrah's enchantment. What he was planning to do was to enhance the magic to repel the piece of dark magic more quickly. He didn't need to think hard to imagine what the most possible result of such an action would be.

"It's worth a try," Merlin said eventually, though Arthur recognized that the look in his eyes didn't quite match the conviction in his voice. He didn't need to be healed completely. All he needed was to get the piece that was influencing his magic out of his body. "Besides, I'm not really planning to cast."

Arthur and Percival exchanged confused looks.

"I can feel the power of the sword just like I can feel the magic of nature," Merlin said lightly. "My magic and the magic of the sword can become one. I don't have to do anything. It will take its course."

Arthur stared at him for a moment. "Merlin-"

"If it doesn't work, we can try the waiting strategy," Merlin gave Arthur a hesitant smile and grabbed the hilt of the sword firmly in his right hand, leaving the blade resting on his left palm. He focused on breathing and perceived the little vibrations of the magic in his hands.

Nothing happened at first. But after several long minutes, he managed to create a stable connection with the ancient magic of the sword. He felt his own magic strengthening and trembling under the power of the weapon. His hands shook and he clenched his jaw to prevent his teeth from clattering. It wasn't painful, but it felt very close to it.

His body felt lighter and warmer as the magic kept spreading through his veins. It was almost like coming back to his normal self, a strange combination of familiarity and rightfulness that made him feel safe.

Suddenly he hissed and his hands released the weapon. Wavering, Merlin gave out a long exhalation as his limp body fell to the ground, and he moved no more.

Percival took the sword and put it next to Merlin's body. The warlock looked half asleep, his eye-lids trembling slightly. "Was that supposed to happen?" the knight asked.

"I don't know," Arthur admitted, trying to provoke some reaction from Merlin by placing a hand on his forehead. He cursed in his mind. If only he knew how magic worked, if only he had someone to ask, to reassure him that it was all right.

"We'll just have to wait," he decided after a while, holding onto the regularity of Merlin's breathing. As long as there was breath in his lungs, there was nothing to worry about, after all.

...

Arthur found Percival in a deep sleep when he returned to the camp. Merlin turned his head slightly when Arthur knelt down to check on his state. His eyes were open but Arthur could see that in the depth there was pain and resignation. Merlin wasn't fighting anymore, as if his body was no longer responding to the wound and the torturous healing. He was calm, his skin turned from white paleness to gray and green. His breaths were shallow and heavy, as if there was something holding him on the very edge of death and life, but Merlin couldn't make himself care anymore. Maybe he didn't want to care.

Arthur prayed they hadn't made a mistake.

"Merlin-" he moved above him, locking his gaze with the blackness in Merlin's eyes, desperate to read anything that could help him to understand what was going on. He took Merlin's head in his hands, trying to give him something to connect his world with reality. Merlin's eyes were indifferent and he didn't even blink when Arthur repeated his name a second time.

Once again, Arthur found himself torn between his trust in Merlin and his own instincts. He doubted the Great Dragon and he cursed the neckerchief that forced them to undergo a journey full of pain, insecurity, and blind trust.

But he knew that if Merlin could talk, he wouldn't let Arthur take the neckerchief off. And maybe that's what it was all about. Not about trusting the Dragon, but respecting his friend.

"Merlin," Arthur said again. He would bet that Merlin wasn't even aware of his presence and yet, he was the one Merlin's gaze couldn't leave. Even if his eyes were dead, they managed to lock with something that gave him a direction.

It was ironical that when Merlin's groans ceased, Arthur would have given everything to hear them again, to see him move or at least blink. Anything, but this horrible silence. Because he could see that Merlin was in pain, maybe more than before, only now he couldn't express it.

"You have to come back to me, Merlin," Arthur whispered, his own voice strained with fear and frustration. "You have to hold on," he said slowly and tenderly. It wasn't an order, it was a wish.

He knelt beside Merlin's prone body, holding his head and looking in his eyes, repeating the words again and again. It seemed endless. All the details he could suddenly recognize in Merlin's face, the little wrinkles on his forehead and around his eyes, the slight quivering of his upper lip whenever he sucked air in. His eye-lids trembled slightly in a weak sign that there was still life in his body.

Percival shifted in his sleep, tearing Arthur from his thoughts.

Arthur's head dropped on his chest, he took a few deep breaths and stood up. He had to accept that there was nothing he could do, but wait. He looked at the knight again, who seemed to be in a deep sleep. At least Percival had found some peace for a while.

...

Darkness surrounded him. He was sure his eyes were wide open, desperately seeking any kind of light or movement, but there was only an endless void. He could have been blind, or perhaps there was simply nothing to be seen. It was cold. Horribly cold.

The tips of his fingers were trembling, but not from the cold or fear. There was something different there, tender waves that were slowly permeating his body and filling it with warmth and energy.

There were voices. Muffled and subdued whispers merging with sharp and urgent screams. Some of them were distant and shattered as if they came from underwater, others loud, but unclear all the same, distorted by ringing echoes that followed.

He could think and he could hear, but he couldn't move or talk or see.

There was his consciousness that held the knowledge of who he used to be, but it was separated from the rest of him. He was strangely helpless and still. He remembered how life tasted, and the state he found himself in couldn't be more distant from it. The memory of Arthur's sword in his hands seemed too old, but it was the most recent image he recalled, and the atmosphere of the forest still lingered in his mind, like the trace of strawberries in his mouth.

He was dead.

Or he was dying. It was as close to non-existence as he could imagine. He knew he would be dead once his consciousness broke off completely, once the memories faded away along with the sour taste of strawberries.

He heard Arthur's laugh. The mocking kind.

And things didn't matter quite as much as they used to.

He felt small. Exposed and lonely, and his sense of vulnerability was growing and overshadowing the peace and composure he held in his heart.

He felt younger than he had ever felt in his life. An old, familiar fear started to creep through him, feeding his mind with frightening scenarios. He used to be so afraid of night and darkness as a child, and suddenly he remembered why.

Anything could happen. The predictable didn't exist.

He felt like an opened wound which was about to be filled with salt.

And he could do nothing to protect himself. He couldn't hide or run.

A slight pressure on his shoulder and the cold voice in his head was all he had. It was strangely comforting, horrible and somehow painful, but still it was some comfort. He welcomed it and drank from its depths like a man drinks water after a week spent in a desert.

"I'm dead," Merlin admitted, and the threads binding him to life snapped. The pull he hadn't been aware of until now disappeared. His heart urged him to think of his father, but his mind focused on his mother only, and no matter how hard he tried, it seemed impossible to keep them both.

"We are all dying, Emrys. You should know that."

Merlin would turn around if he could. "Iseldir?" he thought. It was strange to hear his own voice in his head.

"We know, Emrys. We know what happened at the lake and we know about the army marching on Camelot. We've been trying to warn you, but without success. Listen to us and do as we say. Together, we can save your kingdom."

Merlin's heart immediately filled with huge amount of gratitude, but it couldn't be that easy. There had to be an obstacle. "My magic-"

"We know how to help you, Emrys. It is important that you listen carefully now. The future of Albion lies in your hands."