A/N: This fic was first posted to AO3 on 2nd July. It is a post-canon fic, rated T for scenes of violence.
Arthur will rise again when Albion's need is greatest.
Tonight, Merlin will see to it that Albion's darkest hour arrives.
Storm clouds circle the skies above the Isle of the Blessed when Merlin finally reaches the stone altar. The autumn air is acrid with the scent of blood and extinguished fire, discarded torches snapping beneath Merlin's feet as he makes his way across the isle.
The knights had fought fiercely tonight, to the bitter end. Now, their swords glint beneath misty moonlight, and their bodies will never leave this Isle. Perhaps they'll rot, or perhaps the ancient magic of this place will preserve them forever.
Merlin walks away from each of them without a backward glance. He already made his apologies when he drove their swords upon each other.
He unburdens himself at the altar, loosening the ropes that have held secure for the duration of his journey here. They won't be necessary now.
Gaius wakes slowly. Every heartbeat feels like an age to Merlin's urgent thoughts, and for each minute that slips past, waiting for a sign of life, Merlin contemplates the path ahead.
At this stage, he can afford no mistakes. Camelot's queen is dead – or near enough. Merlin feels the spell in the back of his mind, threads of magical intent drawn taut across the miles between them, keeping Gwen at the edge of the precipice. She breathes, for now, and has no need for sustenance, deep below the castle, in the darkest chambers of the tombs, where no one but Merlin will find her.
It must be this way. Merlin has considered every facet of the prophecy, Kilgharrah's final words to him. There is no other choice.
It must be done, and it must be tonight.
Upon the altar, life stirs. Gaius moves his head gingerly from side to side, wincing and straining to see through the night's shadows. Merlin watches him, silent and unmoving, waiting to be found.
But first, the knights. It is the crimson cloak that Gaius sees first, the prone limbs and the familiar tangle of burnished hair. Leon.
Just beyond Gaius' vision is another's hand, stretching out even in death as though coming to Leon's aid. Merlin wonders what Gaius would think of the fear etched across Percival's face. Among the knights, Merlin had considered the two his only surviving friends.
For their sakes, he had tried to make it quick.
A pained sound rises, and for a moment Merlin is moving without thinking, rushing to Gaius' side with a healing spell on his lips.
Even now, he can't forget the instincts of his magic. The love he's spent so many years with.
He holds himself back, and only just. His halted approach has Gaius' attention in an instant.
"Merlin?"
Confusion and concern shift across Gaius' face, and Merlin cannot bring himself to speak. He must go through with this, he knows. But how can he?
He lifts his gaze to the storm clouds, as though he might find some reassurance there of his task. The sky always seems its darkest on Samhain night. It is a promise, Merlin understands now, of what the ritual will bring.
If Morgana had possessed the strength to take her sister's life in pursuit of her mission, then Merlin must find that same strength within himself.
He unsheathes his blade.
Gaius stares at it. He recoils weakly; the sleeping draughts that Merlin has given him these past two nights to the Isle will have robbed him of the necessary strength to fight this.
Merlin wonders, whether the sleeping draughts had been administered or not, if Gaius would even try to fight him on this. A part of him hopes for it. A fight will take time that Merlin does not have; a fight will force Merlin to break Gaius before the worst part of the ritual even begins. But maybe Merlin will at least be able to live with this decision if Gaius tries to stop him.
Right now, Gaius just looks tired.
"My boy…" he murmurs, and there's a sorrow in his eyes that Merlin can't bear to look at. It might be the most painful part of this all, Merlin thinks, that Gaius could feel sorrow for him right now rather than hatred. Merlin deserves to be hated for this.
Gaius' gaze flickers across the skies, the towering ruins of the Isle. He looks again at the blade, and Merlin's empty expression. Merlin watches the understanding slowly start to form.
"For Arthur?"
Merlin takes a deep breath and nods. "Arthur will come back from the dead," he says. "When Albion's need is greatest."
Gaius hardly needs reminding of Kilgharrah's words. Merlin's been over them a thousand times in the year since Arthur died. He's looked at them from every angle, repeated them over and over and tried to get to the bottom of what Albion's greatest need might be. This is supposed to be the golden age of Camelot, isn't it? How could the kingdom want for anything more, or face any greater threat than Morgana? Surely there will never be a time when the circumstances are so dire as to resurrect a king.
Merlin is the greatest sorcerer to ever live, so the druids say. With his gifts, no danger should ever come close to destroying Camelot. Kilgharrah's words have spiralled through his mind on so many endless nights, and this is the conclusion Merlin has reached: he is all that stands in the way of Arthur's return.
A year has passed. All Merlin has is his own desperate, selfish need.
It's easy for Kilgharrah to say, Merlin thinks, that Arthur's death wasn't a failure. That Merlin had followed his destiny to the letter, and all had gone as it was supposed to. Kilgharrah hadn't had to wash Arthur's blood from his hands and return to Camelot alone.
Nobody blames Merlin for Arthur's death. Nobody even looks at him with anything close to resentment. Despite everything, Merlin meets no judgement in Camelot.
But he judges himself. He judges every decision he has ever made since he first came to Camelot, and he knows that he could have saved Arthur. Maybe destiny would have fought him at every step, but Merlin could have been stronger than it. If he had done even just one thing differently… He would have given his own life to save Arthur's.
He still might.
"If you open the Veil…"
"The Dorocha nearly brought Camelot to its knees last time," Merlin replies. "If they return, then Camelot will need Arthur to save it."
Gaius considers this. "What of Gwen?" he asks.
Gwen is one of the most honourable people that Merlin has ever met. She knows the price of closing the Veil, and if she was in any position to interfere with what is to occur tonight, Merlin knows exactly what she would do.
Merlin will not see someone he loves step through the Veil. Not again.
Merlin doesn't answer, but Gaius doesn't need to hear it. He just looks again at Leon, not able to see any further but knowing, surely, what lies beyond the limits of his sight. He sighs, that same tired sadness.
Merlin's fingers tighten around the hilt of his blade. He takes an uncertain step forward.
"The Dorocha did you great harm last time," Gaius says, still looking away. He hardly seems to notice Merlin's advance, nor the way Merlin freezes every time he speaks. "Your gifts had no hold over them." His eyes return to Merlin, unreadable. "Will you be safe?"
Merlin's safety should be the last of Gaius' concerns right now. Nausea and guilt spike in his gut and he forces himself to speak around it, almost spitting the words out. "I don't know."
Maybe the Dorocha will fall under his command if he is the one to open the Veil. Maybe they'll turn on him as they would everyone else.
Merlin can't afford to think about those possibilities right now. He has to act.
He shouldn't delay it any further. The more time he spends here, talking it over, the fewer minutes he had left in which to complete the ritual. Who knows if he will be able to go through with it in a year's time, if he will even have the chance?
Tonight, the wall between the worlds is at its thinnest. Merlin cannot squander the time he has left. He cannot fail Arthur again.
The blade in his hand is small, but it feels heavier than any sword. "I have to do this," he says. He's not sure if he's trying to convince Gaius or himself.
"You don't have to do anything," Gaius says. "I only wish that I…" He falters. "I wish I had done more for you."
"You said it yourself," Merlin replies, feeling half-numb as he remembers. "The fragment of the sword was moving to his heart, and neither of us could remove it. There was nothing you could do."
"I am not speaking of Arthur."
His words are quiet, but there's a fire in Gaius' gaze that jolts Merlin. He's too startled to respond.
"I am not speaking of Arthur's injury, or the druids' prophecy." Gaius' gaze cuts through Merlin, so sharp that he wonders if this is how it feels to be pierced by Excalibur. "I mean you."
"What about me?"
He shouldn't waste more time with asking, but the words already hang in the air between them, cold and small, almost disbelieving.
Gaius' stare pins Merlin to the spot. "I mean you," he says, "the boy who came through my door all those years ago in need of a safe home. Your mother trusted me to care for you, and instead, all you were given was a responsibility too big for any man to carry. I should have protected you."
"But-" Merlin's head spins. "I'm Emrys," he says. "The most powerful sorcerer. Nobody else could have done what I had to do." Nobody else, and yet not even he could succeed at it. "I couldn't have just ignored my destiny."
"No," Gaius says, "But I shouldn't have pushed you so hard. I watched that destiny consume you, and I did nothing."
Perhaps Gaius is right. Merlin thinks of Ealdor, thinks of how long it has been since he last thought of the place that used to be home. The memory feels more distant than any island, as if it no longer belongs to him. Ever since arriving in Camelot, his life has not been entirely his own. What if he had tried to cling a little harder to the life he could have had, a life beyond kings and prophecies?
But the truth of it is:
"I don't know who I am without this destiny."
Gaius stares at him. Merlin can't bring himself to meet that gaze; he can't look anywhere, not at himself, at the knights scattered around the Isle like so much rubble. He looks at the dagger in his hand and all he can see is another blade, another wound waiting to be opened.
"I used to think it was my magic that made me worth anything," he confesses, voice small and tight. "If I could do good with it, then it didn't matter that I wasn't strong in other ways, or smart." Merlin shakes his head. "But what good is my magic if I keep making the wrong choices? I let Mordred and Morgana live when I shouldn't have, and Arthur paid the price for it. Even with these gifts, I'm nothing."
The words are choking him, and he's holding onto the blade so tightly that the hilt is biting into his flesh. Over his head, the storm clouds growl. He can't wait any longer. He has to do this. He has to.
"I still have a chance to save him," he says. "If I don't take it…"
He remembers the dead weight of Arthur in his arms. He remembers the impossibly heavier weight of letting Arthur go.
"I have to bring him back."
There are no other words to say.
He steps up to the altar, and before he can hold himself back any longer, he lifts the knife high above his head. Gaius watches with a steady gaze, unable to fight – unwilling to fight. Maybe he thinks Merlin can still be talked out of this. Or maybe he finally sees Merlin for what he really is. Something that can never be saved.
I'm not a monster, am I?
The words are a lifetime ago, but Merlin has never felt them as keenly as he does now.
Don't ever think that.
The storm clouds bristle, and the wind is biting, teeth down to Merlin's bones. The hilt of the dagger digs into his palm, clenched so tightly, fighting to keep his hands steady. Gaius isn't even looking at the blade. His eyes are on Merlin, always Merlin. Even as he begins to chant the incantation that will unlock the Veil.
With every word, something digs a pit into his stomach, a cutting from within. Is this part of the ritual? Or is just the knowledge of what he's about to do?
As the spell ends, the air prickles, and a weight settles on Merlin's shoulders. The weight of two worlds, both pressing on him to break the wall that separates them. What if he refuses?
The incantation will be powerless if Merlin does not act.
Gaius reaches up to him, feeble but certain. The last time they were here, Merlin saved his life. For a moment, Merlin feels frozen in time against that memory.
Then, finally-
"I'm sorry."
The dagger plunges down.
And the Veil rips open before him.
The sheer power of it almost throws him back. Merlin forces himself to stay upright, bracing himself against the fierce blast of energy. Everything around him is howling and the storm clouds have been ripped apart, hurling rain and hail down upon the Isle. A barrage of spirits pours out of the Veil, countless hundreds screaming into the night and chasing each other through the skies.
All the while, Merlin's head pounds, dizziness pulling at his knees as darkness threatens to overtake him. The spell has taken so much of his strength, and it's all he can do to remain conscious as he waits for the onslaught of this opening to end. It must end soon. His work is not yet over.
The howls never end, but finally, through the murky shadows of the Veil, a familiar figure begins to emerge.
The Cailleach.
"Emrys." A cold smile plays at the Cailleach's lips. "I had not thought to see you here again."
Merlin had once thought the same. Now he assesses the Cailleach, that intense aura of power. "Do you know why I'm here?"
The Cailleach's smile twists with cruel amusement. "I once told the witch Morgana that you were her doom," the Cailleach replies. "But you spell doom for all of Camelot. And for one man. Do you think yourself a righteous hero, Emrys? Is tonight to be the undoing of all your failures?"
"It is my duty to protect Arthur," Merlin retorts. "I will not fail him!"
"Your duty is done," the Cailleach says. "Camelot has its queen, and magic is accepted once more. Arthur has no more part to play, whether you wish it or not."
"But what is Camelot without Arthur?" Merlin's voice reverberates across the Isle, more furious than even the howling Veil. "What use is any of this without him?!" What use am I, he thinks, and the Cailleach tears the thought right out of his mind.
"What use are you?" the Cailleach echoes. "Indeed. When your creation was foretold, the druids took it to be a blessing." The Cailleach's eyes bore into him, a cold judgement. "They should have taken it as a warning."
"If I am a warning, then you will listen!" Merlin roars. He won't hear another word against this. He must save Arthur. He must fulfil his purpose. "Arthur is the once and future king of Camelot, and I say the future is now. Return him to the world of the living. I know it can be done."
"Arthur is in the waters of Avalon," the Cailleach says, "as you well know."
"His body is at Avalon," Merlin counters. "But his spirit is beyond the Veil, as all spirits are." His gaze hardens. "Release his spirit."
"And if I do not?"
Merlin considers the weight of the dagger in his hand, still wet with Gaius' lifeblood. He doesn't raise it, but the Cailleach's eyes move to it all the same.
"You know who I am," Merlin says. "You know my magic." His blade may not have been forged in a dragon's breath, but he will still make it do his bidding if he has to.
A flash of fury, before the Cailleach's cold smile returns. "You think you can kill me? I am more ancient than the dragons; more powerful than you could ever imagine to be."
"Maybe I can't kill you," Merlin returns, "but I can hurt you." He allows himself his own smile, though the expression feels empty. "If I'm wrong…"
The invitation hangs in the air, unspoken, unmistakable. A part of Merlin almost hopes that the Cailleach will take it. Strike me, he thinks, stop me.
The Cailleach's eyes narrow, and lightning cracks the ground between them. The jagged line in the earth trembles, as if it could open into a yawning abyss at any moment.
The lightning could have hit closer. And yet...
Satisfaction etches an ugly path across Merlin's face. "Release Arthur's spirit."
For the first time tonight, the Cailleach looks at Merlin with something like sadness, a gaze made heavy by ancient grief. "You do not know what powers you seek to control, Emrys."
"I know exactly what I'm doing."
"Then you go to your ruin. And you take all of Camelot with you." The Cailleach casts a look back into the Veil, where shadows amass and twist into new shapes. "What will your king make of you, when he bears witness to all you've done tonight?"
Arthur may well run Merlin through for this. More than once.
If Merlin has learnt anything about himself this past year, it's that nothing short of obliteration will be enough to kill him.
Merlin doesn't expect forgiveness. But death isn't an option, for either of them. Maybe, in time, Arthur will come to understand why Merlin has done this.
Or maybe Merlin doesn't need to be understood. He just needs to do his duty.
He offers no answer to the Cailleach's question. Perhaps no answer is expected. The Cailleach's eyes seem to move right through him, past the ruins of the Isle to the still, dark waters that surround it. As if there is nothing within him worth seeing. Merlin doesn't flinch away from the look, returning with his own hard stare.
Eventually, the Cailleach relents.
"If you will not be stopped," the Cailleach says, "then you will heed my words, Emrys. Nothing good can come of this. Only the Triple Goddess has the power to alter a man's fate."
"Then the Goddess shouldn't have taken Arthur." Merlin glowers. "Don't waste my time any longer."
"Very well." The Cailleach's gaze darkens. "Here is your king."
A distant howl starts, and Merlin looks to the Veil – just in time to meet the screaming, ghoulish face that rushes out toward him.
Arthur. Revulsion rises in Merlin's stomach at the sight of his spirit, mounting horror at what he's already become. But there's no time for his emotions to interfere. Merlin grits his teeth and reaches into his pocket, finding the crystal and holding it aloft. Arthur's spirit crashes through.
But the crystal holds. Merlin feels the strain of its magic, the enchantments he has so painstakingly created. Containing a spirit, especially one as volatile as a Dorocha, is a hard task, and already the crystal vibrates with caged fury.
But if crystals can hold the spirits of ancient sorcerers, then they will hold the spirits of kings. Merlin will not let the crystal fail.
Slowly, Merlin lowers his frosty arm. The muscles are stiff, the flesh icy blue. But he can feel no other effect on his body. In the corner of his eye, the crystal glows an ominous azure. He can't bring himself to look at it directly, not yet.
Instead, he focuses his gaze once more upon the Cailleach. Anger sears him from the inside out. "What have you done to him?"
"Why should this be my doing?" The Cailleach meets him with an icy stare. "There are few who come to the spirit world at peace with their deaths. Not even kings are spared such transformation if that is the nature of their hearts."
There is nothing in Arthur's nature that would turn him into this. Is there? Merlin cannot imagine it. Arthur – his king, his friend – surely couldn't have anything within his spirit for him to have become one of the Dorocha.
Whatever the reason for this hideous transformation, Merlin will undo it. He will restore Arthur's spirit, and he will bring him back to life. It is an additional layer of complexity to his task, but it is not impossible.
There is nothing more for him to do here. He looks across to Gaius, still and cold on the altar. If he can return here, Merlin thinks, then he will. After all that the two of them have done together, Gaius deserves the dignity of a burial or a pyre.
But not yet. Though it pains Merlin to neglect the matter, he has a greater task to fulfil first. For now, he has to walk away.
He turns away from the Cailleach and the howling Veil. He doesn't look at the altar, or at the knights scattered around the Isle. The grief of his actions is a heavy thing, heavier even than the crystal of Arthur's spirit. But for all his grief, there is satisfaction in it, too, in this plan. Despite every terrible decision he has made in the past, every foolish mistake… this plan is succeeding. It will continue to succeed, so long as he doesn't falter.
The Dorocha swarm at his back, following his path. Perhaps they are at his command now that he has opened the door between the worlds for them. Perhaps they simply know of the Cailleach's warning, that Merlin is a man walking into certain ruin. Whether their pursuit is born of loyalty or hunger, Merlin doesn't care.
Tonight, Camelot may well fall. But Arthur will rise.
Merlin has his king. He has the fulfilment of his destiny, at long last. And that is enough.