A foot kicks Merlin's shin. Merlin doesn't move from where he's wrapped in his bedroll. The foot kicks his thigh.

"'m up," he mumbles and curls away. A beat, and the foot kicks Merlin's arse.

Merlin throws out a leg, hooks an ankle, and yanks. There's a muffled curse as his assailant nearly loses his footing. Merlin doesn't crack an eye. "Serves you right for kicking me."

"I'm not." Unbelievably, the foot is back, burrowing between Merlin's ribs.

Merlin seizes to a seat. Every muscle groans, from behind his ear to the arch of his foot. He's always healed quickly, a side effect of his gifts. Yet this night, his magic hasn't healed him, hasn't rejuvenated him from within. At this rate, there will be no reason for him to accompany Arthur into the Dark Tower. He'll be as useless as Arthur always says.

Speaking of, Arthur stands above him, clearly thinking the same. Yet Arthur says nothing. Doesn't chastise Merlin for lounging abed. Instead, he extends a water skin.

Grateful, Merlin accepts the offering and tips it back. Back and back, yet nary a drop.

"You'll want to fill that," Arthur says, over his shoulder, already moving off.

The stream flows steady, criss-crossed with a healthy amount of fallen trees and meandering cutbacks that trap water into a sanctuary for all sorts of interesting creatures.

As Merlin picks his way toward an exposed bank that overlooks a serene pool, he feels a cool breeze waft from the water, a good indication that the stream likely started as snow atop the craggy peaks they rapidly approach. It chills his skin, raising the hairs. Yet it's not only from the cold. He gets some sense that he's not alone. That eyes watch. And then it comes, a tinkle of laughter.

He listens. "Is someone there?"

For a moment, there's nothing but the burble of the stream. Likely just some trick of sound. Then something splashes at his feet, and he startles. He looks down to see a silver shape dart away.

"Oh," he says, feeling silly. It's a fish. "Sorry to scare you."

Gingerly, Merlin works his way to a crouch. His hamstrings scream, knees creak. When he lowers his leather skin in to the water, he gets another nasty shock. Literally. He yelps and draws his hand back as though he's been stung. The water skin splats to the bank, water bubbling back to the earth. His fingers tingle, and he tells himself that it's just from the cold.

Ready this time, he tries again, lowering the skin into the water. He would have thought he'd be acclimated by now or at least gone numb. But if anything, the cold feels worse than before, daggers against his flesh. At least this time, there's no sudden sting. He forces himself to hold the skin under, as long as he can. When it's full enough, he goes to pull out.

He can't.

The skin has snagged on something. Merlin dips a second hand to feel around its base. Yet the straps drift free, nothing for them to catch on. The water is so clear he can see straight to the smooth rocks that line the bottom. The sense of being watched intensifies.

Merlin tugs at his hands in earnest. Yet still they remain fast, as though they're clamped in the stocks. He can wiggle his fingers, make fists, but can't move his wrists.

Merlin stills and considers his options. His hands feel as though they're on fire. This has gone from curious to dangerous. This isn't natural. It's sorcery. Perhaps some latent trap that Morgana has planted on their path to ensnare Emrys.

If Merlin's magic were cooperating, he could use it to extricate himself. But he can feel that it's drained further in the night. He's almost afraid to call. He tries anyway, a wordless cry, can't chance a sound. Somewhere within, his magic flutters. But it's a bird with a broken wing, can't take flight. It's weaker than he's ever felt. He tries again and again until he breathes heavily and something within him seems to fracture. Now his magic hardly stirs, a corpse at the bottom of a cage.

Moments pass as Merlin fights to stay calm, nothing to be gained by flailing against the inevitable. He sits still and waits. Waits for someone to come find him, defenseless as a bunny in a snare.

Soon he becomes aware of a sound, a murmur beneath the tumble of water over rock. And the sound, it's a voice. Merlin cranes an ear toward the water. As he gets closer, careful not to tip forward into the stream, the sound gets stronger, filtering from the water itself. He begins to make out the words.

"…can't have it. We won't let you. Won't help you. Not you. Never you."

The sentiment repeats, a babble of can'ts and won'ts. Incongruous, that such a mellifluous voice would deliver such hateful words. He gets the sense that this stream doesn't want him to steal its water. It doesn't seem malicious, merely stubborn. But before he can move, a wave crests, and water laps over his ear. It's a slap to the face, ice on his cheek. The voices are louder now, a steady chant.

"Stop," Merlin gurgles, but the voices don't stop. They don't seem to hear.

Water pours into his mouth, down his throat, filling him up. Water seeks to drown him. He struggles against it, flailing like a fish on a line, but to no avail. If anything, his efforts draw him deeper, until his face is fully submerged.

Merlin thought he's known fear.

But he's known nothing.

Panic grips with an iron fist. He can't breathe. He's snorting water and choking on it. Water swallows his eyeballs, his nostrils, his lips. All it will take is an inhale and water will flood his lungs and Arthur will come looking to see what's taking so long and will find him here, face-down, only Merlin could drown in two feet of water—

The thought of Arthur sparks Merlin's magic. Weak, like a dying gasp, but it's enough to wrench Merlin free and lurch him backward. He lands hard on the bank, choking and coughing.

The stream isn't done with him. Below, water roils and boils, it means to flood him. Merlin scrabbles farther up the bank. From his vantage point, he can see that the water no longer flows in its usual direction. It circles into a whirlpool, gathering itself. Instead of funneling down, as such whirlpools do, the water funnels up. It rises and congeals into an amorphous shape that eventually settles into something that could pass as human.

More specifically, a woman. Merlin can see through her, to the trees beyond. A few tadpoles flit in her belly, frantic. When they breach her skin, they pop out and dive back into the stream.

Merlin stares.

She stares right back. "Oh," she says, though she has no mouth. "It's you." Her face is fluid, no eyes or nose or lips, so no hint of human expression. Yet Merlin detects a note of wonder. "We are the same."

She contorts this way and that, studying him from all angles. Then she surges forward, her face an inch from his nose. Merlin flashes his palm (habit), and the woman draws back. She sheds water until she's no bigger than a child.

"We mean you no harm."

Merlin coughs. "You tried to drown me."

"We sought to cleanse you."

Ominous. "From what?"

The woman undulates. "Blood magic." Merlin had read the term once in a book he'd burned. But he's not sure, what it might have to do with him. "Let us help you."

The water-girl holds out an appendage that might be an arm. It has no fingers. Yet it's a gesture he recognizes. She's asking him to trust.

Merlin can't. "Fool me once."

"We helped you before. We will again."

Before, she says, as in—

"The dorocha. That was you?"

"Our sisters."

Merlin can't believe he's considering having another go. There's little chance his magic will save him, not again, should this be a trap. Yet he doesn't like the sound of this blood magic. And he has no quarrel with the water spirits.

So he inhales and takes her hand. This time, the water doesn't feel cold. It's almost warm, soothing. A good sign, he decides, and lets her draw him forward, gentle this time. He kneels anew on the bank. The water-woman releases him and melts back into the stream, as though she never was.

Merlin dips a single finger. For several seconds, nothing happens. Then, illuminated shapes begin to drift toward him, wriggling through the water like tadpoles. They converge on his finger as though it's a lure. When they touch his skin, they wiggle through it and into him. He can feel them breach his flesh like leeches, and he braces for the pain. Instead, it almost tickles. He can see them, moving like lightning under his skin, swimming up his veins, racing up his arm. In its wake, the lights leave shiny and clean, like the swipe of a rag against filthy armor.

The motes of light begin to illuminate his insides. And somehow, he can see within, to his deepest, darkest places. Healing magic has never been his strongest gift. But the few times he's been successful at healing people—Arthur, Morgana, even Uther—it felt a bit like this. He was starting to get a glimpse of what could be.

But this.

This is a million times better.

He can see his innards as clearly as a map. He can see why his magic won't come, why he's been so lethargic, why he won't heal. For there's a sticky black pitch spread like a fungus across his insides. It's coated his magic, grounded it.

"Blood magic," the water murmurs. "Of the witch."

There's only one witch they could mean. This was Morgana's doing after all, a parting gift during their last encounter. She took an owl's life and used that blood, that death to plant an insidious seed within Merlin. One that would have grown and grown and consumed, had not the water sprite sussed it out.

Merlin is abruptly parched, as though he's gone days without water. He splashes both arms in, braces himself on the rocks at the bottom, and lowers his head to drink. Liquid spills over his lips, his tongue, better than any kiss. Yet it's not enough, it's nowhere near enough. Greedy, Merlin shoves his whole head under the water.

The world shifts.

He can hear them now, the voices. So many voices, as though he's stepped into a crowded marketplace. Lively spirits going about their lives, doing their part to keep the water clear and its creatures healthy. And as he becomes aware of them, they become aware of him. His presence ripples through them, not unlike when Arthur struts through the lower town. These are Merlin's people. Like him, they are creatures of magic.

It's him, they say. Him, others echo.

They come from miles upstream and downstream, swarming to him, placing their hands on him.

He relaxes and opens himself to it, to them, lets water flow over and through him. Slowly, water washes him clean, makes him whole. Morgana's stain wipes away, powerless in the face of water's gentle persistence. For the first time, Merlin understands how mighty water can be. Even the mountains give way before it. It brings life to all corners of the earth, the blood vessels of the land. Here, with his arms rooted into the stream, Merlin feels omniscient, for he can see many places at once, all across Albion, the places where water roams.

He could have remained underwater forever, exploring the reaches of the land, feeling himself expanded and infinite.

"It is done," water murmurs, a caress in his ear, and Merlin can feel it. With magic in his breast and water at his fingertips, he can carve mountains like clay. He can rustle up a hurricane. He could send a tsunami to tumble a tower. "We'll spread the word."

Before his lips can shape words, to ask what word they will spread, to whom they will spread it, there's a jerk at his neck. Someone yanks him bodily by the collar, out of the water, out of that world.

Merlin sprawls to the earth, stunned. He can no longer hear them, the voices. The silence aches. His hands are hands. Water is only water.

"Hey," a voice says. "Wake up." A hand pats at his cheek.

He focuses on Gwaine's face. The knight kneels before him, hands on his shoulders. Holding him up.

"His Royal Backside sent me to make sure you hadn't fallen in," Gwaine says. "I didn't think he meant literally." Despite his jovial smile, his eyes are worried.

Merlin shakes his head, focusing himself, dislodging water from his ears. "Sorry, I was…" There are no words for what he was doing, not really. "Communing with a water nymph." He tacks on a cheeky grin, as though he jokes.

Gwaine doesn't seem convinced, but Merlin has said the magic word. This knight can't resist a nymph. "Introduce me?"

He pulls Merlin to his feet. Merlin unfurls to his full height and nothing hurts. For the first time in days, he stands tall. He stands strong.

Merlin pushes past Gwaine, pats his shoulder. "You're not her type."

Behind him, Gwaine splays his hands wide. "I'm everyone's type."

Merlin and Gwaine rough and tumble through the woods. Merlin bursts with energy, a puppy. It's not enough to walk when you could run. And so he does, racing back to camp as though a dorocha is on his heels. Gwaine can't keep up, not today. When Merlin bursts from the trees, alone, he startles the knights into reaching for their swords.

Merlin holds up his hands, conciliatory. "Sorry, sorry." His grin is infinite.

Arthur stares at him, unable to reconcile this energetic apparition with his stormcloud of a servant. Gwaine tackles Merlin from behind. Merlin has to stagger to keep his feet.

Arthur's mouth goes hard. "I didn't say take a bath."

Merlin shrugs. "I slipped." Then he slants a glance at Gwaine and winks.

Something winks in Arthur's eyes, too. If Merlin didn't know better, he'd think it was hurt. "This is no time for shenanigans. We ride in five." He turns back to Torrento, and that's that.

Merlin swallows a reply, for there's no way to share his newfound ebullience. Arthur can't know that it bodes well for them all. With a final waggle of eyebrows, he and Gwaine hop to it. Everyone else is already packed, fiddling with their saddlebags. Elyan's baptizing the fire with dirt, scattering the embers and ashes, leaving little trace.

Merlin hastens to catch up. To his surprise, he finds nothing but dirt where he and Arthur had lain. His bedroll is already a fat sausage at his saddle. He catches Arthur's side-eye. The King's stern expression doesn't change, but Merlin knows this is his way of apologizing for the water skin.

In less than five minutes, they're mounted. Diablo snorts in surprise at the ease with which Merlin swings astride her. She cranes her neck, peering an eye to validate that he's the same person. As though channeling her rider's mood, she prances, eager as a colt.

Merlin swigs his water. It continues to work its magic, that cool refresh on his lips, buzzing at his tongue. He can't help it, he laughs.

Gwaine swoops in from nowhere and snatches the skin. "I'll have what you're having." He takes a sniff and seems disappointed that it's just water.

They ride.

Merlin, he feels like he could fly. He feels the world around him as acutely as if he were an owl, his senses as sharp as a predator's. Every branch that brushes his leg, every step of a hoof, every particle of air he breathes into his lungs—they each leave behind a sliver and shiver of themselves.

He wonders if this is what the nymph had meant, that she'd spread the word to her kin, the tree sprites and wood sprites, the dryads and the fae, spirits of the earth and air. He's heard stories of such spirits but never seen them for himself. Or, in this case, felt them.

They lend him their strength, piece by piece.

As Merlin's magic swells, he shares it freely, for that's what it's for. It's meant to be used, it's meant to be shared. Through sharing, it grows. Magic straightens shoulders and smooths brows and puts springs in steps. If any in the small company looked back, they might see it, their path sprouted with green. But no one does look back, for they face forward, eyes on what's to come.

Ahead lie the White Mountains, aptly named for their year-round blanket of snow. Back in Arthur's chambers, there had been much discussion of the best way to overcome this obstacle. Ever practical, Sir Leon had suggested they circumvent the mountains, instead follow the river as it cuts its swath to the east. But Arthur has heard rumors of a hidden pass. It's a long shot, yet it would shave hours off their trek, perhaps even half a day. He thinks it's worth the risk.

And so they ride, up and up, past where even the hardiest of trees won't grow. Yet the mountains rise farther still, imposing as an enemy's keep. As they step from the cover of the trees, the wind picks up, snatching at their clothing, nipping at their flesh. Everyone else tucks their fur cloaks more firmly about them, having come prepared. Merlin wears several extra tunics and leggings beneath his usual attire, though he knows from past experience that they do little to block a wind like this. Yet on this day, he hardly feels the cold. If anything, it invigorates him. He can taste the ice in the air. It dissolves on his tongue.

Merlin thinks that, if Arthur asked, he could move this mountain.

Arthur draws up and considers, his expression as forbidding as the rocks ahead. They have but two options, a simple right or left. But the choice is life or death for Guinevere. For they can't afford to backtrack, should Arthur choose wrong. Merlin searches the path ahead but finds only stone, as far as he can see and farther still. There are too many nooks and crannies for him to explore, at least not quickly.

He catches Arthur looking, curious about his intense focus. Perhaps the King hopes he's had a feeling. Merlin's mouth quirks down, an apology. With a tight nod, Arthur wheels Torrento to the right.

They've hardly gone a few paces when Sir Leon makes a choked noise. A ghostly shape blocks their path, where nothing had stood before. It's an overlarge feline, the size of a small pony. Undercoat of the purest white, spotted with black, eyes of ice. Although Merlin has never seen one in the fur, he recognizes it as a snow leopard. Elusive. Rarely seen by the eyes of men, oft called the unicorn of the mountains.

The cat watches them steadily. It's still except the tip of its tail, which twitches.

There's a creak as Percy eases back a bolt on his crossbow. The other knights grip their hilts, at the ready. For all they know, this might be another envoy from Morgana. Before Merlin can speak, can warn against such folly, Arthur holds up a hand.

Percy lowers his bow.

Arthur's no stranger to apparitions in the wild. Wisely, he decides not to look a gift cat in the mouth. Of course, the cat chooses that moment to yawn wide, baring pearly teeth like daggers. It seems unconcerned, bored. Merlin expects that it will lose interest any moment, slip back to whence it came.

Instead, the cat licks its chops and stalks toward them. Right at them, as though it means to engage.

"Hold," Arthur mutters, and everyone does. Defiant, Arthur stares down the cat as it bears on him, betraying no fear. Torrento has no such compunction. He snorts and sidles, and Arthur's forearms cord with the effort of holding the stallion in place. Merlin prepares himself to intervene with a thought. The cat's unblinking stare mesmerizes.

Three metres away. Two metres. One.

Then the leopard walks past Torrento and into the thick of their little herd, wending between the horses' legs. The horses jerk and snort, shifting to make way. Merlin soothes them as best he can. When the leopard reaches Merlin, it steps close and rubs its head against his shin. As though it were a common stable cat. Diablo shows the whites of her eyes.

The cat clears their little band and continues on for a few easy paces. Then it stops and cranes to look at them. Expectant.

The knights are all twisted in their saddles to watch the cat. Faces pale with awe.

"What sorcery is this?" Leon murmurs.

"The good kind," Merlin says, low enough for Arthur not to hear, for he speaks treason. Leon hears, though, eyes sharp when he darts a glance, that Merlin would dare.

Arthur makes another hand motion, this time the one that means follow. Or perhaps that's stay put. Merlin always gets those confused. Slowly, the knights wheel their horses about. Arthur nudges Torrento forward, until he's once more at the front.

The leopard ambles slowly, unconcerned that it's being stalked. It leads them in the opposite direction than Arthur's instincts, toward terrain Arthur had rightly dismissed, for it looks nigh impassable. It's a triple threat, littered with boulders of all sizes, sloped generously, and covered with an insidious layer of loose slate. Yet as they draw closer, they discover some method to the madness—the mouth of a well-trodden path.

It's hardly the fabled pass, but it's a start.

Arthur makes the hand signal for stealth. They pick their way, quiet and careful, following the cat as it threads along earth hard-packed by years of hooves. Mountain goats, from the size of them. Merlin leans too far over to inspect the tracks, and his stirrup scrapes a nearby boulder.

It makes a harsh noise, like the clanging of a bell.

Ahead, the leopard spooks and disappears.

Arthur curses and flings himself from Torrento, hurrying on foot to inspect the area where the cat has vanished. When he turns back, his eyes are wide. Then he takes a step and walks headlong into solid rock. The knights hasten to join him. One by one, they also vanish. It's only as Merlin draws close, almost upon it, that he can see the optical illusion cast by an overhang of stones. It's not magic, merely nature's sense of whimsy.

You can't see the path until you've set foot on it.

The secret portal spits them out into a wide pass that cuts cleanly through the mountains, as though some ancient giant sliced with his battle axe. Sheer rock rises like castle walls on either side. High above, on a ledge that juts from rock as smooth as ice, an improbable perch, the snow leopard lounges and surveys them like a benevolent lordling. Mouth open, teeth fierce, it almost seems to smile.

Arthur throws his head back and laughs.

The sun is high when they breach the mountains and plunge into the cover of trees once again. The forest here is like none Merlin has ever seen, wild and foreign. Given the dense foliage and the incline, they descend at a careful walk. And so they have time to note the odd goings on in this forest. Leaves and brambles rustle a bit too often for comfort.

The snow leopard was only the beginning. Other wild beasts, which in any ordinary wood would flee at their jangle, seem to seek out the interlopers. Too many eyes peer from too many trees. From them, Merlin senses no malevolence. Instead, it's as though the creatures are drawn to them as a curiosity, so long have they been undisturbed by the likes of man.

Around them, the foliage flutters in fanfare, as though they're on parade. Soon they also spy foxes that flit, squirrels that scold, bunnies that bound. Above, geese honk, filling the sky with their military precision, like knights on drill, as they're wont to do at this time of year. Yet inexplicably, they fly north, in loose arrowheads that point toward the tower. A fat robin, garbed in Pendragon red, swoops to alight on Diablo's mane and nestles in for the ride.

"Perhaps they flee some fire," Gwaine muses, although there's no sight nor smell of smoke.

Arthur's eyes find Merlin's often. But he bites his tongue, as though unwilling to break the spell. The big cat had helped them find their way. It must be a good omen, that the forest rallies behind them. They're the vanguard of an improbable army.

They continue to collect creatures as they go, an avalanche rolling all the way down the mountain, until the horizon levels once more and they can increase their pace.

They can't help but feel it: hope.

Maybe, just maybe, they will succeed in their quest.

Reality comes crashing back at a ridge, where the trees part and they get the first glimpse of what awaits. Arthur stops, and they all stop with him to stare. Before them stretches a tangle of trees. Limbs grasping, nearly gone to gray.

At the sight, Arthur goes gray as well, the futility of what's to come.

For it's not a forest.

It's a graveyard.

Spread before them, melting into a mist that obscures its far reaches. There's no hint of the Dark Tower, but they know it's there. They can feel it, a chilly dread deep in their bones.

Around them, the forest is still, no longer throbbing with life, as though their animal army has deserted them.

"Rest," Arthur calls, but he doesn't lead by example. Although he dismounts, he remains standing at the ridge, overlooking the Impenetrable Forest. Studying it as though it's some impossible puzzle.

After tending to the horses, Merlin steps to his shoulder. "Perhaps there's a hidden trail."

"Not this time. We'll have to hack our way through."

"That will take days."

Arthur raises his voice. "Then we'd best get started."

They're slow to move, no one eager to start on the slog ahead. Then they become aware of a sound from the forest behind, the dull thud of hooves that pound the earth. Distant at first, then drawing closer with frightening speed.

A stag explodes from the trees, headed straight toward them. A majestic creature, of a height with Torrento, head heavy with antlers.

"On me," Arthur calls, already baring his sword. Merlin finds himself pressed on all sides by knights.

The stag bears down.

Merlin grips Arthur's sword arm. "Arthur," he says, urgent, and that's all it takes, to stay the King's hand. Arthur lowers his weapon, and the knights do the same. They make way for the beast.

When it reaches them, the stag glides past. It doesn't stop, doesn't even slow. It races toward the ridge and then leaps over it. Floats for a moment in the air, all grace, then lands on the incline below and continues its mad dash toward the Impenetrable Forest.

The stag is but the first, an advance scout. It's as though Arthur sounded the charge, and his army responded. Other creatures come running, creatures big and small. They stream past for untold minutes, too many beasts to name and some Merlin's not sure he can name. Like the stag, they launch themselves over the ridge, mighty as a river.

And then they lay in to the Impenetrable Forest below, a clash of armies. Hooves and claws and teeth rend and rip. Birds tear at vines, yank them away. Slow, steady, the beasts carve an inroad. When Merlin senses what they seek to do, his magic rushes to help. Together, Merlin and the creatures peel back this forest like rotten flesh from a carcass.

The knights stand, stunned.

"This is not…" someone begins.

"…possible," someone ends.

Nevertheless, it is done. An animal horde ploughs through a forest as though it's insubstantial as a field of grain. In their wake, they leave a swathe of destruction—fractured trees and upturned earth.

It's unmistakably a path.

One that leads to the Dark Tower.

When Arthur half-heartedly suggests that the knights and Merlin stay with the horses, Sir Leon is quick to remind him of the terms of their agreement.

"To the foot of the tower, I believe it was."

"So be it," Arthur says. His smile is sad.

They leave the horses tethered and walk the path carved for them by claws and teeth. Ahead, they can hear the forest groan as the animals demolish and devour. As always, Merlin brings up the rear. Every step he takes topples a tree.

The forest should have taken at least two days to traverse.

It takes them only two hours.

When they come to it, the edge of this forest is literal. A sharp demarcation, as though someone long ago spooned out a chunk of trees, leaving behind a desert where nothing grows. The wave of animals breaks against this edge, then recedes into the foliage on either side, as if they never were. Before they go, Merlin feels it, final tendrils of energy, everything they could spare. They replenish the strength he'd used to bend a forest to his will.

As they step onto the brittle earth, Merlin can sense the magic gone wrong, forever tainting the soil. The landscape is filled with strange shapes, skeletons that contort oddly, blown down where they stood by some great force. The trees at the forest's edge have warped, the way they do near an ocean, with its unrelenting water and air.

Morgana has chosen an appropriate stage. For her magic wells from blood and death, and there is plenty of that here, ancient wounds spilled into the soil, staining it rust-red. The sun overhead pulses like an exposed heart. It saps their strength, weighs their steps. Even Merlin feels it, the struggle to keep going. When he was here in spirit, he'd thought his difficulty had been because he was so far from his body. But now, present, standing on his own two feet, it feels somehow worse. Mother earth has forsaken this place.

Ahead, the tower is a dagger to the eye. It hurts to look at. At its foot, an entrance gapes like the mouth on a screaming skull. As they draw close, they become aware of a foul smell that drifts from within. The sickly-sweet stench of death and decay.

Here, Arthur stops. "This is as far as you go."

Sir Leon grips his forearm. "We'll be waiting." For you, he means.

"Give the witch my regards," Gwaine says. "Preferably with a fist to that pretty face."

"Bring her home," Elyan says.

Percy merely dips his chin.

Arthur looks to Merlin, who remains silent. "No last words?"

"No need." Merlin bares his teeth. It's not a smile. It's a promise, that Arthur will live. For he must. Anything else is unthinkable.

Arthur basks in it for as long as he can, drawing strength from Merlin's unshakeable faith, one that Merlin has always offered, even before Arthur deserved it. Behind his eyes are things he might say, if there were time, if they were alone. But there's not and they're not, so Arthur tears himself away and walks, alone, toward the tower.

He looks so small, there in its shadow. And then he's gone.

The Dark Tower swallows Arthur whole.