All at once there was no sound, and too much. He'd been wounded before, stabbed and shot and burned, and he was expecting—no, he was ready—for it to hurt. But when there was no pain, he knew something was different. Wrong.

His vantage point from the cliff had felt almost godly as he swept his arms through the air, bolts of lightning dancing from his fingertips. Even in disguise it was the freest he'd ever felt. Instinctively his eyes roamed the battlefield, searching out one man amidst hundreds. Arthur was surrounded but fighting the way he always did, and Merlin flared his hand towards him, and the men around the king were thrown like rag dolls. Arthur looked up, and their eyes met. A strange shiver coursed down Merlin's spine. From such a distance the king's gaze was unreadable but Merlin felt… uncovered. Naked, almost. And honest. Storm clouds of his own design were circling above his head and Arthur could see them, see him, and Merlin imagined for a second that Arthur was seeing through the beard and the aged face, too.

He didn't know how long they might have stood, staring out at each other, but the standoff was broken by a single figure tearing through walls of knights and mercenaries alike towards Arthur. Merlin recognized Mordred almost instantly and he suddenly felt icy cold.

Not like this. Not here. Not after everything.

He almost flew down the cliff face, leaping over boulders and shedding his aging spell like a cloak when it slowed him down. Men in front of him were cast aside, the throngs parted without so much as a thought on his part. The fear rose and swelled in his chest, expanding so it felt like his heart would burst through his ribs.

"Arthur!" He shouted, his voice breaking in a surge of panic. The king was defending himself from Mordred's blows but only just, an expression of terrible sadness on his face. The Druid's face, in contrast, was violently distorted by an animalistic hatred. His mouth was moving, shouting indiscernible curses and with every one Arthur's parries slowed. The king staggered under the blows, his arms visibly shaking.

"FIGHT ME!" Mordred was screaming, swinging left and right like a man chopping down a tree. There was no grace, only boundless rage, and each drive pushed Arthur farther back. One wild swing knocked Excalibur from his hand and he made no move to reclaim it, falling onto his back as he stared up at Mordred, resignation written all over his features.

There was no time to think, not that Merlin would have done anything different given the time. He leapt, shielding Arthur with his body as the sword was driven home.

No pain.

There was a noise, like stepping into an unexpected patch of mud. The sounds of the battle had been muffled as with cotton, and yet he could hear his heartbeat like thunder. The pace was regular, steady. His breathing was even. It was like nothing had happened. But colors were fading, seeping out of everything even as it shifted and he fell backwards. Arthur had scrambled up, and as Merlin's head lolled back he caught a glimpse of the king's face. He was screaming something, veins suddenly pronounced in his neck and his entire body trembling with the force of his cry. He picked up his sword and lunged forwards in a single motion, and Merlin heard that sound, too—the soft schick as the blade tore through the Druid's torso and emerged, stained, on the other side.

With that noise, every sound came crashing back in waves. The roar of the battle around him enveloped him, the screams of the wounded and the dying and a single voice, so familiar Merlin almost missed it.

"No," it was saying, softly, like a child. Lost. "No, no. No, please, no."

Arthur's face swam into focus and Merlin smiled.

"S'okay," he mumbled. His eyelids were heavy, deliciously so. How nice it would feel to sleep…

"Open your eyes. Dammit, Merlin, listen to me, I need you to open your eyes. I need you awake. I need you, Merlin, please—"

The voice was broken, and sad. Why was he so sad?

"It doesn't hurt," Merlin said, and he wanted to see if that made Arthur feel better but his eyes had become too difficult to open. Sound faded out again, but snatches of it drifted back to him in the dark, and it was Arthur's voice. There was the sensation of being lifted, of moving, and there were flares of wrongness in his midsection. They were dull, not yet pain, but he wished Arthur would stop.

"Let me go," he tried to say, but he couldn't speak.

The next he knew he was lying in the forest, and Gaius and Arthur were speaking a few feet away.

"The wound…dire, no mortal…dragon's breath…"

"…how long… I can't…Merlin, dammit, I…no choice?..."

"…the Sidhe… sire, he hasn't got…"

The snippets were confusing, and quickly were drowned out by a blooming agony in his chest. Involuntarily, he moaned, and the conversation stopped.

"Merlin?" Gaius's face swam into his line of sight.

"I did it," he breathed, and screwed his eyes shut against the harsh light of the sun. "I changed it. It'll be okay."

"I'm taking you to Avalon," it was Arthur speaking, now. "The Sidhe will help us. They have to. I'm not letting you die." He turned back to Gaius. "Take this to Camelot." He took off his signet ring. "Give it to Gwen. Tell her I'm safe. She'll keep the place running until we get back."

"Of course, sire." The physician smiled down at Merlin, but he suddenly looked older, weary. "I'll have your favorite dinner waiting for you when you get back."

"Goodbye, Gaius," Merlin reached out, feeling for the familiar hand. It grasped his, and he squeezed it as best he could, and there was so much he tried to express with the gesture. Thank you, he wanted to say. I love you. I'll miss you. Gaius squeezed back, and Merlin knew that the physician had understood. "Goodbye," he repeated as Gaius mounted his horse, and even though he was no longer afraid of dying, he felt a surge of sorrow that he would never see the man again.

"We'll camp here for the night," Arthur said, shading his eyes against the setting sun. Merlin settled back onto his makeshift pillow of saddlebags. A pang of fear, stronger than the thudding ache in his midsection, overtook him.

He needed to tell Arthur the truth.

He hadn't thought of using magic to save the king from Mordred; as many years as he had spent keeping his sorcery a secret, the idea had never crossed his mind. But now there was a cold settling into his bones and he wanted so desperately to be free of his burden. He wanted Arthur to see him, just once, for who he was—who he truly was. Magic was a part of him. It was woven into every fiber of his being and Arthur was his best friend. He couldn't hate him.

Stupid.

"Arthur?" The king was dabbing away at the blood staining his chest, and even with as much gentleness as he could muster Merlin still flinched.

"Quit being such a girl, Merlin. I don't know what you're whining about, this isn't even that bad." His tone was light, albeit strained.

"I need to tell you something." The adrenaline and anxiety coursing through his body doused his chest in cold flame but he didn't stop. "Camlann, Arthur, the lightning… It was me."

Arthur's head snapped up and his brow was furrowed, but it cleared after a moment.

"Don't be daft, Merlin, that was the sorcerer."

"Arthur." Suddenly Merlin realized he was struggling not to cry. His jaw quivered with the effort of keeping his lips from dragging downwards and traitorous tears spilled from his eyes.

"You…" Arthur pulled back, his head half-turning away from Merlin. "No."

"I'm so sorry, Arthur…" He couldn't hold back, not anymore as the expression on the king's face became one of understanding—not the calm understanding Merlin had dreamt of but a betrayed, disgusted understanding. "Arthur, please understand—"

"You lied to me," Arthur's hands, still streaked in blood, were semi-raised as if he had been touching something foul. "All these years."

"I couldn't… I wanted to tell you, I tried, Arthur—" He was sobbing. Every shake tore down his chest like fire but it felt right, felt deserved, because Arthur was backing away, shaking his head with a dull but increasing anger.

"I trusted you." Arthur couldn't even look at Merlin, his fingers still splayed like they were dirty. "You're a sorcerer."

"I was only trying to keep you safe, you're my best friend, please—"

"You're a liar," he said, and there was disgust. Arthur walked away, and Merlin was left alone in the clearing. The sound of bitter sobs was quiet, ashamed, and permeated by two words spoken in hitching gasps.

"I'm sorry…"