King Uther lay in a state of regal repose. His heavy crown sat on his brow, his sword was clasped to his chest, and a magnificent cloak of Camelot red flared out around him. He was dead, but this was the most powerful and dignified he'd looked since Morgana's betrayal.
Arthur stood above the bier. His legs were stiff from long hours spent in vigil. Seeing some of that old power recaptured in his father's corpse only made him feel more lonely and unprepared. There were still so many questions to ask, still so many things to learn before he could take the throne, but he had lost his chance. A part of him longed to ask them anyway, maybe hoping for a supernatural sign that would guide him on the correct path of kingship, but this was a vigil. The time for words was past, and Arthur was alone with his grief and his thoughts.
At the beginning of the vigil he had felt little. He still couldn't quite grasp that Uther was gone. He'd stared at the bier for more than an hour, waiting for his father to wake up suddenly, or for the throne room to dissolve around him to the sound of Merlin's morning wake up call. It was no dream, though; it wasn't going anywhere.
Then he had begun to stew in a simmering wrath. First against Odin, and this never-ending feud because of a duel that had been totally fair by law, then against himself for needing his father to defend him. Finally, his anger turned against magic, although this time it was for its absence rather than anything it had caused.
It was ridiculous, really. Magic was trouble, and for once it had kept itself away. Any other time Arthur would have appreciated it, but magic had been his only hope. It plagued Camelot with problems constantly, but when it might have done some good, it and its practitioners became scarce.
When he looked at it like that, though, his thoughts became tinged with guilt. He couldn't ignore the fact that his father had executed people for using magic just as he had planned to use it. Hell, Gwen had almost been killed when she had been suspected of using magic to cure her father. Even if those who chose to do magic would eventually be corrupted by it, he couldn't very well blame them for protecting their own skins.
Arthur had sighed wearily, placing his hands on the bier and slouching in exhaustion. Perhaps Merlin had been right. It hadn't been a well-constructed plan. What had he honestly been hoping for? That some sorcerer would just pop out of the blue, perfectly willing to help a king that would have put him to the pyre in an instant if he'd been of present mind? Even if Arthur had offered a pardon or protection, once Uther had found out what he'd done, any promises made would be null. Uther was king and could overrule any decree that came from the prince. Magic user or not, the idea of paying someone back for their help with execution left a bad taste in Arthur's mouth.
Thinking it through, realizing how roughshod and hopeless his last resort had been from the start, dampened any anger he'd had toward magic. He almost didn't want to let it go. Once he stopped being angry, it meant he was accepting the new reality.
He was to be king. Camelot was his now; all its lands, all its subjects, all its responsibilities. From now until his death, the joys, burdens, and the very survival of the kingdom rested on his shoulders. He could not fail.
The weight of it all fell upon him harder and heavier than it ever had before, almost buckling his knees. For a short while he was overrun by panic. It had been hard enough for just a year; how was he meant to do this for the next forty or fifty?
So he forced himself to think of Guinevere: her warm smile, her understanding, her quiet strength. He thought of Gaius, and his uncle, his knights, and his peculiar manservant. His mother and father were gone, and his sister was now his enemy, but he had support. Just as he had in his time as regent, he would just have to take each day and each challenge as it came.
His father's death accepted, his anger diffused, and the future to come made peace with (for now), he was left only with grief. It stayed with him the rest of the night.
The dawn crept up on him. He had no awareness of the lightening in the room until a single, heavenly beam shifted into just the right position, cutting through the ornate windows and splashing across the floor in front of him like radiant golden paint.
Arthur shifted, body stiff and eyes dry. He looked away from his father's body. The throne room was now filled with light, and the candles that had burned throughout his vigil were beginning to wink out, melted down to stubs.
Arthur paused. When he stepped out of those doors, it really would be a new world. Uther would be taken to the crypts, and the council would begin preparations for Arthur's coronation. The end of an era, and the beginning of another.
Leaning over the bier, Arthur planted a final kiss upon his father's brow. Then he turned and walked away.
Breathing deeply, Arthur pushed open the doors. The morning light spilled out around him and shared some of its beauty with the empty antechamber that waited outside.
Acute loneliness clenched at his heart again, but he pushed it aside. The first step onto the stairs was a hard one, but with every succeeding one he felt stronger, and the loneliness was shoved far into the background.
It was a new day.
Merlin woke up. The sky was the gray-blue of predawn, he felt as cold as the grave, and he had only one hollow thought pulsing dully through his mind.
I died. Again.
It was a while before he could move.
It was like he had been resting on the bottom of a deep lake, where light and sound and sensation were all muted, but still present. It wasn't really sleep, not even really absence. It was more a retreat, descending into a quiet, lonely place until he was ready to surface again.
His eyelids fluttered, blinking dew from his lashes. He was damp and filthy. The slopes of the hollow around him were clinging to the last rags of mist. The sky was turning to cream.
Merlin forced himself to sit up, immediately regretting it as his head spun and his stomach rebelled. Those were familiar symptoms.
Half-consciously, he picked at his shredded tunic and trousers with trembling fingers. In the heat of the moment and the dark of the night, it had been easy to pass over the details of his injuries. In the creeping light, he was a grisly sight. His clothes were ruined, and tacky dried blood had made them stiff. Even more red was smeared on his skin. There were no injuries, though, not even a scratch, and when he pulled aside the rags and stared down at his chest, it was perfectly unblemished, and both his arm and leg were whole. No fresh wounds, and no scars either. Nimueh's burn mark was gone, and he knew all the marks on his back had been erased as well. The only eerie blemish was the pale coldness of life's absence that still clung to him. It felt wrong. He never felt so cold, not anymore, except in the wake of temporary death. He squeezed his icy fingers into fists. It would fade soon enough, he assured himself. The warmth would come back.
It had been eight years since his last "death". He had expected to be more unsettled about that than he was.
It was the memories from last night that were haunting. Merlin wobbled to his feet, stomach swooping and legs shaking. All of it, all the weakness and queasiness and bleariness of mind would fade away soon, but while he was freshly returned from un-death, it was rare he ever felt more vulnerable. Leaning up against the steep side of the hollow and closing his eyes, Merlin cursed himself under his breath. Better to be angry than afraid.
He had completely lost it. All because of her damned words, her vicious boasting.
Because of all that white.
You're a fool, Emrys. He ran a hand through his tangled hair, reaching for composure. I should have known better. Eight years out of the game and I expected to clean house nice and easy. He stared down at himself in disgust. Useless.
When his head stopped spinning, he finally took note of the fact that the forest was lightening with dawn. Opening his eyes again, he saw a few heavenly rays shooting over the rim of the hill above him. He had to get back, not just to stop Lancelot from chasing after him. He had to get to Arthur. There was one thing he had too do first, though.
He pushed away from the rock wall, doing his best to ignore his shakiness. The moment he'd scrambled up from the hollow, he set the floor of it ablaze, scorching away the summoning sigil. Too dangerous to leave something like that lying around. He peered through the surrounding forest, but there was no sign of Morgana. Well, very little sign. When he shambled over to where he had last seen her, his sharp eyes caught sight of a few small splashes of blood on the fallen leaves.
She still lived, of that Merlin was sure. If the blow he'd delivered had been spelled to kill a priestess, she would be lying here dead. In the heat of the mad attack last night, he hadn't made that assurance. Merlin shivered. There had been a spell on that blade, though. He didn't know what it was, and that was frightening. It had attached itself almost against his will, a response to his…outburst. His own magic, out of his control, taking on a life of its own.
I should have known better. It's all too soon, I'm not as prepared as I should have been. Merlin squeezed his eyes shut. I have to be. I have to. This can't start happening again.
He set off slowly, back straight but every step tentative, as if any one of them would shatter the ground and send him back into the abyss. He could still feel those claws and teeth punching through his flesh, going deep. Nothing I haven't endured before. Wasn't even the worst. It's nothing.
When he reached the edge of the trees, however, he found his self-appointed task already half complete. The village wasn't far ahead, and even from where he stood he could hear the weeping. So the victim had already been found and returned home. The villagers must have been searching before the sun was even up. Foolishness, but also great courage. Yet all for nothing.
Merlin could make the few villagers outdoors look away from him, take no notice, but he kept to shadows and put the little houses between himself and them as much as possible. How like a ghost he must look, pale and bloodstained shrinking from the light.
He found the woman in her little cot, the door open. Merlin slipped indoors with no one the wiser. The woman sat bowed in her chair, shoulders shaking with quiet, despaired weeping, deaf to the comfort of the few others that kept her company. Two shrouded forms were lain along a table.
There were two. Merlin closed his eyes, shame and pity biting deep.
"Come away, Isabel," begged one of the young woman. "You must eat something."
"I will not leave them," the bereaved woman replied. She sounded strong, even with the trembling in her voice that came with her tears. She couldn't be much older than Merlin's mother was, if he remembered rightly. "I will stay with them until I must put them into the ground." She swiped at her eyes and stood. Merlin backed away into a corner of the cottage as she walked up to the covered bodies. Her breath shuddered in exhale, but she still drew back the shrouds from their faces. She looked, and Merlin looked.
One was a young man, brown-haired and round-faced, not much older than twenty. The other was an older man, gray shot through his thinning hair and face lined with both care and years of laughter. Isabel began to weep harder again, but Merlin kept looking. He did his utmost to memorize their faces. By his actions, time had altered, leading to their deaths. The least he could do was carry their faces with him as he went forward, for however long that was.
The light outside was growing. He had to go home. Yet even as he stopped in the doorway, he took a moment to place his hand on the frame and whisper a few words of protection and prosperity. Too little too late, but at least it was something.
He rode the wind back to Camelot, all the way back to his little storage bedroom. He bolted the door right away. The last thing he needed was Gaius walking in on him in this state. Then he sank to his bed, bowed head in hands.
What a sight he made. He had to change, he had to get downstairs, but it took him time. A sluggishness had taken hold of his body and mind, the remnants of that dark sleep still dragging at him. Once it had worked itself out of his system, he would be in perfect health, not even the least bit tired, but for now it was proving persistent. He focused on his heartbeat, going strong again, and the fiery heat returned to his core.
Outside the bells began to ring, a final farewell to the departed king. Merlin listened to them tolling, and when they finally ceased, he forced himself up from the bed. Keep moving forward. Don't look back.
Cloak, tunic, trousers, and boots were all shed, not one of them having escaped savaging or staining. He stuffed the gruesome bundle back into the floorboard space along with the sword. He would have to burn them later.
Then he hunched over the washbasin, rinsing away the dried blood and dirt. He had to keep spelling the water clean there was so much of it. Then he dressed in fresh clothes, and even fixed his hair. By the time he emerged from his room, no hint of the previous night could be found on him.
Walking through the castle, it was impossible to miss how quiet it was. There should have been at least servants milling about at this hour, but it almost felt deserted. He sped up a bit, hoping he was not too late. He turned down the winding staircase that led to the throne room and peered over the marble bannister. He halted. The doors to the throne room were open, and there was no one to be seen.
Merlin's heart felt suddenly heavy, and the fact that he had indeed been too late almost felt like a shock. A disproportionate sense of loss filled him.
I didn't want you to feel that you were alone.
It seemed so small a thing. Even Arthur would agree that defending Camelot from a threat was far more important than making sure the prince had someone waiting for him at the end of his vigil, yet Merlin still felt the sting of failure. Do better next time, an elusive voice inside whispered to him. Make sure that next time, you can do both. He turned around and trudged back the way he came.
If he remembered correctly, Arthur would be looking for breakfast. The thought of breakfast made Merlin realize how hungry he himself should have been. He hadn't eaten since the previous morning, and that was only a morsel of bread and cheese, but he felt fine. Perfect health, not hungry, and not tired; all effects of breaking his eight year streak. He'd forgotten how good waking up from death could feel. A burst of laughter escaped from him, and his shoulders trembled.
On his way to the kitchens, Merlin crossed paths with Lancelot, for which he was grateful. His friend was dressed for riding, and was pulling on his gloves with an anxious urgency. Merlin inhaled deeply, preparing.
"I hope you don't have your horse saddled already," Merlin called out, pulling on the casual facade like a mask. "I would hate for some poor stableboy to have gone to that trouble for nothing."
"Not yet," Lancelot replied, worry replaced by relief and some irritation as the warlock walked up to him. "Back by dawn," he bit out, pointing a finger in Merlin's face. "That was the agreement."
"It took me a little longer than I thought to get back. Did you see all that fog we had last night?"
Lancelot arched an eyebrow, not amused. "So whatever it was, it's gone now?"
"Yes, it's gone."
"What was it?"
"A black dog," Merlin admitted. "Normally they're docile, but if they're brought over from the other side they can be dangerous." Before Lancelot could speak again, Merlin cut him off. "I told you, if it was something I couldn't handle I would have fallen back, but I managed it. Here I am, whole and handsome as ever." He gave a half-smirk, but it dropped quickly enough. "I wasn't quite quick enough, though. Two lives were lost."
Lancelot's jaw clenched, and his head bent in sorrow. "I can only hope their families find peace," he murmured, before looking back up at Merlin. "You did everything you could."
"I just wish it could have been more."
The knight took a quick check of the empty corridors before he asked, "Did you find who was responsible? Was it Morgana? I tailed Agravaine, but he didn't do anything suspicious."
"It was Morgana. I felt her magic."
Lancelot's brow furrowed. "But why? She wasn't attacking Camelot."
"No. I think it was the village of Millwood, along the Brant river. There could be any number of reasons why. Undermining Arthur's new rule, testing new magic, pure spite."
Lancelot ran a hand through his hair, his eyes deeply troubled. "I don't like this. Attacking the city straight-on is one thing, but if she makes moves against the people we can't predict them, or reach them quickly."
Merlin nodded. "And there's no guarantee I'll sense it every time."
"Then what will we do?"
Right away, they need do nothing. Merlin knew his sword had struck true against Morgana, and even a priestess needed time to recover from a blow like that. But going forward? "Whatever we can."
"A noble sentiment, if a vague one."
"Well, give me a few minutes to think on it. I don't hide the solution to every magical problem up my sleeves," Merlin said indignantly, struggling with the act. He just wanted to escape.
Lancelot snorted a laugh. "I suppose you're right. We are, after all, only an army of two."
"More than enough. She won't have Camelot, no matter how hard she tries."
"On that we can agree."
They soon parted ways. The two of them would have to make plans, but the public hallways were certainly not the place to do so. Lancelot had his own duties to attend to, and Merlin still needed to find Arthur. It turned out he had not been by the kitchens, nor requested breakfast. Lucky for Merlin he no longer needed to run around the entire castle to find a person.
His mind's eye found Arthur alone up on the battlements. The rest of Merlin reached him just a little later, carrying a small breakfast with him. When Merlin spied Arthur as he reached the last step of the stairs, he paused.
There stood his king once more, leaning against the parapet wall and peering out across his kingdom. In the rising light of morning, the sun caught in his golden hair and winked off the links of his chainmail like so many specks of diamond. His eyes were narrowed against the glare, making him seem stern and contemplative. Beneath the golden facade, though, Merlin could read the sorrow. He was all there — his king, his friend, his destiny — once again set upon his path to legend. And alive. So very alive.
Would Merlin be able to bear it if he failed again?
No. He wouldn't think like that. He wouldn't fail again. He'd been choking on the taste of failure for more than a thousand years. He had not suffered all that, and then broken the barriers of time to lose it all again. For the Golden Age that was within his grasp once more, he would do anything.
Merlin approached, scuffing his boots to make his presence known. Arthur didn't turn even when Merlin settled against the wall next to him. He did shift when Merlin scraped the breakfast tray across the stone toward him.
"You should eat that," Merlin murmured.
Arthur made no move. For a time they both looked out, at the town clustered below like rocks before a sea cliff, farther out to the cleared land beyond the walls of the city, and then to the rolling forested slopes past that. In the west, the peaks of the White Mountains were washed white with the first snows.
"It's difficult to think that he's gone," Arthur said at last, gaze still fixed on his beloved Camelot.
Merlin squared his shoulders. Be all that he needs you to be. "I'm sorry for your loss, Arthur. Truly I am."
"I just…never really entertained the thought. He was always so…strong."
Merlin didn't turn his head. He didn't want Arthur to catch the cold scorn entering his eyes. "He died on his feet at least, as I'm sure he would have preferred," he said.
"Yes, he would have." There was a pause, before the new king asked in a voice that was more vulnerable than he usually allowed, "What if I'm not ready, Merlin?"
"You will be."
"And how could you possibly know?"
"I just do."
Arthur pushed away from the parapet in frustration. "That's very helpful."
Merlin straightened up, giving his king a sharp glance. "I know you don't make it a habit to listen to me, Arthur, but on this matter I ask that you try. You will be a good king, a great one, and you'll have help along the way: your councilors, your knights, Gaius, Gwen. And me."
"Then gods help Camelot."
Merlin let loose a hard eye roll without intending to. Arthur was an absolute child, really, but Merlin found himself snorting a slight laugh again in the midst of the young king's sourness. With the distance of years, he'd forgotten, or perhaps was just now realizing, how strange it was that fate or the gods or whatever else chose this man — arrogant, stubborn, immature, warm-hearted and courageous — to become a legend. He almost choked on another laugh when words spoken to himself a very long time ago rang in his head: How small you are, for such a great destiny.
"What are you chuckling about?" Arthur asked. His face was scrunched in disgruntlement, but the worry and grief had been chased away, if just for a few moments.
"Oh, nothing." Merlin turned to look out again, slouching to appear at ease. He was just Merlin; easy-going, peculiar, simple Merlin. He gave the breakfast tray another shove in Arthur's direction.
Arthur picked up the bread roll, fidgeting with it rather than eating it. Then he suddenly said, "You're a good friend, Merlin."
Merlin pressed his lips into a thin line. Would he be saying the same, had he known Merlin could have healed his father? Well, nothing for it now. On the other side of it all, he could only hope that Arthur would understand he had done it all — this and whatever else was to come — for the greater good. He tipped his head in Arthur's direction, one eyebrow raised cheekily. "I know. Now are you going to eat that, or can I have it?"
"Find your own," Arthur growled, tearing a chunk out of the bread roll.
Merlin smiled. While Arthur ate, Merlin remained in his place at the parapet and basked in the light of the day. He flexed his fingers a few times. The weakness post-death was all but gone. Morgana's words were still adrift in his mind, though, and the very idea carved an icy trail down his spine.
He wouldn't let her win. At this point it didn't matter why she'd turned or what she was trying to achieve. He would stop her, and he wouldn't let his own weaknesses get in the way again. To his king he made a silent promise.
By the end of it all, Arthur, I may not be the good friend you remember. I may not defend you from every hurt. But I will be there, even if you should come to hate me one day. I will always be there. No matter what.
A/N: Thank you to mersan123, catherine10, Aerist, ProcrastinationIsMyCrime, and guest for their reviews. I'm glad you found it thrilling ;) I'll see you all at the epilogue.