The knights wait until they're certain Arthur won't reappear. Then they spread out in a loose circle, scouting for vantage points where they can keep an eye in all directions. In the past, Morgana had a tendency to collect unsavory allies, and it wouldn't do for one of these to catch them unawares.
Gwaine putters around at the edges of the Dark Tower until he finds a slim fingernail of shade.
"I'll take south," he says. Then he sits against the wall, tips his head back, and closes his eyes.
Merlin doesn't move from where he was standing when Arthur disappeared. He sinks to the sand, crosses his legs, and stares at the tower. Perhaps if he tries hard enough, he can see within. Earlier, he felt he had the strength to move mountains. Now, he can't see past a thin veneer of rock. There's something about this place, this nature-forsaken place.
The sun bores.
Every so often, Merlin lifts his neckerchief and wipes sweat from his brow, so it won't drip into his eyes. The knights use the edges of their cloaks as a hood.
No more than ten minutes have passed when Merlin stands and brushes off his bum.
"That's enough," he says, decisive. He follows Arthur's footsteps toward the tower.
Gwaine pops an eye and watches with a gleam.
From his post to the east, Elyan calls, "Enough of what?"
"A head start."
Leon intercepts Merlin before he can reach the entrance. "He told us to stay here."
Merlin dances around him. "Yes, but he didn't mean it."
Leon takes his role as first knight very, very seriously. He snags Merlin's arm. "Our King gave us an order."
"Our King," Merlin says, yanking free, "is going to get himself killed. While we sit on our arse." Merlin stalks to the foot of the tower. When no one follows, he stops, turns back. Jabs a hand at the entrance. "Well?"
The knights gawp, frozen where they stand. Except Gwaine, who beams.
Merlin sighs. "The King told you to protect me. I'm going up the tower. Ergo, you're going up the tower."
Gwaine bounds up, cracks his neck. "Can't argue with Latin." He's the first to fall in line behind Merlin. As though this breaks some damn, Percy and Elyan are on his heels, shooting Leon apologetic looks.
Leon is the last to follow.
But follow he does.
The Dark Tower is built for battle—severe lines, sharp corners, tight doorways, narrow slits for windows. Ample grates in the ceiling above to drop boiling tar on the enemy. Walls scorched with ancient flame.
Merlin hurries the knights down a windowless, narrow corridor that's littered with the bones and gear of the unfortunate. He'd waited outside for as long as he dared, perhaps too long. Walking a fine line, for they must catch up to Arthur at the right time. Too early, and he will send them back. Too late, and he'll have reached Morgana. She might have—
No, he won't think on it. They will catch up to Arthur.
Merlin scans the floor ahead for prints, some hint as to how many might have recently passed this way. Yet there's a swath of clean along the flagstones. Something—or someone—was dragged along it. Skirts, perhaps, although the sweep seems too heavy for that to be the only culprit. Nevertheless, Merlin follows this sweep of a trail to a steep stairwell that twists sharply to the right, to favor right-handed swordsmen who have the high ground.
"That's me," Percy says, and shoulders his way past Merlin. He shifts his sword to his left hand and leads the way. The knights all train with their left, but Percy's the most adroit.
Gwaine mutters, "Always with the showing off."
They've climbed past only a couple of gaping hallways that lead into darkness when they hear it—the ring of steel. It comes from somewhere above, echoing down the stairwell. The sound jars Merlin's bones, tenders his teeth, for it's one he didn't expect. Not here.
Morgana wouldn't need a sword.
They race up until the stairs dead-end into the third level. The hallway here is different, wider, grander, and lit by soft light that spills from an arched door at the end. Beyond are hints of a larger room, perhaps once used for feasts or dancing.
Now, it hosts a dance of a different sort. Arthur surges into view, framed by the archway. He parries a blow of not one but two swords. As they watch, he twirls and pivots, parrying strokes and thrusts from what seems to be a small contingent of heavily armored knights, although their armor is unlike any Merlin has seen. Wrong, somehow.
Merlin shoves forward; Arthur needs them. But before he can barrel down the hallway, Percy throws out an arm. Merlin struggles against the limb, which might as well be the branch of a tree.
"We have to help him."
"As Perce so elegantly put it," Gwaine says. "Something's off."
"Agreed," Elyan says. "Those are some ugly little buggers." He refers to the gargoyles that line the hallway on either side. They're fierce things, rife with snarl and teeth and claw, designed to intimidate.
"Almost as ugly as Perce," Gwaine says. "But that's not what I mean. The witch invited him. Why attack?"
Leon says, "She knew he wouldn't come alone."
"He didn't," Merlin snaps, they're wasting time. "I'll go first." Before anyone can stop him, he sprints forward.
From the moment he steps on the first flagstone, he knows that the knights' instincts were correct. The floor shifts oddly under his feet, as though it's not secured. Some trap springs, and he's barraged by arrows. They whiz past him from both sides and ricochet off the opposite wall. Thick and sharp, like the bolts from Percy's crossbow. Likely a similar mechanism, hidden somewhere behind the obscene mouths of the gargoyles. The projectiles are deadly and lightning-quick.
Merlin's quicker.
His magic makes him so, limbering his limbs, fleeting his feet. It would be too obvious if the bolts bounced off his flesh, so he nudges their trajectory. They shave past him, missing him by a hair here, an eyelash there. Yet the sheer swarm of arrows ensures that some can't help but graze his skin, his thigh, his shoulder blade, his chest. And thanks to his audience, he must let them.
Through the mayhem, Merlin keeps running, keeps his focus on the path ahead, on the tantalizing glimpses of Arthur. The King is tiring, knocked to his knees.
Merlin runs faster.
He's closing in on the end of the hallway when an especially ambitious bolt takes a chunk out of his thigh. Merlin stumbles, would have lost his feet if not for his magic. Instead, he staggers the final paces and skids to a stop at the end of the hall, bracing himself on the wall next to the door.
The knights follow at a slower, more sane pace. Unlike him, they're not fool enough to try to run the gauntlet. Instead, they've divested themselves of their sword belts and are dropping them ahead, to trigger the arrows. There's apparently an endless supply, enough to fell an army.
"Merlin," Gwaine calls. "Your leg." Merlin doesn't look down. Can't feel it through the buzz in his veins.
"A scratch," he grits, and runs into the room.
Once, Merlin's magic helped him juggle as a fool.
Now, it helps him fight like a knight.
He stretches out an arm. A discarded sword—one of many strewn about the room—leaps into his hand. He doesn't even care, who might see. The combatants don't notice his grand entrance, so focused are they on their own struggle. Merlin grips the sword with both fists and approaches the knot of bodies. Targets the closest knight and swings with all his magic-enhanced might.
His stroke goes clean through the knight's neck.
The knight's helm bounces and rolls against the wall.
The body keels over to reveal Arthur standing behind. The King stares, as though Merlin has just done something insane. The dark knights also pause and crane to evaluate this new threat. Merlin makes a show of fumbling his sword. Arthur rolls his eyes, that's more like it. Then more swords descend, no time to talk now.
Merlin's presence gives Arthur a much-needed second wind. Back to back, they dispatch the rest of the mysterious knights. Merlin's magic quickens his reflexes, strengthens his arms. The armored knights never stood a chance.
When they're done, when six dark knights sprawl around them, Merlin looks over to find Arthur staring again.
"You chopped his head off."
Merlin shrugs. "Element of surprise."
Arthur keeps staring. "It's like you were possessed."
"I got angry?"
Arthur's eyes narrow. "You fight worse when you're angry."
"Um," Merlin says, lowering his head. His heart is an anvil. He's been too obvious. "You've found me out. I don't know how to tell you." Merlin palms the back of his neck.
"Tell me what?" Arthur's tone is low, dangerous.
"I've been practicing."
Arthur brays a laugh. "With whom, a madman?"
Merlin bristles. Trust Arthur to critique his form right after Merlin saves his royal arse. Again. "I got the job done, didn't I?"
Before Arthur can respond, there's a creak of rusted armor. Around them, the fallen knights twitch. They begin to draw themselves up, first to their knees, then to their feet. The one Merlin had beheaded stands before them, sans head.
"No." Arthur drops into battle stance. "You didn't."
Horrified, Merlin takes a closer look at their opponents. He sees now that they wear a hodgepodge of mismatched, rusted armor, not unlike the gear that they tripped over on the way up here. In fact, it's exactly like that. Merlin looks to where the helm of the beheaded knight lies against the wall.
It's empty.
He should have known. No blood.
"New plan," Merlin says.
"I make the plans," Arthur growls.
"Mine's better." The dark knights close on them.
"Make it quick. Two words."
"It's only one: Run." Merlin takes his own advice, heading for the archway on the opposite side of the room from where he'd entered.
"Wait," Arthur calls, already crossing swords with two of the decayed knights. "It's—"
Merlin runs headlong into the opening, bounces off, and sprawls onto his back.
"—blocked," Arthur finishes.
Stunned, Merlin peers up at the archway. He can see to the corridor beyond, all the way to the stairwell at the end, with stairs that head up. He scrabbles to his feet and reaches a tentative hand to the opening. It doesn't look blocked. Yet sure enough, his palm meets an invisible barrier. It thrums and hums beneath his flesh. Warm, as though it's alive.
More of Morgana's handiwork.
But there's no time for him to study it further, for a shadow falls. Merlin whirls in time to see a wicked glint of a sword descending toward him. He raises his own, but he's off kilter and late. A beat before the sword cleaves into his skull, a third sword darts from nowhere and stays the blow. On the other end of the sword is a grinning Gwaine.
"You're welcome," Gwaine says, and then shoves. The decayed knight reels back, a temporary reprieve.
The knights of Camelot have arrived.
"They're magic," Merlin warns.
"I noticed," Gwaine said, indicating the headless knight going head-to-(not)-head with Elyan.
They're fighting magic.
Not for the first time.
This battle can't be won.
Arthur realizes this, for his tactics change. All his life, he's fought fair. He's fought with honor and dignity and courtesy. He's prioritized clean strokes to respectable areas of the body and never kicked a man when he's down. But that is how you fight men. These aren't men.
Merlin's seen Arthur fight. He's never seen Arthur fight like this. This is Arthur unleashed, free of the tight hold he usually keeps on himself. He isn't honorable, he isn't neat and pretty. He's dirty and desperate and drenched. This Arthur hacks at necks, at wrists, at ankles. Doesn't matter if he maims them. All that matter is that he decimates them.
For a while, it works. The dark knights lose heads and swords and feet. They lose these things easily, for the armored knights are slow and clunky. Morgana has ensorcelled armor to fight, but it lacks the will to live. It merely goes through the motions. Nevertheless, it begins to wear the Camelot knights down, slow and steady as water. Knock a dark knight down, it gets back up. Cut off a head, they retrieve it.
"How do we win?" Elyan calls.
"We don't," Arthur says.
Yet Merlin knows how they win. He knows exactly how they win. He can see them, the tenuous strands of magic that knit the armor together. With a single wave of his hand, he could sever them like the cobwebs that bedeck every inch of this forsaken tower. Or he could turn his magic on Morgana's barrier, punch through it like parchment.
But something stays his hand. Something Gwaine had said, that there's no reason for Morgana to strew obstacles. To cull the herd, perhaps. Maybe she'd get lucky and kill Arthur, or even Emrys. Yet Merlin can think of another reason, a method behind her madness. It's subtle. So very Morgana.
Morgana wants Merlin to use his magic.
She dares him to.
It's one thing for Merlin to use minute traces of magic to divert a few arrows. It's an entirely different thing to break an enchantment. Morgana would feel it. She would sense him, just as she'd sensed him using his magic to commandeer the body of an owl. She might even be able to sense who he is, might come to understand that it's Merlin who opposes her. If nothing else, she would know that Emrys is here. That Emrys comes.
And Merlin doesn't want to give her that advantage, not if he can help it. He's counting on it, his element of surprise. Somehow, he must get them through that door without using his magic.
Merlin scans the battle, sees how the knights have spread out, releasing the pressure from Arthur, giving themselves space to move, to experiment. Arthur is on the far side of the room.
"Sire," Merlin calls, but his voice is lost in the clamor. Arthur's hacking at a knight he has backed into a corner. He doesn't hear, can't see Merlin windmill for his attention. Instead, Merlin's antics draw the attention of one of the dark knights, who's just stumbled from the thick of the fray, propelled by Percy's boot.
The dark knight ambles and shambles toward him.
Merlin raises his sword, wary. He knows he should step away from the arch, avoid being backed against a wall. But he's loathe to lose his proximity to the portal, their only way out. And so he plants his feet, grips his sword, and prepares to defend.
The knight's first strike vibrates the bones in Merlin's arm. Merlin parries as best he can, using the form Arthur has taught him, no longer the fiend he'd been earlier. Still, even without his magic, he should be able to hold his own, at least for a while.
They settle into the rhythm of it. The dark knight doesn't learn, doesn't deviate. The creature strikes here and there, here and there, steady and heavy, a pendulum. At first, Merlin counters the blows easily, so obvious. But when the knight doesn't deviate and doesn't deviate, it wears Merlin down, blow by bruising blow. His muscles aren't made of metal. And he's now acutely aware of his injured leg, a rising flame.
The dark knight is all Merlin can see. Can't see past to his comrades beyond, can't know if they see him, if they will come. If they can.
Slice and hack, slice and hack, and then Merlin's bad leg slips.
The dark knight deviates. It pins Merlin's sword to the wall. The armored creature steps forward and leans. Rough, rusted edges eat into Merlin's flesh. Behind him, the barrier buzzes hot and angry at his back. He's pressed on all sides by Morgana and her magic.
Without magic of his own, Merlin isn't enough.
Never enough.
And then Arthur surges from nowhere, leaping onto the back of the dark knight. He wrenches at the creature's helm, yanks it right off. Tosses it aside. The dark knight flails with his sword, ineffective, and Arthur bats it away with his own. Then he kicks out at its chest and sends it staggering.
Arthur stands before him, his body a shield, and there's no time to explain. Merlin wraps his fingers around Arthur's sword hand, and, with the last of his failing strength, he thrusts Excalibur toward the archway. The dark knight lunges for them, but it's too late. Merlin feels a jolt as they pass through the barrier, as though he's been struck by lightning. It knocks the wind from him, curdles his blood. Almost as though the barrier has sliced him in half.
But it doesn't prevent them from falling through, as though it's nothing but a door. They land in an ungraceful heap. Arthur's on his feet in an instant, sword at the ready, facing off against the decayed knight. Yet the creature takes no step. It merely stands silhouetted in the doorway, still as a statue. As though the barrier holds him back.
Merlin drags himself to the wall and props against it, trying to ward off this strange feeling that radiates from his chest. He can't breathe. He's gone clammy, can't feel his extremities.
"Merlin," Arthur says in a strange tone, "why is my sword glowing?" Extended before him, Excalibur's blade radiates a feeble green.
Merlin tries to answer but can't. All he can do is shake his head, wind knocked out.
"Right," Arthur says. "Another Morgana mystery." When the decayed knight still doesn't move, Arthur lowers his glowing sword and abandons his battle stance. "The knights are on their own. We can't dally." He sheaths his sword and strides past Merlin, headed for the stairwell.
Merlin doesn't move.
Arthur snaps his fingers at him, as though he's a dog. "Let's go, Merlin. This isn't nap time. We can rest later."
Merlin doesn't move.
Arthur reaches the stairs, has already pattered up a few when he stops and looks back. "Merlin?"
This time, he looks at Merlin. Really looks at him. Merlin tries to say something, anything, but words don't come out. Something warm does, dribbling over his lips.
Arthur goes still, as though impaled through the gut.
Then he's back at Merlin's side, crouched low. Feeling his limbs, frantic. Merlin winces when Arthur's fingers find the gouge in his leg. But that's not it. That wouldn't cause blood to bubble within. Arthur sucks in a breath when he gets to Merlin's torso. The bottom half of Merlin's tunic is blotched a darker red. Merlin watches Arthur's face as he rucks up the cloth and inspects what lies beneath.
"How—?" Arthur's eyes slide back toward the decayed knight, bracketed in the doorway.
It still hasn't moved.
But something else moves. A glob of red drips from the tip of the knight's sword and splatters to the floor. What's more, the rusted blade is dipped in red, halfway up its length. Merlin sees all this, understands what it means. Turns his gaze back to Arthur's face. Watches awareness spread.
That shock Merlin had felt—it was a sword. One that had impaled him in the lower gut, about an inch from his spine, stringing through his small intestine. Merlin doesn't know how he knows this. He just does. He can see within, to the blood that leaks, a crimson cloud.
"It's fine," Arthur says. "A day or two off, and you'll be back to nattering on."
Arthur can't quite meet Merlin's eyes. He busies himself by tearing Merlin's trousers to shreds below the knee. They're ripped already, might as well. He uses the resulting cloth to bind Merlin's wound as best he can. Yet they both know it—there's not enough cloth in the world that could make this better. This type of wound doesn't get better.
Merlin tries to smile. His grimace serves only to unnerve Arthur further, blood on his teeth.
There are so many things Merlin wants to say. That he needs to say to Arthur. Watching him now, his life force draining away, Merlin can't remember, why he never said them before. His reasons seem so trite now, inconsequential as mist.
Before he can say anything, Arthur stumbles to his feet.
"Maybe a nap is in order," he chokes. "Rest. I'll. I have to…" He doesn't seem to know, how to finish. He's torn. So close to Guinevere. He can't stop now. "I have to." With that final plea, Arthur turns for the stairs.
Merlin's mouth works. "Ar...thur."
Arthur stops, for Merlin never uses his name in vain. Merlin has to tell him. Has to tell him now. There's no more time.
"It's me," he says. "I'm a…"
Words won't come.
"Don't," Arthur says. "Save your strength."
But Merlin can't. He can't save anything, not anymore.
"I'm a…" He gasps for air. Feels a lonely tear slip down his cheek. Looks at Arthur, eyes blurred. He's helpless. Nothing works.
Arthur's eyes are made of glass. He spreads his hands and whispers, "I have to. I'm…" But he won't say it, can't say that he's sorry. Instead, he turns and jogs for the stairs.
"Em…rys."
It's nothing but a whisper. Mush in Merlin's mouth, garbled, no way Arthur could have understood. But Arthur does. Arthur always does.
Arthur freezes. Pivots back. "What?"
"I'm…Emrys."
Arthur looks like he will laugh. He looks like he will cry. At long last, he says, "First Mordred, now you." Then, almost to himself, "Why is everyone so keen to die for me?"
"You're…" Merlin grimaces at something sharp. "You."
"Merlin," Arthur says, gentle now. As though he speaks to a child. But he doesn't move. Doesn't approach. "You're not a sorcerer. You failed that test, remember? And you were quite angry that I doubted you."
More tears spill down Merlin's cheeks. He can't say it with words, so he says it with his eyes. They shine with fervor. His limbs seize, sporadic, fingers grasp.
"No," Arthur says. He refuses. "Why would you even—?"
"Here," Merlin rasps. Arthur's always preferred actions to words. So Merlin will show him. He has barely enough strength to lift his arm. Points a quaking palm toward a gutted, rotten torch that clings to the wall. Wills it to flicker to light. Wills it to show Arthur, what he is. What he can do.
Except.
It doesn't.
Arthur kneels, takes Merlin's hand, closes his fingers. He places another hand on Merlin's brow. Fingers of ice. Distantly, Merlin knows that it's not Arthur. It's him.
"You're in shock," Arthur says.
Perhaps his magic is also in shock.
Merlin shakes his head. He has to make Arthur understand. But the movement makes him so dizzy he lists to one side. Arthur steadies him.
"Take me to…her." Surely Arthur must see it, the wisdom.
"Rest," Arthur repeats.
"I'll rest when I'm…dead."
The joke falls flat. Arthur gives a sickly grin and grips his shoulder. Rough. A goodbye. Then he pushes up and away. Arthur's walking away. Merlin's losing him. He's going to lose him. This can't happen. This is not the way it happens. This is not the way their story goes. Not like this, with Merlin lying and dying in some dank hallway, another forgotten skeleton with a scrap of rotted red around its neck.
And so Merlin does the only thing he can.
He flops himself over. Topples himself to stone. Nearly faints from it. Blood and bile rise in his throat, threatening to choke. When the darkness clears, he crawls. He'll crawl to the tip top of a Dark Tower, if that's what it takes. Claws himself forward on his belly, like a worm. Crawls toward Arthur.
"Stop," Arthur says.
But Merlin doesn't stop, keeps dragging the skin of his belly against stone. Blood smears in his wake. His legs dangle, useless.
"Stop it." Arthur's voice is harsh and close. Boots step into Merlin's eyeline. "You idiot. Just…"
There's an ominous pause, and then Arthur's hands haul up under Merlin's armpits.
Merlin blacks out.
Precious moments lost until he forces the darkness away, not by magic, just sheer will. He can't abandon Arthur, not now. When he comes back, he's draped over Arthur, one arm slung over Arthur's armor. Merlin focuses on his feet. He's aware of the fact that, with every step, his weight weakens, slows Arthur.
"You could at least pretend to walk," Arthur grumbles.
Merlin's laugh is a moan.
They make it to the stairs, which might as well be cliffs. With a grunt, Arthur hoists Merlin into his arms. The hauberk is cool and unforgiving beneath Merlin's cheek. From there, it's a short climb, up a dark stairwell where no light reaches. Arthur feels his way blind, bumping Merlin's head and feet against the walls. (Merlin hardly feels it.) Bones slide and crunch underfoot. Cobwebs tickle and cling. The stair vomits them out into a short hall that dead ends in a set of massive oak doors. One is slightly ajar, a tantalizing sliver of light beyond.
This is it.
Merlin croaks a word. It's supposed to be wait, but that's not what it sounds like. It's more a gasp. Still, Arthur stops. He waits. Merlin reaches a trembling hand and brushes cobwebs from Arthur's hair. He takes his time, gets them all. And for once, Arthur doesn't reprimand Merlin for being a girl. Doesn't hurry him along. He's patient under Merlin's ministrations. He understands, what Merlin seeks to do.
A final service for his king.
When Arthur faces Morgana, he'll face her looking like the golden King he is.
Too soon, Merlin is finished. His hand falls away, dangles. He sighs.
Arthur's eyes are agony. His lips part, but he says nothing. Merely steels himself, takes the remaining steps, and kicks open the door.