NUMBER FOUR
The sky is so high, so blue, so beautiful.
The sun sparkles on the powdery snow and gently warms their faces marbled by the cold.
Tonight they will sleep in Camelot.
Tonight he will have to tell Guinevere Lancelot will not come back from the Fortress of Ismere.
Arthur clenches his fist in his black leather glove.
There's nothing he can do about it. That's life. It could have been any of them...
It does not abate the guilt consuming him.
He huddles his neck in the fur of his long red coat and glances at the gelding walking beside him on the path gently winding down the hills.
Merlin is bent on the horse's neck, his pale face brushing against the brown mane, wrapped in a blanket they stuck in the knots tying him to his stirrups. He's sleeping despite the bumping along of his mount, despite the rough cough ripping up his lungs, despite his sorrow, and Arthur is grateful for small miracles.
Sir Leon trots up to him.
- "He's still there, Sire."
Arthur pulls on the reins, shifts on the saddle, raises a hand to shield his eyes and looks at the top of the hill.
Yes, he is. A black dot in the vast white. A glint of metal under the glaring sun.
Sir Leon frowns.
- "What should we do? We can't let him get any closer to the city without handling it. This is a violation of the agreement we have with Queen Annis!"
The king shakes his head.
- "No, I don't think so", he says darkly. "I reckon he's here of his own will. Let's get him, Leon. See if he tries to run away. If ... if he has no evil intention, I believe we'll be able to ask him some questions."
- "Getting actual answers will be a whole different matter, though", the blond knight grumbles, steering off his horse, nose wrinkled in disgust.
Twenty minutes later, under the snowy oak which marks the entrance to the farmlands of Camelot, in a hostile circle of red surcoats, Sir Leon brings the man who's been following them for three days.
He did not try to avoid them, gave up his sword at the first summons, let them seize him without resistance.
Arthur crosses his arms and takes some time to study the Dorocha warrior.
He is very tall and broad-shouldered - almost as much as Percival - and holds his ugly skull-shaped helmet under his arm. Gray wolf fur lines his ash-colored cloak. His face is ... astonishingly ordinary. Weathered, bearded, plain. It is his eyes that remind them of what he is. Cold, expressionless, very close together.
- "Do you come alone?" asks the king.
The man nods silently.
- "Do you come as foe?"
A murmur runs in the circle.
Whatever he says, no one will believe the word of who slaughtered so many of their brothers.
The White Shadow shakes his head.
- "As friend?"
No sign.
- "What do you want?"
Arthur has just worded the question when he rolls his eyes at himself: the mute soldier is not likely to answer.
But the Dorocha warrior points at Merlin at the foot of the tree. Gwaine has taken him off his horse and helps the barely conscious young man drink some water.
The king raises a hand to silence the whispering around him and allow him think in peace.
-"Was it you?" he asks finally. "The one of you who took care of him?"
Again a gesture of denial, then the thumb of the man comes to his throat and rubs it significantly.
- "This one is dead ..." translates Arthur for himself, softly.
He scratches his chin peppered with a blond stubble.
He understands the turmoil of his men and shares with them the still raw pain of losing so many comrades.
He does not want to show mercy.
Not at all.
But he remembers the gloomy leaving of Caerleon's army and the Queen's words are still ringing in his ears.
"It doesn't make any sense..."
"We have long studied you…"
"I saw one die at the wisp because he refused to the end to strike an idiot ..."
He bites the inside of his cheek, while scrutinizing the imperturbable features of the enemy. He misses Lancelot so much.
What would the knight say if he was there?
Probably the same thing he said when they had this last discussion in the throne room of Ismere.
"These are not animals, sire. A wild beast does not show mercy. It has neither the need, the heart or the will to be nice to the weakest. Queen Annis is wrong. These creatures who've never known love or kindness are more human than her. They have instinctive compassion."
Arthur can picture him, with his gentle smile and his resolute gaze.
Has the soulless, incorruptible slave, trained to kill and to serve, decided to change his destiny?
Does one have the right to deny him the chance of another life?
What will the consequences be if ...
- "Merlin!"
He turns his head at Gwaine's alarmed voice and sees his manservant stumbling towards them, his blue eyes filled up with tears glazing at the White Shadow.
- "You ... killed ... Lancelot ..."
His voice breaks. He sways, shaken by a violent coughing fit, and keels over.
Arthur reaches out to catch him, Sir Leon steps forward, Gwaine rushes ...
The skull-shaped helmet drops in the snow with a muffled noise.
The Dorocha grabbed Merlin and his gloved hands are very gently straightening him up.
- "You ... killed ... him…" croaks the young man with a sob. "And the others ... our friends ..."
His feeble fists hammer the white leather breastplate.
- "You ... you ... you ..."
Nobody says anything as they watch the display of helpless grief, but all stares are heavy with reproach.
Yes, Lancelot died of the internal bleeding of his wounds after a perfectly loyal duel, and he could have fallen during any other battle. But in their eyes, the Dorocha will always be his murderer.
Sir Leon looks away. Percival's shoulders sag. Gwaine grinds his teeth.
- "Why… why ... why…"
Merlin's breathing quickens, wheezing, labored, and Arthur has no doubt he will soon collapse again, give in to the pain coiled inside his scrawny chest.
The king steps in to end this painful scene, but before he can speak, the warrior opens his mouth and a strange sound comes out of it.
A strum, a growl - a hoarse, plaintive noise like the whimper of a dog.
Something decidedly worried.
Merlin stops crying almost immediately and lifts his big blue eyes. Tear drops are still clinging to his eyelashes.
He tilts his head to one side. Reaches out, surprised, and touches the scrubby throat of the enemy.
- "Oh", he says, snuffling.
The Dorocha takes his hands off him cautiously, as if afraid he'd fall, and takes a step back.
He nods and kneels, arms outstretched to show that he does not mean harm.
The men sneer, nudge each other. They see Arthur in Merlin's shadow, they think the warrior shows his submission to the king.
But Arthur sees something else.
Someone very tall who goes down to be at eye level with someone smaller.
To look less scary.
Maybe Lancelot was right ...
- "Oh", Merlin repeats.
Then he coughs again, clutching his chest, staggers and – automatically – holds himself on the man's shoulder.
The dark eyes of the enemy survey him, until the crisis passes.
Is he really a monster?
Why is he acting like this?
Sir Leon bends to whisper in the king's ear, but Arthur silences him with a wave.
Merlin's slender fingers are touching the jaws of the warrior, intrigued.
- "He can not talk", he states after a moment, and everyone knows the unformulated question is for Arthur.
- "It's because he has no tongue", answers this one, simply.
- "Oh", Merlin breathes for the third time.
The king comes slowly to stand next to his servant.
- "I reckon he'd like to offer us his services", he says bleakly, his eyes challenging the man down. "I think he no longer wishes to serve Queen Annis."
The Dorocha bows his head quietly.
- "Is he a traitor?" Merlin asks, frowning.
Arthur's lips curl into a bitter smile.
- "Yes."
The young man with big ears ponders for a moment. The rising wind ruffles his black hair, reddening his nose and cheekbones.
- "No", Merlin finally says in the deep rasping voice that his stuffed nose gives him. "He is a refugee."
Gwaine snorts.
Percival shakes his head, bewildered.
Sir Leon and the others are murmuring in amazement and hostility.
- "Refugee or traitor, he can not enter bondless in Camelot", Arthur says firmly. "He has to prove his good faith. He's a prisoner of war, even if he surrendered voluntarily."
He feels his men grumble in approval and understands their animosity. He shares it.
At the same time ...
He pities him.
He pities the beast who followed them for miles and miles, hoping to be heard before being executed.
The man who dared to turn his back on all that had been instilled in him to see if - perhaps - somewhere, another life was possible.
The monster who broke free from his chains because he witnessed a single act of kindness - because he heard a king beg him to spare his servant.
Two men come to tie up the Dorocha who does not struggle.
- "Wait", says Merlin. "Please."
He leans and the ghost of a smile creeps on his exhausted features.
- "What's your name?"
Arthur is almost certain he saw – just for a second - the man folding his eyebrow incredulously.
Then the White Shadow lifts four fingers.
- "What does that mean?" asks the young man with innocent blue eyes.
The king taps his lips thoughtfully.
- "I think he doesn't have a name, Merlin. He was not ... Well. I suppose no one bothered to give him one."
Gwaine wraps the shivering manservant into a blanket.
- "Maybe that's how he was called", scoffs the knight. "I knew a mercenary, once, who designated with numbers those who worked for him."
The soldiers of Camelot have tied up the sturdy killer. One of them spits in the snow. Nobody dares to demand the king to execute the guard from Caerleon, to reclaim blood for blood, to avenge Lancelot.
Arthur inhales deeply, lost in thought.
Lancelot is dead, but the fight was loyal.
The White Shadows massacred many of his men, but they did it following their orders.
What advantage is in it for his kingdom if he spares the traitor?
The sun is high and the sky so blue, the snow so white.
The oak branches, stretched above him, are strong enough to hang a man there.
- "Four", pants Merlin's pensive voice next to him. "Number Four."
- "That's no humane name", mumbles Percival.
Sir Leon pulls a face.
- "That'll be enough for now. Sire, what should we do with him?"
Arthur takes a final look at the unreadable assassin whose eyes are still set on Merlin – out of breath again and burning with fever - whom Gwaine is softly scolding for overestimating his strength.
"What should I do, Lancelot?"
"You already know, sire. You are the king. Trust yourself. Your heart knows the answer."
Arthur can almost feel the friendly hand squeezing his shoulder.
He is not his father.
He is not Caerleon.
He is Arthur Pendragon, King of Camelot.
He is the king who once was a prince who listened with passion to a man with a black and curly beard explaining that every individual should be able to live on his work and never be robbed by stronger than him. That no one has the right to own another human being. That showing forgiveness will always - always – be a better deed than condemning.
- "He'll come to Camelot with us."
They hit the road after eating. The whiteness of the vast plain is only broken by the dark thatched roofs and the streaks of smoke rising above them. The winter sun shimmers on the icicles fraying the branches of the trees along the river. The soft snow crunches under the hoofs of their horses and the wheels of the carts carrying the dead.
People pop on the doorsteps of the farms, curtsey as they pass, and Arthur greets them soberly.
With each new mile covered, he is a little more aware of the long list written on the parchment slipped into his shirt.
The crowd is compact when they enter Camelot's lower town - the sentries saw them coming in the distance. Banners, colorful ribbons, bells, holly and mistletoe wreaths are hung at the windows and across strings over their heads.
Everywhere: smiling, grateful, welcoming faces.
- "Long live the king!"
- "Thank you, my lord!"
- "Hooray for his majesty!"
The peasants give them apples and tankards of mead, girls are dancing in the street in a swirl of petticoats and giggles.
An old woman offers Arthur a bright toothless grin, a young mother lifts her baby so he can lightly touch the child's forehead. Boys are running beside his horse, promising him that one day they will be part of his army.
His people.
So happy, so relieved.
Gripped by his guilt, Arthur glances over his shoulder to look at his soldiers and his knights, and sees them simply receiving the love of the people.
They are not heroes.
They are just alive.
Coming back home.
His horse's hoofs clatter over the drawbridge, he inhales the scent of the ancient stones of Camelot under the arch smeared by the braziers smokes for years and years, and he finally feels home.
The trumpets sound.
He jumps down from the saddle and turns round just in time to scoop in his arms the queen who ran down the broad white stairs, not worrying about protocol, and threw herself at him in a whirling of shamrock silk.
- "Arthur!"
She embraces him and he holds her close, burying his dirty and tired face in her long soft chestnut hair.
- "I missed you so much, Mithian ..."
He steps back just a little, cups her diamond chin in his hands, kisses her with passion. She's crying and laughing at once, her amber eyes lifting to him with adoration and relief.
She's so beautiful.
So full of life.
So real.
He straightens up, washed over by a cold shiver. She tilts her head to the side, arching an eyebrow at his suddenly dark look.
- "What is it, Arthur?"
He doesn't answer, his eyes scouring the courtyard.
Sir Leon greets his wife, his tiny blond daughter clinging on to his leg. Sir Elyan's mother is checking him thoroughly and he's trying to hide his embarrassment from his pals. Gwaine runs a hand through his shaggy hair, surrounded by chirruping damsels.
Percival helps Merlin down his horse and Gaius hugs the young man with a heavy sigh, giving a faint smile of thanks to the giant.
At the bottom of the great white stairs, Guinevere tiptoes in her long lilac dress, outstretching her graceful neck to scan the crowd. She nibbles her lower lip, climbs up some steps to see better, mumbles with concern.
- "Arthur?" asks Mithian worriedly, and she follows her husband's gaze. "Oh. Oh no, Arthur ..."
The king gently removes the fingers clasped on his cloak and heads to the former maid with heavy steps.
- "Guinevere."
She turns to him.
He swallows hard.
- "I ..."
She shakes her head slowly, her hazel eyes dilating with horror.
- "I'm sorry. Lancelot... Lancelot is dead."
She does not scream. She does not burst into tears. She does not fall on her knees. She does not run off.
She just stands there, in front of him, her back very straight in her velvet dress, with just her head moving from left to right to say no.
And this silence is unbearable.
oOoOoOo
It is a glorious day.
On the banks of the lake, all the knights are in shining armors, with their long red coats like poppies on the pristine snow.
Guinevere is standing in front of them, dressed in a black gown, her curly dark hair just held back by the ivory comb she wore on her wedding day.
- "I want to pay tribute to Sir Lancelot", Arthur pronounces, while Sir Leon and Sir Elyan push on the glittering water the boat in which lies their friend, on a bed of white hellebores. "We owe him a great debt. It is not just his deed that we'll never forget. It's his courage. His compassion."
Percival draws his bow and inflames an arrow on the torch Gwaine is holding.
- "He was the most noble man I'll ever know", continues Arthur, in a slow, deep voice. "He gave his life for all of us."
The golden shot swishes across the sky in a graceful curve and the flames billow above the boat, their glint rippling on the lake.
- "He was true to his word. He was ... Knight of the Round Table."
In the silence that follow the king's last words, they all contemplate the beautiful and sad blaze in the valley surrounded by blue mountains covered with snow.
Mithian holds Arthur's hand and tears stream down her face.
Merlin, who was standing by Gaius, wipes his eyes with the back of his sleeve and his lanky figure toddles down to Guinevere, still and small black silhouette, alone on the shore.
Slowly, quietly, he takes in his calloused palm the hand of the maid who was his first friend in Camelot.
She shudders.
Her hazel eyes do not leave the lake.
- "He loved you", she whispers.
- "I know", Merlin murmurs.
- "He loved us all."
- "He did."
Guinevere inhales deeply and turns to Merlin.
She smiles faintly at him.
- "I'd like to be alone now", she breathes.
He nods.
Then goes up the bank and take the others away with him.
Arthur is the last to leave.
The only one who sees Guinevere bend over on the shore and weep her heart out, her face buried in her hands, in front of the lake where Lancelot will rest forever.
oOoOoOo
It is dark in the dungeons.
The man is sitting cross-legged against the wall, his eyelids shut, his chin lifted to the single beam of sunlight slitting through the basement window.
He does not move when the key is turned in the lock, and when the gate squeaks, turning on its hinges.
- "Today", says the king, "we sent to Avalon a man who believed you and your kin were not monsters."
The White Shadow does not blink.
- "Give me one good reason not you execute you to relief his widow from her grief."
The prisoner does not flinch.
Arthur crosses his arms and sighs, leaning against the oozing wall of the jail.
- "Have you come here to die, Number Four? Because if that's the case, let me tell you it won't happen."
The Dorocha warrior cracks an eye open.
And he smiles for the very first time.
It is a strange and croaked smile. A bit like a beast lip-smacking.
He has bad teeth and the unusual grin makes him scrunch up his nose and squint his eyes.
- "You'd give the creeps to a veteran", Arthur tells him, shaking his head. "I really don't get it. You don't even look like a cat."
He whistles and the guards let through his servant.
Merlin comes in the cell and squats in front of the prisoner.
His blue eyes look at him for a long time before he speaks.
- "Hello", he ventures at last.
He puts his slender fingers on the scruffy throat of the man and chuckles quietly when it vibrates with the inarticulate but definitely friendly strum that answers his greeting.
- "Welcome to Camelot, Number Four."
There is no hint of bitterness in his voice.
A life ended, but another begins.
TBC
Next chapter : PROMISES
Sorry. It wasn't a very comforting chapter.
And what's coming next will probably make you hate me deeply... (I don't mind, as long as you tell me why, though. And keep reading, too. ^^) Word of advice: do not read "Promises" whilst listening to Merlin BBC ost "Freya"... I'm not to be held responsible for whatever happens to you if you try.
And as for your questions : Lancelot is dead and won't ever come back (I'm just as devastated as you are, just rewatched S1E5 and cried to see him so young and full of hope... silly me). He died of a ruptured spleen, a very common injury for the knights, at the time (believe my HOURS of research on middle-age medical records). Oh, and by the way, you can heal pneumonia with mustard poultices (among other things) and they knew mustard (do you want their recipe ?). There is no magic in this story... or, more exactly, there is no proper sorcellery. But there is at least one moment when the characters will face something you could call magic... or a miracle.
We're left with two arcs after "Promises" so if you guys'd like to get a nice oneshot-kind-of-chapter all fluffy and happy before we head into darkness and epic and oh-my-gosh-it's-the-end chapters, tell me which episodes we never got to see and I'll try to make a nice picnic bundle with your ideas (I heard the sigh about Lamia... ^^)
We've hit the 100 reviews mark! I am SO GRATEFUL.
This is the very first time I get a hundred review on an English fic - and only the second time I actually get to 100!
THANK YOU A BILLION TIMES !
Now, if we get to 149 (I can dream big, can't I?) before the end, I'll write the 150th reviewer a one-shot based on any prompt he/she'd like...
YOU, MY DEAR READERS, ARE JUST THE BEST WRITER MUSE EVER.
PS : Oh, how do you like Number Four ? He popped out of nowhere after one of your reviews...