CHAPTER EIGHT
SALVATION AND DESPAIR
Arthur was being pulled along. Shadows of limbs yanked at him and struggled, if he fought against the movement. There was a fetid smell all around him, choking him. If he opened his eyes, there was a diseased, grey glow to the shadow warriors who poked and prodded at him. Even their weapons and their rags of clothing emitted a sickly light. He did not know how long they had been walking. It seemed a long time. He was bound with both leather straps and chains on both his ankles and wrists. He had been claimed by dark magic.
They had taken him as the cry of the raven had faded in his ears. A muffling miasma, a horrific darkness had enveloped him. It was like those nights on a battlefield, when the groans of the dying hang in the putrid air, heavy with death. His head had reeled, and in that shocked second, Arthur had been taken.
As he stumbled along, falling and getting up over and over, he realized that this magic was nothing like he had ever imagined. It was worse than his father's nightmares. He wondered what his servant would do. Merlin.
He remembered suddenly, shadow warriors from another time, and he wondered if it was really Merlin who had defeated the wraiths that time too. He shook his head in amazed hope; Merlin might really be on his way to save him. He wanted to believe that with all his heart. He could defeat this sorcerer with Merlin by his side. It had been that way for a long time, he realized.
A sudden shove from behind drove him down to his knees again. A bony limb kicked him in the shoulder. His teeth hurt from the blow as his head spun. He decided he didn't like this part of Merlin's world.
Up ahead at the head of the line, his eyes located the sorcerer. Ruadan rode confidently at the head of the shadow army. He had a polished, urbane look to him. He carried himself like a prince. His eyes had been glittering cold as he realized his shadow warriors had captured the King himself outside the walls of Camelot. But the smile that lit his features was cruel and deeply satisfied.
And then the sorcerer had laughed. His laughter had burned into a flame of anger in Arthur's heart. He had given way to his rage, throwing himself in helpless ire at the sorcerer, who felled him with a glance. He had rolled in agony on the ground for an endless moment, until the torture ceased, and he had been pulled to his feet again. The sorcerer had still been laughing as he had bound Arthur himself, closing the wrist and leg irons with flash of his eyes that let him know there would be no escape from his captivity.
"Macha put you in my hand, little King, " he had said, softly. "I have a use for your pretty head." The hatred in his eyes was unnerving. The sorcerer had turned and mounted his horse, his cape sweeping behind him.
From then on, it had been a litany of curses and a thousand blows from the glowing army of the dead. While their bodies were skeletal, their faces were still rotting. Their features were swollen and distorted by death and decay, but still human.
Arthur could see there was depth to Ruadan's hatred that he could never understand. The violence in his heart had propelled him to the unholy thing that had been done to his warriors. He wondered as he heaved himself to his feet for the hundredth time, what had happened to Ruadan that his heart was so dark. The face of Uther, his eyes blazing as he sentenced sorcerers and witches to their death, raged in the shadows of Arthur's mind. Hatred.
The shadow mercenaries kicked him to his knees once again. He vomited from the force of the blow to his midsection. Arthur vaguely became aware he was in the middle of a devastated forest. His head was still spinning. Broken stumps and gashed earth surrounded him. "Bring him to me," cried the sorcerer.
"Time for you to serve your true purpose, Arthur of Camelot." He found himself thrust forth until he stood face to face with the sorcerer who had unleashed this devastation. The chains and straps fell from him with a gesture from the sorcerer and Arthur plotted to escape, even though he moved not a muscle.
"My goddess will only be appeased for the death of her forest, by the blood of a king," Ruadan said. There was a cruel tone to his voice that belied his words. "Her price is the head of Arthur Pendragon, and most amazingly, here you are. With hardly any effort on my part." There was an ill concealed glee in his voice.
"She handed me the sacrifice she demanded. She asked for the head of the Pendragon tyrant, and you came to my hand. Arthur, the beloved son of Uther, the king who sought to obliterate magic, was as easily taken as a rabbit in a trap! I had heard you were a fighter, a warrior beyond compare!" He laughed. "Welcome your Majesty!" His voice was mocking, cold as ice. "Bow your neck to me, boy, so I get a clean blow and let Macha taste her due."
Skeletal limbs poked at him, forcing him to his knees again. A shield smashed against his head and he reeled. He was kicked, but Arthur struggled up again.
"I'll hack your head off, inch by inch, if you force me," shouted the sorcerer, raising his blade. There was a sharp golden flare, almost like a fiery lightning, and then Merlin, was there, not ten feet away. And so was Gwaine. There was a frightened shock on his face.
"If it is blood your goddess demands, then let her take yours!" shouted Merlin. His voice was like a clarion; his challenge rang out boldly. The sorcerer turned and the weapons clashed in a radiating explosion of power and light as they made contact. Excalibur blazed in Merlin's hand.
The sword flashed again and Ruadan was falling in a spray of blood. To Arthur's s despair, so was Merlin.
At the same moment, that Merlin had used both hands to bring Excalibur in to position to sever Ruadan's head, the sorcerer's weapon had plunged through Merlin's exposed midsection, exiting near his spine, mid back. There was a tremendous spurt of blood, and Merlin collapsed without a cry. Ruadan's life-blood sprayed across his face as he fell. Blood pumped ferociously from his wound, staining his shirt as he sank to his knees. His eyes rolled back in his head and his legs gave way completely. Gwaine roared in pain. Merlin lay on his back, blood still pumping and bubbling down his shirt for a moment, and then he heaved weakly once, as his breath rattled and his legs trembled. And then, it stopped.
It was over.
Ruadan was dead. Merlin.
All around them there was a keening sound that grew in volume. The dead warriors moaned, and there was a murmuring in the wind. Faint cries at first mushroomed into a nexus of sound. There was the sound of women weeping, their tears hung in the clouds and moved along the ground like a sigh. The wind gathered strength, erasing the shadow warriors as if they had never been. In a moment, all that was left were the crying winds and the broken shell of Merlin's body, as witness to what had happened.
Blood stained his servant's open mouth. His eyes had glazed over, unreactive and set. Blood was pooling on the forest leaves, sinking into the ground.
Gwaine stood silent. Arthur made no sound. He stood unable to move, staring at the body of his friend, uncomprehending. Merlin was gone. Taken from his side in a moment. Only seconds ago, he had burst in, shining with power. Now, he was gone. His world collapsed.
"No, no, no. no," He dimly wondered if that was Gwaine, or he, himself.
Arthur could still not move of his own accord. He felt as if he himself had received a mortal wound. He found he was sinking to his knees, just as Merlin had.
"He never wore armor," he thought softly to himself as his heart came back to life. He immediately wished it hadn't. The pain of being left behind was beginning to pulse through him. He heaved, his chest knotted in a spasm of overwhelming pain. It was as if his heart was trying to escape this last torture. "He was never a knight."
The words of the woman by the stream came back in pinpoint retrospect. He prayed he had wandered into some nightmare magical reality. But no, Merlin was dead, covered in his own blood. Excalibur was still in his hand. Ruadan's body was a black bulk only a few feet away.
It started to rain. The wind soughed in the trees, like the sound of Arthur's own grief, and buffeted around his head. The rain made rivulets in the crimson that stained his servant's face. He reached out and closed Merlin's eyes. He tried to wipe away some of the blood from his face; his body was still warm. Arthur gently touched his dark hair. Gwaine wept, aloud and unashamed. There was another whisper in the wind now. A woman's laughter. It grew louder. It blended with the weeping winds that sang around them.
All around them, Arthur and Gwaine felt a trembling vibration begin. The earth itself was shaking beneath them, and the wind was gathering strength. The knight threw himself across Merlin's body as if he could still save him. For some strange reason, Arthur held on to a wild hope, as the laughter and the weeping of women became a symphony of savage emotion. It surrounded him in a wild tumult. Exulting, mourning, celebrating, despairing; the voices filled his mind. His consciousness spun crazily in the roaring and keening of the winds that spun around him. In anger and naked hope, his soul begged for the impossible. He prayed for something he dare not name. But the darkness filled him, and he fell unaware, beside the body of his friend. He wished he could have told him a thousand things.
Or maybe only one.
Author's note: This is not a death fic. I would have warned you at the beginning if it were! Have faith!
