Posted this on AO3, but thought I would share it here too. Let me know what you think!
Rated T for language & Violence
"Make some room!"
He is unable to recognize the voice at first. The commotion in the expansive, oversized tent almost seems louder than the gruesome battle waging from outside.
"Out of my way!"
Merlin bustles about— fingers quick, feet quicker, but mind— quickest.
"Move, move, move!"
He is careful when he moves, mindful of the frayed, battered figures that litter the floor of the physician's tent. He cannot even fathom the amount of lost, obliterated bodies that lay askew the battlefield.
"I need an empty cot!"
He grunts, chucking yet another bloodied chest plate into the corner of the room. The plate lands on the top of the armored mountain, dislodging a gauntlet from the pileup in its wake. It clatters to the floor, joining a bundle of swords— each blade bathed in the indisputable sight of crimson red blood. The armor of the injured is stacking up...
But so is the death count.
He is fearful of golden blonde hair, even more terrified of seeing it tinted red. Every swish of the tent flap is a pang to his heart— a stab to his gut— he is afraid of seeing him.
He should be out there. He should be fighting alongside Arthur in this battle— watching over him, protecting him— but the injuries... they're increasing exponentially, and Gaius is only one man.
So Merlin works diligently alongside his mentor in the tent nearest to the ongoing battle— cauterizing gashes, applying pressure to profusely bleeding wounds, smothering salves onto freshly brewed cuts, stitching lacerated skin, throwing sheets over the deceased, utilizing bouts of magic when needed, and finally, the hardest job in the tent— comforting the hearts of the dying.
It is never an easy task for Merlin, especially when it is his friend's life that is hanging in the balance.
He has just finished tying the ends of a bandage over a cauterized chest wound when a firm hand encompasses his bicep and swiftly twists him around.
He gasps, eyes widening from the abrupt motion. The sight he is met with is even more startling though, because standing before him, is a bruised and bloody knight, covered in filth from head to toe. So soiled, in fact, that it is not until Merlin looks into his eyes, really looks into his desperate, hazel irises, that he figures out he knows this man. Quite well, actually.
"Gwaine," he croaks, hand flying up in a futile attempt to massage out the soreness in his throat. But then, the physician in him sees the fresh trail of blood running down his brow, and so he reaches out a shaky hand towards the Knight's temple.
"Gwaine..."
His arm is intercepted, and Gwaine catches his wrist before he has a chance to lay a finger on him.
A quizzical look encompasses Merlin's face. He furrows his brows and opens his mouth in an effort to speak, but the Knight cuts him off with a grim shake of his head.
"Merlin," he murmurs softly, voice aching with such torment that the warlock visibly stills, heart sinking to the deepest depths of his internal being. Gwaine gulps, quite audibly, and lowers his hand, smoothing a calloused thumb over his radial pulse.
It's a minimal, but comforting gesture, a kind of negligible mechanism that subconsciously prepares the recipient for what is about to be voiced. The motion screams dreadful news.
Promptly, his mind wanders to the one man he has sworn to protect— the one man that he is currently not defending. The sickening feeling in his gut worsens and it only makes him want to hurl.
"Is it—"
"Lancelot," Gwaine rasps, eyes downcast. He nods his head towards a cot near the opposite corner of the room.
Merlin simply cannot deny that he is relieved. As terrible as it sounds, Arthur is, and will always be— the person he cares about the most— the one person he does not believe he can truly live without. So in a way, a bit reluctantly, he is relieved to learn that his mind was wrong. Relieved that his King is still safe, still fighting; however, he is not pleased to hear about the dreadful state of his most trusted friend.
His legs move on their own accord. As short as the distance is, he vaguely remembers the walk to the cot. His eyes are way too fixated on the bright red liquid that coats Lancelet's armor. An outsider may assume his armor is simply just painted with the blood of his enemies, but Merlin knows better, he knows Lancelot has lost a great deal of his own blood— which means that the wound he has been dealt with is potentially fatal.
It is woefully confirmed among Merlin's arrival.
His arm, or, what is left of it— is now a profusely bleeding nub. It is no doubt the handiwork of a battle axe— the most brutal of handheld weaponry. Severed bone, torn ligaments, and shredded skin appear— peeking out just beneath the portion of his shoulder that is still thankfully intact. His upper bicep, all the way down to his hand, is absent, lost amongst the other severed appendages scattered amid the battlefield.
"Shit," Merlin curses, jaw clenched and eyes wide with an overwhelming amount of shock. For a moment, his brain blanks, and the noises around him become muffled, akin to the experience of being submerged under water. His eyes zero in on what is left of Lancelot's left arm— the byproduct of a ferocious fight to the death. He wonders who struck his savage opponent down. Did Lancelot manage to kill his assailant? Or was it Gwaine who came through for him when he thought death would easily consume him?
Merlin is barely aware of what he is doing, hardly conscious enough to realize that his arm is moving. All he knows is that he wants to save his friend. He needs to use magic to close the wound site. He must hurry.
Before it is too late...
"-erlin, Merlin, Merlin, STOP!"
He winces, eyes snapping up to meet Lancelot's worried gaze. His own hand had moved absentmindedly during his stupor to cover the cleaved wound site, and now his palm is drenched in Lancelot's warm, viscous blood. He gulps, unwilling to move even as his friend's only hand is weakly trying to pry him off.
"Merlin, please, don't."
It's broken, it's hopeless, it's a desperate plea.
But the warlock does not care.
Lancelot's doe eyes fill with even more anguish as Merlin's face contorts into an unrelenting, determined look of perseverance.
"I am going to save you."
It's a promise, a vow, an oath.
"No." Lancelot objects, drawing incredulous looks from both Gwaine and Merlin. His nails dig harder into the warlock's skin.
Gwaine leans forward, highly set on removing Lancelot's vice grip himself, but the ever-selfless knight is unrelenting, and his gaze is steely as he locks challenging eyes with Merlin.
"Lancelot—" the rogue knight grits out, clearly irritated by his comrades stubbornness. "Let him help you."
"He can't."
"I can." Merlin counters sharply, practically seething through clenched teeth. His gaze is just as hard and unwavering as he wills his magic to the surface— ready to be used at a moment's notice. "You know I can."
"I do," Lancelot finally admits, weary eyes softening, but there is still blatant resolve held inside them, a final decision that Merlin knows is locked in iron chains. "but if you waste your energy healing me," he swallows, voice taking on a more serious, more grave tone as he relays, "then we have no chance at winning this war."
"What nonsense are you blabbering on about, Lancelot?" Gwaine asks, reaching out to lay a hand on his comrades forehead, checking for a fever. "Have you gone mad?"
Lancelot shakes his head, "Merlin knows what I mean."
Gwaine looks between the two, eyes flitting back and forth. His brows pinch together in bewilderment as he physically removes Merlin's hand and replaces it with his cape— bundling the fabric and applying pressure over the amputated wound-site to slow the bleeding.
The warlock sighs, grief gnawing on his bones.
"I cannot go out there knowing that I will be leaving you for dead, when I clearly possess the power to save you."
Lancelot frowns, and it almost looks like he pities him, but he does not seem the least bit fazed at knowing his chances of survival are slim to none if Merlin were to leave his side.
"It is either you save me and watch Camelot fall to the mercy of Mercia's King, or you place my life into the hands of fate, and turn the tides of this losing battle."
Merlin spares a glance around the tent, evaluating the injured, watching the knights' faces contort into agony with each ventilation, and listening to those that moan out their grievances. There are so many... too many people who need tending...
"Merlin." Lancelot mutters his name softly, but it is spoken like an entreaty, a request, a prayer. It is in that moment, when the warlock finally turns back around and encounters imploring eyes, that he knows there is nothing he can do but obey Lancelot's dying wish. "You must know we are losing terribly. You must know that even Arthur cannot stand a chance amongst all of Mercia's men."
And there it is. The sole reason Merlin is able to leave Lancelot's life to the mercy of the gods.
Arthur.
The Once and Future King needs him.
His King.
"If you can end our people's suffering then why are you here?" Lancelot questions, voice sounding increasingly rough with each uttered word. "If you can prevent more casualties, then why are you not out there?" Gwaine turns his head, looking upon Merlin in a curious light, seemingly evaluating him under acute scrutiny. "If your destiny is to protect Arthur, then why are you not by his side?"
Merlin's hand twitches, and his magic thrums beneath his skin, banging like a prisoner against metal bars— yearning to be released. Lancelot is right, despite Merlin's wish to see his friend live, he knows he speaks the truth. His destiny cannot be accomplished from inside these flimsy walls. He must face his fears, must squash the growing terror of persecution, and own up to his true potential.
Why treat injuries, when they can be prevented?
Why watch soldiers die, when they can be rescued?
Why pray for Arthur's safety, when he can be protected?
Why save the few, when he can save the many?
Why risk anymore of the Knights' lives, when he can single handedly defeat Mercia's army?
Why lose, when the war can be won?
"He is right, my boy."
A hand clasps his shoulder, and suddenly, Gaius is there, smiling fondly upon Merlin and giving him a reassuring squeeze. Merlin steals a sorrowful glance down at Lancelot's disheveled form. His skin is pale and clammy, there are bruises under his eyes, and blood drips from his nose. He bites down on his lip in order keep the prickling tears at bay, but a small whine does escape his lips.
"Do not worry, Merlin. I will take care of him."
It's something about the way he voices it, something about the way his voice sounds so certain, that it causes Merlin to snap his gaze up to meet his mentors. Gaius's eyes are full of mirth, resolve, and confidence, and it only manages to spark his growing confusion.
"What?" The physician scoffs, feigning offense while skillfully quirking his signature brow, "just because I am a bit rusty, does not mean I am incapable of wielding magic. I'll have you know, young man, back before the great purge, I was a master of the magical arts."
Merlin laughs. He laughs so freely that he feels almost guilty for blatantly showing his relief in front of several wounded men. He knows what Gaius is insinuating, knows the elder man is going to great lengths to ensure Merlin's mind is at peace for when he faces Mercia in battle, but he certainly never thought he would live to see the day when his mentor wielded magic once more.
Now there is hope. For both Lancelot and Camelot.
"Now go," Gaius urges, ushering Merlin towards the tent flap with a newfound sense of urgency.
"It is time for the world to meet Emrys."
This, is not a battle amongst opposing Knights.
"Please, I beg of you! Please spare m—"
Honor is nonexistent, mercy is denied, surrendering is impossible.
"Help me! Help me! Somebo—"
There is no chance to breathe. No chance to flee. No chance to scream.
"W-Wait! No! Please! I don't want to d—"
Muscles ache, bodies shake, their insides quake.
"Die! You fucking wret—"
Thoughts— expunged, Eyes— feral, Hearts— steeled.
"K-Kill me, p-please. It hurts, it hurts too mu—"
Heads— severed, Swords— bloodied, Teeth— barred.
"For Camelot! For King Ar—"
One thought, and one thought only.
Kill or be Killed.
This, is a bloodbath.
Screams of terror and cries for help are indistinguishable to Merlin as he walks amongst the battlefield, through the throng of heavily built bodies— untouched and unscathed.
Swords are thrust toward him, crumbling from the tip of the blade, all the way to the hilt.
Axes come down upon him, shattering upon impact.
Arrows fly at him, disintegrating into dust as they spear enchanted flesh.
Yet, he still remains intact.
Each dominant stride sends a jolt of power through his ceaseless legs. His magic buzzes just beneath his skin, pulsating through his veins, and throbbing with excitement. The way he carries himself— assertive and dignified, along with his confident yet calm demeanor— radiates an air of regality.
He is a sight to behold.
His irises are no longer a cerulean blue. They burn a bright gold— rivaling the sun in all its shining glory.
As he passes through, grimy heads turn, murderous eyes follow, weapons waver, and untamed Knight's growl.
When he inhales, iron fills his lungs. He grimaces, grinding down on his teeth, and pointedly ignores the sloshing sound each step amid the red-stained grass emits beneath his feet.
He hates blood. He wants it out of sight.
So he holds out his arms.
"Acennan sé styrman!"
The sky darkens at once, growing from a cool grey to an eerie obsidian. Rumbles sound, echoing throughout the air, vibrating the earth with each sickening roar of thunder. Electricity flickers across the sky, dancing amongst the densely packed clouds like a light show. A lightning bolt is cast, striking down amidst the sea of swarmed bodies.
Ear-splitting screams sound, and the deafening crack of thunder that follows temporarily draws the gazes of every battered knight within the vicinity. They stare, slack-jawed and wide eyed at the dark, curdling smoke arising from a pile of newly charred corpses.
"What a coincidence..." he mutters, a small smile gracing his thin, chapped lips, "that they just so happened to be a group of Mercia's Knights..."
Sharp, wet, sprinkles of rain, patter down on his raven black mane, and it isn't long before it progresses into a heavy— almost blinding— downpour. His clothes become heavier in a matter of seconds, and his hair sticks— matted down to his forehead. Water droplets tickle his skin as they trail down his cheek bones. The rancid scent of burnt flesh and metallic blood soon dissipates into a dull rank.
Stained armor and steel are washed anew— cleansed of the evidence of prior sins and the repugnant gore of the deceased.
With a lazy wave of his hand, the rain simmers to a normal pitter-patter. Although he can breathe again without having to scrunch his nose in disgust, the battle between rivaling kingdoms has once again resumed, and he would rather not fret about the foul stench of blood and sweat that only serves as a distraction.
So the rain does not relent.
His magic is like a sixth sense. While other's tend to have five, his power acts as another perception— granting him a remarkable advantage, and putting his enemies at a troubling disadvantage.
Magic is like breathing. He simply cannot live without it. It is not just apart of him, not just an added bonus, no, Merlin is the very essence of Magic. It is intertwined within his anatomy. Every atom, every cell, every muscle, every bone— Magic is the building block of his entire being.
He is a powerhouse.
One day, when he will finally crack through the surface and reach the searing core of his true potential, he will no longer need to utter a single word in order to cast a spell. Unlike other magic users—
He is the epitome of power.
The earth bends to his every will, obeying his every command. Nature recognizes him as it's commander, it's leader, it's ruler. The trees, the grass, the roots— they are his knights— nature is his army.
He is Emrys.
Sometimes, his magic feels like it has a mind of its own.
It flares up on occasion, sensing the entities of other life forms in proximity— alerting him to even the most simplest forms of danger with just a twist of his gut. Other times, when his magic flares up, it does so with a tingling sensation. He normally receives this type of reaction when his sixth sense perceives a benevolent soul bearing no malevolence.
There is, however, one person whom his magic seems to have taken a strong liking to. Perhaps this is due to destiny, or perhaps it is because their roles are intertwined. Whatever the true reasoning is behind this peculiar display of favoritism, it seems to bring out an entirely different response from his magic— especially when in said person's presence.
His magic sings, humming with blissful joy. It begs to reach out, to encompass this individual wholly, and revel in his enchanting aura. It is thoroughly captivated by this mortal, always hyperactive in his presence— vastly protective and defensive, as if it's sole purpose is to serve this man, to ensure his safety, to assist in his aid— as if it was specifically and wholeheartedly created for his very existence.
But maybe that is because it was.
And that is exactly how his magic feels— right here, right now, as he stands approximately three feet away from a bruised and bloodied, Arthur Pendragon. But despite his disheveled appearance, and the fact that he is gawking at Merlin like some incredulous fool, he is still positively and undeniably radiant.
Arthur looks utterly stupefied. He is gaping, mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water, because he is thoroughly at a loss for words. His body is rigid, eyes wide with shock, brows raised in disbelief, and knuckles white from their vice grip on the hilt of Excalibur.
"Sire," Merlin greets with a firm nod of his head, pointedly ignoring the enraged shouts and futile strikes of the enemy Knight's whom are ferociously trying to break through the invisible barrier that Merlin has conjured to separate them from their enemies.
Arthur's steel blue eyes flicker from the metallic gold of Merlin's irises to the gruesome pummeling of Mercia's Knights— only inches away, but attempts proven fruitless with each truncated strike, meeting nothing but hardened molecules of air, resulting in an involuntary wince from the King with every failed blow.
"Merlin..." he mutters, so low and downright broken that it could almost be mistaken as a whisper. His voice is laced with incredulity and hurt from years and years of one greatly concealed secret that has unexpectedly been laid bear for all to see. His light brown brows furrow in disbelief, as if he cannot fathom the sight before him.
Merlin cannot blame his King, for he, more than anyone, can understand the inner betrayal and confusion that Arthur must be harboring in his heart. Even through all the bickering and harmless taunts they jab at each other throughout the most simplest of days, he knows, deep down, that Arthur does love him. Whether that be in a brotherly way or perhaps something more, the revelation of this lonely kept secret will greatly impact him all the same.
However, there is no time to dwell on such emotions, nor is it wise to consider the repercussions that a reveal as life-changing as this would entail. While they may be safer from the ongoing evils of the outside world in this small, protective shield, there is still a waging war around them, and each second wasted, is another life taken at the hands of an enemy knight.
"Arthur," he begins, inhaling a slow, deep breath before shakily dispelling all of his pent up tension, "I—"
"You need to leave, Merlin." Arthur bites out, an unforeseen sense of urgency in his tone; not at all the furious and troubled King the warlock anticipated him to be. But then again, Arthur has always been skilled at maintaining a calm demeanor during times of grave importance, so maybe - just maybe, this normalcy is only a facade— an in-denial coping mechanism for the truth at hand.
He watches, as Arthur skittishly glances around at the growing mass of enemies surrounding them, desperately trying to reach the King of Camelot. They crave death, they thirst for it— their hungry gazes lust for royal blood.
They know Arthur's death would grant an immediate win for Mercia's army.
"Go," Arthur urges with a hurried jolt to Merlin's shoulder, "this is not your average run-of-the-mill bandit attack, Merlin, no, this is far worse, far more barbaric than anything you have ever experienced. This is a war, and fighting alongside me would be suicide."
Merlin scoffs, and he cannot help but roll his eyes at Arthur's absurd proclamations. He crosses his arms over his chest, akin to a petulant child, glaring tenfold at his King's resolute face.
"I know what war demands of me, Arthur," he snaps, not bothering to hide the offense in his tone, "Despite how often you like to remind me, I am not an idiot."
Arthur shakes his head, eyes narrowed, "I never said—"
"You are losing, are you not?"
"W-Well yes, but—"
"So let me help you."
"HOW?" Arthur shouts, angry, dark irises turning on the stunned warlock. The abruptness of his deafening yell causes not only Merlin to flinch, but the rabid Knight's beating down on the barrier as well. He seethes, fists clenched, and shoulder's heaving up and down from every ragged breath. "WITH WHAT? THIS?" He asks incredulously, gesturing his hands wildly over Merlin's stock-still form. "With... m-magic?"
The warlock grinds down on his teeth, fists tightening from a newfound rage that surges through his gut.
"Yes." He grits out, eyes glowing brighter than before, "with magic."
It is silent for a moment, with both Arthur and Merlin stuck in a challenging stand-off. Merlin lifts his chin, glare easily rivaling his furious King's— refusing to back down— refusing to succumb to his command. He has never had a problem defying Arthur, and he certainly will not quit now.
Eventually, Merlin is granted victory when Arthur sighs heavily, shoulder's slumping from the heavy weight of his burdens.
"I am not sure how I feel about..." he waves a sluggish hand toward Merlin, "this, but what I do know is that I won't, I-" his voice breaks, so he clears his throat. His features soften, eyes more sincere than ever before, "l can't have you risking your life, Merlin."
For a moment, he cannot seem to move. He is taken aback by Arthur's earnest words, and undeniably desperate, but gentle tone. His brows rise far above his damp fringe, and his lips lie slightly parted. Stunned, would be an understatement.
Arthur steps forward.
"It is far too dangerous for someone who lacks the battle experience and training, to step up and fight in this war." He sighs, reaching a hand out to place upon Merlin's shoulder. He leans in, eyes solely focused on the Warlock's golden irises and nothing else. "Save yourself while you can." He smiles softly, but Merlin does not return the gesture. Instead, he frowns. "You are a servant, not a knight. You are not obligated to fight."
Merlin is quick to shake his head in protest, to disprove his ideals, because the warlock is more than capable of fighting. He feels obligated to fight now. Especially, when he is inevitably, their only hope.
"Arthur—"
He's cut off instantaneously, and his words catch in his throat the moment Arthur dares to take another step forward, reaching up to hold Merlin's cheeks between his gloved palms.
His eyes glisten as he admits—
"I would like to die, knowing, that you are safe. That you got to live, knowing that you will have a future." Merlin sucks in a sharp, shuttering breath. His hands fly up on their own accord to wrap themselves around his King's wrists.
Arthur prowls on.
"This in itself is a losing battle." He sighs, face taking on a much graver appearance. "We have already lost, there is no coming back." He shakes his head, as if disappointed in himself, "My men are no longer fighting for Camelot, Merlin, they are fighting for their lives." Arthur drops his hands, they swing lowly by his sides.
A beat of silence, and then—
"So you are just going to accept defeat?" Merlin asks, brows pinched in confusion. It is wildly unlike Arthur to give up so easily, let alone, welcome any sort of defeat, "Just like that?"
Arthur holds up his hands, gesturing to the fighting that consumes the air around them, "The odds are not particularly stacked in our favor." He sighs, voice rough— defeated as he declares, "even magic cannot save us now."
This time, it is Merlin's turn to shake his head— to contradict his King. He takes a brave step forward, chin raised in determination. "That is where you are wrong, Arthur."
The blonde narrows his eyes, "you may be a sorcerer..." he tilts his head, "but that does not mean you can defeat an entire army."
Merlin nods slowly, "you are right." He takes another step forward, until their noses brush, until they see eye to eye. "Being a sorcerer does not grant me the ability to wipe out Mercia's army..."
It starts out as a small smile, close-lipped and modest, but then, he cannot help the utterly perplexed look that contorts Arthur's face, and soon, the tiny curve of his lips stretch into a full-blown grin.
"But being Emrys does."
The dam breaks.
The barricade that once suppressed his magic, shatters.
Sparks of electricity litter across Merlin's skin, irradiating his features in an incandescent glow. Starting from the veins in his feet, his power surges through his deoxygenated bloodstream, traveling up through his body, illuminating his veins in a bright majestic gold. It spreads up his calves, to his thighs, up his torso, and down his arms to his finger tips. It emerges from under his tunic collar, traveling up his neck to the small veins underneath his eyes, and once the surge of power reaches his irises, they glow an even brighter gold.
He allows the pure, raw energy that has been accumulating inside of him for years, to flow freely— ultimately, consuming him completely.
Energy cackles through the air, thickening to an almost unbearable intensity. The abrupt transformation into a near suffocating atmosphere is enough to hinder those currently in battle, provoking many Knights into a hacking fit due to the smothering sensation befalling on their exhausted lungs.
There are no words to describe the look on Arthur Pendragon's face, but the release of his hold on Excalibur is telling enough as it tumbles to the ground.
Merlin takes a step back, only to kneel before his King.
He bows his head, using his left arm to steady himself on the mucky grass as he balances his right forearm across his knee.
He speaks solemnly, true to his word—
"Sire," he begins, and for once, there is no mockery behind the term, "forgive me, for what I am about to do, for what you shall witness today across this battlefield."
He lifts his left arm and tightens his hand into an unwavering fist, mustering up a vast amount of power into the lone extremity.
"For it is time we turn the tide."
He cries out— the shout comes from somewhere deep inside of him, reverberating through the air, causing every strand of hair on every inch of filthy flesh to stand on end.
It's a warning, a threat, a promise.
He strikes his knuckles into the ground, releasing his pent up energy and dispelling it into the earth below, trusting and allowing his magic to follow through with his request.
As expected, it does not disappoint.
Sensing the tainted hearts of the Mercia Knights, his magic zips through every body like a wave of static shock before propelling them off the ground and flinging them yards away. No longer is anyone surrounding the barrier, nor is anyone currently brawling, for all of Mercia's warriors are sprawled out onto the field.
But it is only a mere inconvenience, only to stun, not to disable.
It gives Camelot the temporary advantage like he anticipated. The Knights can choose to deal a killing blow to the enemy whilst they are down, or they can wait until they rise once again. It is a matter of whether or not they choose to fulfill the honor bestowed upon them by King Arthur Pendragon.
However, it is also a matter of life and death.
As the battlefield is once again filled with the shrilling sounds of raucous screams, Merlin retrieves Excalibur from the ground and presents it to Arthur— sword splayed across both his palms.
"I believe this belongs to you, sire."
The King gulps, eyes flickering wearily over Merlin before he hesitantly reaches out to grip onto the hilt of his sword.
The warlock lowers his hands, observing, as Arthur gives it a good spin to retest its weight. He would be lying if he said he was not slightly on edge as he stares upon the only immortal blade that has the power to slay him.
Boisterous battle cries sound from all around, and it's then, he realizes, that the enemy knights have fully recovered. Their ferocious faces and feral snarls become more coherent the closer they approach. They begin to enclose on them from all sides, boots splashing in the muddy grass, and weapons driving back and forth as they sprint towards the Warlock and his King.
Arthur lifts his sword, ready to fight against the numerous amount of men heading their way, but the brief, panic-stricken glance he shoots Merlin tells the warlock all he needs to know.
Arthur is nervous, he's alarmed...
He wants Merlin to do something.
So the ever-faithful servant does just that.
He holds up his hand just as Arthur steps forward to swing out and counter the first oncoming blow, but before metal on metal is able to clash— the warlock twists his wrist.
Instantaneously, the head's of the nearby Knight's wrench harshly to the right. The indistinguishable sound of bone's snapping blares louder than any scream ever could. Maybe that is because it is simultaneous, or perhaps it is because it is a noise that ensures death is sure to follow. The tension in their burly bodies ease, and they drop like flies, collapsing to the ground in lifeless heaps of flaccid cadavers.
Merlin pants heavily, placing down a hand to steady himself once more. He cannot tell if the drops of liquid that flow down his face is merely rainwater or salty sweat, but he concludes it may just be a mixture of both. Taking a life, let alone multiple lives at once, always requires a tremendous amount of power, especially when executing the death blow from directly inside the targeted source.
Arthur stumbles back, surprise etched in all his features. His eyes are just as wide as his gaping mouth, and he sputters like a halfwit, whipping around in circles to survey the deceased bodies that litter the grass around them.
He stops suddenly, shocked blue irises landing directly on Merlin.
"Just how powerful are you?"
The warlock pushes off the ground and rises to his feet. He holds out his hands to the sky to call forth the storm. His hair tussles violently in the wind as the clouds shift and darken into the most threatening of storm clouds. Arthur squints his eyes and stumbles, looking up into the sky the moment he begins to hear the distinct rumbling of thunder.
Merlin roars over the turbulent winds, "powerful enough to single-handedly win this war!"
He squeezes his eyes shut and shouts, throwing down his hands to release the electrostatic electricity he has amassed inside of the tumultuous clouds.
There is a blinding flash, followed by an ear-piercing *CRACK* as countless bolts of cloud to ground lightning streak across the sky, striking down every lone enemy Knight that is nowhere near one of Camelot's own. In the aftermath of such a vehement display of power— thick, stifling smoke effuses off the newly charred corpses from various spots across the field.
Then, he falls to his knees.
Not because the stunt was demanding enough to have drained his energy, but because he is ready to perform his last exploit— a final means to an end.
He leans forward and plants his palms onto the mushy, moistened turf. He grits his teeth while digging his nails into the mud to ground himself to the terrain— forming a bond between his own magic and the magical essence that is embedded within the earth— forging a link that will manifest into one entity.
It becomes one incessant circuit, as the power that resides within him flows into the ground, blending in with nature's raw energy, only to circulate back up and into his veins once more. He releases a slow, tranquil breath, reveling in the warmth that the earth's power so graciously provides.
It produces a euphoric sensation, easing his mind and spirit, and Merlin basks in it. He is rigorously thriving and pulsating with sheer vitality.
His awareness has drastically heightened. Not only can he differentiate between every mortal standing in proximity just by discerning between each unique life-force, but he can also hear the delicate whispers of the earth— the trees, their roots, the soil, the grass... everything in nature is talking— and because he is the very essence of magic, he can speak back.
It is a mutualistic symbiotic relation between himself and Mother Nature, he helps to supply her, while she helps to supply him as well, creating a balance amongst powers— a tireless distribution between magic.
He pushes his magic deeper into her origins and in response, she opens up, welcoming her child with open arms. Nature yields, bending to his will, heeding to his every word, allowing him to command their unshakable forces.
He orders the trunks of the surrounding trees to expand their roots, to stretch across the vast land, and find those with tarnished hearts. He instructs them to emerge from the soiled mud, to securely intertwine their roots around the remaining foes ankles, to lick amongst their armor, circling their tendrils over writhing legs, traveling even higher to frame their muscled torsos, bounding further to grow past their chest plates, until they finally reach their vulnerable necks where they slowly begin to encircle the enemy's clammy flesh, tightening its hold until the sickening sounds of retched gasps fill the air.
Other roots, which recognize the more tainted spirits of the bunch, do not halt at the neck. They prowl on, forcing the tips of their root caps into the enemies mouths, tunneling down their throats, into their lungs, through the pulmonary veins, breaking past the mitral valve before finally settling into the heart, tearing through its soft interior.
Merlin remains patient through it all, breathing steadily even as the last blackened heart ceases to beat.
When his end goal is finally achieved and the problem is fully eradicated, his magic severs its bond with the earth.
Merlin gasps, inhaling in as much oxygen as he can— as if he has just re-emerged from the deepest depths of the ocean— as if he ceased to be and has now rejoined the land of the living. His eyes, which were once a captivating gold powered by his immensely formidable magic, dim to their normal cerulean blue.
He lifts his head and shifts to sit back on his haunches. His shoulders heave, rising up and down with each ragged breath. His eyes rove across the field— over every burnt corpse, all root encrusted bodies, each broken neck, and every slack enemy Knight. Not one bone in his body swells with regret. Without his intervention, these lifeless bodies would have been Camelot's knights. They would have been his friends, and one would have been his Kings'.
Left standing, scattered amongst the splayed forms, is those who survived the barbarous torment of Mercia— Camelot's remaining Knights, and they are all frozen, rooted to the spot— wrecked in appearance with bloodied weapons held in their trembling fists.
They stare, stupefied and unblinking, down at the Warlock.
It remains eerily silent, until two sets of squelching footfalls echo— one hurried but far, one slow but close.
He remains where he is, bum on his heels, hands splayed over his thighs, and head slightly bowed. He stares down at the dewy grass, focusing on the calming sound of the occasional drizzle, unwilling to focus his attention on the King who has just rounded into view.
He can see the tip of Excalibur in his peripheral, and it takes everything inside of him not to rise up and flee— to stay frozen and see this through. To be brave— to not shy away in the face of a potential adversary.
The hastened footfalls, and the panting breaths of a desperate sounding man become strikingly louder the closer he approaches.
Eventually, they slow to a deliberate stop, and the act causes Merlin to look up, because said man has chosen to block his view of Arthur, to stand between the Warlock and his King.
"Sire," Gwaine spits, voice laced with defensive venom. His arms are held out by his sides in a manner that simply displays he is guarding Merlin from Arthur. "You will not lay a hand on him."
There's a beat of silence, and Merlin feels like he could reach out and grab the conflicting tension with his bare hands. If he knows Arthur as well as he believes he does, then he knows the man is internally seething by Gwaine's protective behavior. The rogue knight has always held a special place for Merlin in his heart, and they have always been close. He knows Gwaine would defend him even if it cost him his life.
It is then, that he finally realizes, that Gwaine is loyal to him, more-so than his own King. Merlin cannot decide if that makes him a good or a bad Knight. Perhaps a good man, but a bad Knight.
"Out of my way, Sir Gwaine," Arthur growls back, "this does not concern you."
"Like hell it doesn't!" The Knight shouts. Merlin wonders if Lancelot has passed, if this is the reason why Gwaine's defensive nature is being thrust forth on full display— if he is afraid of losing yet another friend to the darkness of death. "If you want Merlin," he begins, followed shortly by the clear-cut sound of a sword being unsheathed, "then you will have to go through me, first."
There is a short, sharp, exasperated sigh that Merlin knows only belongs to Arthur. He almost laughs out loud because he is so used to eliciting that reaction from him on a daily basis, but he quickly squashes that urge when the thought of Gwaine dying to protect him does not bode well within him.
He is about to protest— to tell Gwaine that he trusts Arthur's judgment, to allow him to be at his King's mercy, to stand down, but before he can voice any of these thoughts aloud, someone else yells from across the battlefield.
"Sire please! If you wish to punish someone, punish me, not Merlin! I prompted him to save us! I urged him to use his magic!"
The warlock gasps, whipping his head around to focus his eyes on the pitiful sight of a bandaged Lancelot, limping towards the trio like his life depends on it. Despite his haggard state, Merlin is more than relieved to know that his friend will live after all.
"Stop!" Gwaine cries out, holding up an outstretched hand toward Lancelot. The Knight obeys, halting mid-way, wavering dangerously in the air. "I can handle this! Go back and rest!"
Lancelot shouts back, staggering slightly as his voice bellows, "I cannot! Not when Merlin's life is at stak—"
"Oh for heaven's sake!" Arthur yells— so loud and boisterous that it causes every remaining Knight to flinch. Merlin finally chances a look up at his King to find his wild eyes locked on him. He gulps, unable to keep the fear out of his features. "Merlin is my subject, and therefore, I will do with him as I please."
This, apparently, was the wrong thing to say.
Gwaine roars just as quick as Lancelot is to shout. The rogue knight steps forward and lifts his sword— alerting Merlin that his friend is daring to wound his King in an attempt to save him. However, this gesture also alerts every other loyal knight, that a threat is being made upon their King's life. They all bound into action, shouting incoherent curses and charging forward to ultimately strike down a rabid Sir Gwaine.
"STOP!"
Merlin screams, arms outstretched, and irises once again, blazing a dazzling gold.
He lashes out, freezing the movements of every threat in proximity, all except for an impassive King Arthur, who raises his chin and snorts at Gwaine's frozen form.
"We will certainly be having a talk when we get back about where your loyalties lie, Sir Gwaine. I am your King after all, and you swore an oath to me. Any other King would have their Knight's head for this sort of defiance, but I am willing to overlook the..." he waves a lazy hand, "unhealthy attachment you seem to harbor toward my manservant."
If it were possible, Merlin would say that Gwaine's glare only deepened, but as it isn't so, he chooses to overlook the possibility of someone being able to bypass his Magic's stronghold.
Perhaps he is weakened from his earlier show.
Finally, Arthur turns to Merlin.
"S-Sire," he stutters, voice shaking with the fright he is unable to suppress. He hunches over, bowing— unable to look his inscrutable King in the eyes. He exhibits an entirely different behavior, one of which is the complete opposite of an almighty warlock who can solely annihilate an entire army.
Now, he looks akin to a small boy, kneeling before his King, and awaiting his inevitable sentence.
"Merlin—"
Unable to keep his mumbling at bay, he is quick to interrupt.
"Arth—, Er, I-I mean sire!" He inwardly curses himself for the slip up. He gulps, staring down at the tips of the King's muddied boots as they step into view. He hates how the shoes he is forced to polish on the daily might just be the last thing he sees before the afterlife claims him.
Arthur seems to be waiting, so he prods on. "I know sorcery is outlawed in um, Camelot, w-well actually, this is not our territory so really— ah, I mean, well, never mind that! Heh, um... I guess what I want to say is that I have only ever used my magic to help, never to harm you. B-But I trust your judgment, and you should follow through with any punishment that y-you see fit. There is s-so much I wish I could tell you—
"Merlin..."
"T-This was not how I... um... wanted to tell you about my m-magic, but well, t-there was no other way. W-Well, I suppose I could have disguised myself as—"
"Merlin!"
He winces, voice catching in his throat.
"Y-Yes?"
"Do shut up."
He visibly stills, unable to prevent a small gasp from escaping his parted lips. He knows he is trembling, can feel his heart hammering in his chest, and can feel his magic pulsating in his legs— urging him to flee.
His sixth sense can sense it— the lifting of Excalibur. An animalistic whine sounds from the back of his throat, and his eyes begin to prickle with unshed tears. He clenches his jaw and stares at the one drop of blood on Arthur's boot. He is unable to do much else as shock consumes his body. The tremors in his limbs only worsen, and his magic spikes drastically, trying to claw its way out of his chest.
When the blade descends down and he feels the tip grace his right shoulder, he flinches, eyes wider than ever before. He anticipates the fatal blow with bated breath, willing his eyes to finally squeeze shut as he imagines his head being cleaved off by the blade he had bathed in Kilgharrah's breath.
He is too enraptured in his own traumatic thoughts to even process that the blade has been lifted, not until it is equally tapped on his left shoulder as well.
His eyes snap open on their own accord, but not from fear, no, from something else entirely— a realization so absurd and utterly preposterous that it makes death seem all the more realistic.
To say he is shell-shocked, would be an understatement.
"I dub thee a Knight of Camelot, arise Sir Merlin."