Some say the world will end in fire,

Some say in ice.

From what I've tasted of desire

I hold with those who favor fire.

But if it had to perish twice,

I think I know enough of hate

To say that for destruction ice

Is also great

And would suffice.

–Robert Frost

*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*

To Perish Twice

Sometimes, warriors fall in battle. That's just… how it is. It's the dark side of knighthood, and it's no secret. Knighthood has its obvious pleasures and its privileges. There are the flowing red cloaks and the shiny mail and the respectful deference from all and sundry. There's the fervent brotherhood the knights share, the dizzying exhilaration of adventure, their pride in great deeds and loyal service, and their sense of being part of something larger, greater, than themselves.

And then there's the other part of it. The danger and the tedium and the fear. The painful wounds and the dead comrades and the broken bodies and the likelihood of finding oneself face-down in a patch of churned-up dirt rapidly turning to blood-soaked mud.

Knights know all of that before they kneel to swear their oaths of fealty. They know, because the older knights make sure they know. Death and glory. One of them is certain.

Knights fall in battle. It's a fact. It's understood. And in its twisted, vicious way, it's almost fair. Almost.

…But Merlin wasn't a knight…

*.*.*.*

Arthur couldn't stop replaying it in his mind, trying to see what he could have done differently. What he should have done differently. Because there had to have been something he'd done wrong. That was the only explanation for what had happened. It had to have been his fault somehow.

They had been hiding in that ruin of a fortress, that much was clear, and the Dorocha had come shrieking down the passageway—Arthur couldn't have prevented that—and there were no more torches, no more lights, no more time.

And Merlin had shoved him back and attacked the Dorocha himself. He had no chance, and he had to have known it. It accomplished almost nothing. All he did was get himself killed. All he did was buy Arthur a few more precious seconds. All he did was stall the Dorocha long enough for Lancelot to arrive with a torch.

All he did was save Arthur's life.

Arthur looked at the frozen body at his feet and tried to understand what he'd done wrong. Because this wasn't supposed to happen.

With no real hope, Lancelot handed Percival the torch and knelt beside Merlin. Gently, he turned him over, put a finger to his neck and concentrated, wincing at the chill. Then his eyes widened. "He's alive!"

"What?" Arthur dropped to one knee, clumsily pulled away the ice-stiffened fabric of Merlin's neckerchief, and pressed his fingers in the correct spot. And for an endless moment, there was nothing. Then he felt a faint pulse, one weary beat. And, after far too long, another. And another. It was impossible. Completely impossible.

Gaius had said that nothing mortal could survive the Dorocha's touch. But he'd said that about the Questing Beast's bite, too. Clearly, the old physician had been wrong before. Maybe, just maybe, he'd be wrong again.

"We'll… make a fire," Arthur said, with vague thoughts of frostbite and winter campaigns in his head. "Thaw him out and keep the Dorocha at bay at the same time. We'll start out again in the morning. And don't think this means you get to sleep in," he told Merlin, trying to force his voice to sound normal. "I expect my breakfast at the usual time, understand?"

Merlin's eyes—open and staring—slowly focused on Arthur, but he gave no other sign that he'd heard or understood. His eyes were the dull gray of an iced-over pond in the glittering frost coating his skin.

Percival cleared his throat. "Lancelot, I'll carry him; you take the torch," he said quietly. "We should find the others. Quickly."

"Yes," said Lancelot, and took back the guttering torch, careful not to let it go out. He didn't want to think about how long it might take them to rekindle the fire if they had to do it the usual way. He didn't want to think about needing to do it the usual way.

It had been all too easy for Arthur's knights to get used to cheerful, effortless campfires each night on patrol. The weather could be wet, the wood could be green, trees could be scarce, and somehow it didn't matter. Always, Merlin would come trudging back to camp with an armload of good sticks and a few choice comments about lazy knights and useless royalty, and in no time there would be a crackling fire with something bubbling over it. Lancelot had been a wanderer long enough to appreciate that, even if the recklessness of it did make him worry.

There had been light in the darkness. There had been warmth to keep the chill at bay. There had been an enchanted circle sitting around that fire—a band of brothers, their silvery armor gilded rosy gold by firelight, and, a bit deeper in the shadows, a quiet figure tending the fire and protecting the protectors. That was Camelot, Lancelot suddenly thought. Everything that made the kingdom unique was in that brightly-lit circle. He had a terrible feeling that it was all about to change, about to end, and he was genuinely afraid to see what might happen if the fire went out.

Leon, Elyan, and Gwaine had regrouped in what had probably been the great hall when the fortress had housed anything other than unquiet spirits. A few bits and pieces of furniture were scattered about; Elyan was breaking up a once-fine chair for firewood as the four of them entered.

Gwaine's expression as he saw Percival approach with Merlin's limp body in his arms was something Lancelot knew he never wanted to see again. It was almost as bad as Arthur's stony calm.

"Elyan, hurry up with that," Arthur ordered. "I want a fire started immediately. And someone bring a bedroll. We have to get him warmed up."

Some color returned to Gwaine's face. "Right away," he said, and hurried off.

"Take a torch!" Leon shouted after him.

Gwaine darted back, snatched it out of Lancelot's hand almost before he'd finished lighting the campfire, and ran out of the room, back to where they had left the horses and baggage. Nobody missed the telltale glitter in his eyes. Nobody blamed him, either.

They set up camp in grim silence. Elyan kept smashing furniture. Percival took several of the longer pieces of wood and a dusty tapestry torn from the wall and busied himself making a fresh supply of crude torches. Lancelot, once Gwaine had returned with their gear, began to cook a meal that no one wanted to eat. Gwaine, taking a couple of Percival's torches, appointed himself to sentry duty, and if he looked as though he was hoping to encounter a Dorocha in order to rip it limb from noncorporeal limb, it was only because he was. And Arthur fed the fire, as they all pretended that they weren't listening for each ragged breath from the still figure cocooned in blankets and cloaks.

It was not a restful night. For anyone.

But even the longest night has to end at some point, and when the sun dredged itself out of the horizon, not only was Merlin still clinging to life, he was slightly improved.

…'Improved' being a relative term, of course. He was still limp as a dishrag and colder than ice, but he was definitely conscious, and understood what was going on around him. He couldn't move or swallow—they found that one out the hard way—but he had whispered a word or two. Three, even. "Arthur," had, unsurprisingly, been the first. And then the surprisingly unanswerable, "Everyone okay?"

"We're all fine," said Arthur. "None of us took it into our heads to jump straight at an attacking Dorocha."

"You were… about to," said Merlin.

Arthur didn't answer that. Because 'no' would have been a blatant lie, and 'yes' would have implied that Merlin had been right to forestall him, and 'don't be stupid' felt inappropriate. "You get some rest," he said instead. "You'll need it. Because as soon as we get back to Camelot, Gaius will be pouring gallons of those noxious potions of his down your throat, and you'll need all your strength to deal with that. Gods know I'd rather be sick than drink those revolting things."

Merlin, spent, didn't reply. Those four extra words had taken more out of him than he'd expected.

Arthur took a deep breath. "Anyway, you've got a little time to prepare yourself for the ordeal. We can be back in Camelot in a day or so if we push the horses a bit. Just… hold on until we get home."

Leon frowned. "Sire… we can't turn around now. We have to seal the veil."

"We will. But first we have to get him back to Gaius."

"And abandon the quest?"

"He saved my life," Arthur said. "I'm not going to let him die."

"I understand that. But sire, if we don't get to the Isle of the Blessed, hundreds more will perish. With all due respect… don't you think the rest of your people deserve as much of your care as he does?"

That, Arthur thought, was a low blow. He didn't have an answer.

Fortunately, Lancelot did. "Let me take him," he said.

"It's too much of a risk," said Arthur. "And carrying a wounded man alone, it'll take you two or three days to reach Camelot. Maybe longer."

"Not if I go through the Valley of the Fallen Kings," said Lancelot. "That will cut the journey nearly in half. Please, Arthur—he's my friend, too. Let me look after him for you. You cannot give up the quest."

Leon didn't look much happier with that solution, but he knew it was about the best compromise they were going to come up with. "Sire, he's right," he said. "We must continue. For everyone's sake."

Arthur looked stubborn for a moment, but surrendered. "All right," he said. "Thank you, Lancelot. Get him home."

Lancelot nodded. "I will, sire." He suppressed a wince as he walked over to the horses and Merlin's motionless form. He'd made the same promise to Gwen. Now he was breaking his word. Protecting his friend rather than his king. And the worst part, the most shameful part, was that he couldn't even find it in himself to regret his choice. Leaving Arthur to fend for himself was not what Gwen would have wanted; it was not what Merlin would have wanted; it was not what a loyal knight should have wanted to do.

It was, however, what Arthur wanted. Or, at least, it was what was best for him. Did that make it right?

He wasn't sure. He just wasn't sure.

Gwaine watched the byplay. "Arthur, what are you doing?" he said.

"If we don't get him to Gaius, he'll die," said Arthur, in a tight, controlled voice that hid nothing. "We need to get him back to Camelot as quickly as possible."

"Arthur. Arthur. He's not going to make it back to Camelot. The Valley of the Fallen Kings is a deathtrap at the best of times; it'll be worse now. And going by the road, it's a three or four day journey back to the citadel, and Merlin is not going to last that long," Gwaine said, his voice equally calm. And equally revealing. "And if by some miracle he does, Gaius made it quite clear that there's nothing he can do. Are you really going to make Lancelot drag a dying man halfway across the kingdom, just so that, in the best case scenario, an old man can stand helplessly by his bedside and watch his ward die in front of him?"

"What would you have me do, then?" Arthur asked, his face a mask. "Leave him here?"

"You could respect his wishes for once! We're all dead men anyway; what in hell does it matter? Take him with us. All the way to the Isle of the Blessed, if he can hold out that long. Maybe they can do something for him there. Even if they can't, he's been loyal to you. You could at least have the decency to let him die in the only place he's ever really wanted to be."

"And where might that be?"

"Where…? About two feet to your left," Gwaine said, his eyes glimmering with anger… and maybe a hint of tears. "Don't you know even that much?"

Arthur looked away. Across the courtyard, Percival picked Merlin up, effortlessly boosted him into the saddle, and held him steady as Lancelot tied him to his horse. Merlin— limp, white, unresisting— looked even frailer than usual as they lashed him into place like so much laundry. Elyan hovered nearby, trying to look reassuring and succeeding only in looking awkward.

Leon shook his head. "I sympathize, but it's not right, sire. He's in no shape to continue."

"He's safer with a large group to watch out for him. Lancelot is safer with the group than out in the middle of nowhere with the Dorocha on the hunt. We're safer for having Lancelot with us, giving us that much more of a chance that this mad jaunt into hell will actually accomplish anything. And the entire world is doomed if it doesn't," said Gwaine, counting the reasons off on his fingers with horrible, undeniable logic. "We're already one man down; we can't afford to lose another. Add in the fact that we all know he doesn't want to leave you, and I'd say the right thing to do is pretty damned obvious."

Arthur, his lips white, walked across the cobbles. Merlin was draped bonelessly across his horse's neck, securely bound. He looked dead already, except for his eyes, which burned. Considerately, the other knights withdrew a few steps.

"This is my fault," Arthur said, pretending to check that the straps weren't too tight. And of course they weren't. Lancelot's hands were gentle whenever he wasn't holding a sword. "I'm sorry."

Merlin ignored that. "Take me with you," he said, his lips barely moving and his voice scarcely more than a breath. "Please."

Arthur had to swallow twice before he thought he could trust his voice to stay steady. "You'll die, Merlin."

"I'll die anyway," Merlin rasped. "This way… it'll mean something. Tell the Cailleach… I'm your sacrifice."

Arthur looked away, sickened, as the pieces fell into place. It made a cruel— but flawless— sort of sense. Mending the veil required a death. Arthur had been ready to give his own life for his people, but now… Merlin was already dying. The Cailleach demanded one life. Not two. And there was Gwen to think about.

Arthur didn't want to die. He didn't want Merlin to die, either. But he was going to. And one way or another, someone had to die on the Isle of the Blessed if Camelot was to survive. Was it so very selfish of Arthur to save himself, save his kingdom, and make an otherwise pointless death serve a purpose?

Yes. Yes, it was.

It was also tempting in a way that shamed Arthur to his marrow.

Arthur cleared his throat. "Don't talk rubbish, Merlin. You'll have to come along, since I can't spare a man to take you back, but what on earth do you think the Cailleach would want with you? I'm trying to appease her, not goad her into inflicting something worse on Camelot in revenge."

"You know… I'm right," said Merlin.

"And you know I never listen to you," said Arthur, clapping a hand on his shoulder and immediately regretting it. Even through the layers of cloth and leather, his skin radiated a cold so extreme that it burned to the touch. "Come," he said, turning away. "There's no time to waste. We ride."