The Cailleach took a moment to gather her thoughts. "This is not what I had expected from this meeting. I had thought to parley with the young king of Camelot."
"You are," Arthur said firmly, trying for some vestige of control of the situation. "Although it seems to me that there's very little that needs discussion. You know what I want you to do; I know what you demand in return. What more is there?"
"And what do I demand?" she asked softly. "Say the words, young Pendragon."
"A blood sacrifice," Arthur said, then, painfully, forced out the words, "A life must be given to deliver us from the dead. We stand ready to pay your price."
The Cailleach looked from grim king to fading warlock and back, anger now clearly visible in her bottomless eyes. "It's easy to offer up a life that seems already lost," she said. "Hardly a sacrifice at all."
"Can't make up… new rules… as you go along. You never… said anything about that," said Merlin. "Twenty minutes or twenty years… no one ever knows… how long they have left. I offer you… however long I have. Just like… everyone else."
She laughed at that, then pointed a long, thin finger at him. And just like that, the sheen of frost on his skin vanished, the ice seemed to melt from his eyes, and color returned to his face as he took his first deep breath since the Dorocha had struck him down.
Arthur could feel the change, even through two layers of clothing. Merlin's frozen skin had sucked the warmth from anything it touched, numbing Arthur's hand where it grasped his wrist, and the arm draped across Arthur's shoulder had actually frosted the links of his chain mail. Startled by the sudden change as the warmth flooded back into his body, Arthur released his hold, letting Merlin stand unaided. As the literal weight lifted from Arthur's shoulder, the metaphorical one became a hundred times heavier.
"So be it. Twenty minutes, twenty years, or twenty centuries. Just like everyone else," said the Cailleach, her voice mocking. "Are you still willing to lie on the stone, now that you're actually giving something up?"
Merlin flicked a glance at Arthur. "Of course I am." Without a trace of hesitation, he walked to the altar and stretched out. "There. Do it."
"So impatient," she said chidingly. "Is life so bitter that you welcome my blade?"
"Why? Does it taint the sacrifice if I don't suffer before the knife comes down?" Merlin said. "You asked that I be willing. I am. Don't mistake that for me liking the idea. Besides, this rock is cold. You're the one who wants this, so you might as well get on with it."
She quirked a disapproving eyebrow at him, but let it pass. "And you, Arthur, king of Camelot. Do you offer this sacrifice willingly?"
Arthur took a breath. "You ask two different questions, and of two different people," he said. "No, Arthur Pendragon does not willingly offer up his friend. Would you expect him to? But the king of Camelot… does not have the freedom to place his own desires above his people's needs, and he submits to your power. So yes. I will offer this sacrifice of my own free will. And I will mourn for this moment for the rest of my life. Are you answered?"
"I am," she said, her eyes gleaming with interest. "I am indeed." She took a step towards them, a bone-handled dagger suddenly in her hand. "Very well, then. The bargain is struck. I will do as you ask. Now take the knife. On behalf of your people, spill his blood for me."
Arthur took it. As the hilt warmed in his grasp, it seemed to break the sense of unreality that had gripped him since they'd set foot on the island. He froze in place. What was he doing? This was impossible. This was cold-blooded murder. This was Merlin! How could he even have dreamed…
Merlin pushed himself up on one elbow. "Oh, come off it, Arthur," he said, with a very good imitation of his usual grin. "Now who's being a girl's petticoat? Besides. Don't even try to tell me that you haven't thought about running me through once or twice, because we both know that you have. Maybe even once or twice a month. Or is it a week?"
Arthur snorted, one tiny huff of breath that wasn't quite a laugh and wasn't quite a choke.
Merlin sat up a little further, mock-affronted. "A day?"
Arthur, who recognized exactly what Merlin was trying to do and why, shook his head, bemused. How many victims spent their last moments comforting their murderers? "You really are an idiot, aren't you?"
Merlin shrugged cheerfully. "Must be. If I wasn't, you'd think I'd have found a new line of work a long time ago."
"A 'new' line of work? You barely did any work to begin with, and what you did do was usually atrocious," Arthur said. "You never did quite grasp the concept of 'dusting,' and I'd more or less resigned myself to the fact that you were never going to realize that wine is meant to be poured into my cup, not my lap."
"You shouldn't drink that much wine, anyway. You just can't handle the stuff. Half of it goes straight to your waist, and the rest goes straight to your head. Makes you think that your jokes are actually funny," said Merlin. "You do know that people only laugh because they're being polite to their king, right?"
"Being polite to their king…? Oh, yes, yes, I think I remember what that sounded like," said Arthur. "Yet another proper servant's skill you never picked up. I'm not entirely sure I'd still know how to respond if I heard it."
They'd been doing their best, but the banter had been fairly strained to begin with, and the mention of other servants, with the unspoken implication that, very soon, Arthur was going to need a new one, finished it off. They were just stalling, anyway, and the time for that was over. "I'm sure you'll manage. Just… remember what I told you," Merlin said. "No bootlickers."
Arthur nodded. "No bootlickers," he promised.
Merlin lay back down, and he found one last smile. A real one. "It's all right, Arthur," he said softly.
"I'm sorry," said Arthur, which was not at all what he wanted to say, and with one quick, expert motion, he thrust the dagger home.
Death is rarely instantaneous. This time was no exception. Even a knife to the heart takes a few moments to do its work, and the thing about the human body is that it has a mind of its own. The person living in that body can be, if not necessarily thrilled with the idea, at least resigned to the prospect of being stabbed, and possibly even determined to bear it quietly so as not to disturb anyone else. The body itself has no such compunctions, and absolutely no regard for anyone's feelings. All the body wants is to keep living.
Merlin writhed, tried to gasp, one hand involuntarily reaching for his chest as he fought for life. Arthur captured the thin hand in his own, held it fast. "Shhh," he said. "Take it easy, Merlin. It's all going to be fine. Shhh. Not much longer. Just relax."
His eyes were wide, shocked, uncomprehending—even a little frightened as he stared up at Arthur, his breath rattling in his throat. Every time his torn heart tried to beat, it sent more blood pumping from the severed arteries, soaking through Merlin's tunic, into Arthur's cloak, red on red, except where it was pooling darkly beneath him, and surely this was all a nightmare, this couldn't be real. He kept a tight grip on Merlin's hand—that much was real, he was certain of that—and kept murmuring soothing babble as the pauses between labored breaths grew longer, as the spurting blood slowed to a rivulet, then a trickle, then nothing at all.
The blood was still dribbling down the sides of the altar, from cold stone to colder ground. Still warm. But Merlin's chest was still, and his hand was cool once more. How had that happened so fast?
Gently, he lowered Merlin's arm to his side, and closed the glazing eyes. And then there was nothing more he could do for him. Everything had been said that was going to be, and what was done was done, the good and the bad alike. It was over. He looked down at… at the body, and he could hear his own voice parroting his father's words. No man is worth your tears. No man is worth your tears. No man…
Gods, Merlin had been right all along. He was a prat.
He took a deep breath, looked at the Cailleach. "There," he said harshly. "I've fulfilled my end of the bargain. Close the veil. Seal away the Dorocha."
"As you say, Arthur, king of Camelot," she said. "Give me the knife."
Silently, he handed it to her; she examined it carefully. It was already smeared red from tip to pommel, but she frowned, dipped it in the pooled blood, then again, and a third time, until the entire blade was an even shade of crimson. Apparently satisfied, turning towards the rip in the world, she used the bloody knife to carve a spiral pattern in the air. It left a shining red trail against the void as she drew, like a bright thread stitching torn fabric. As she finished the third loop, the entire glyph glowed white, and the wrongness flickered, then vanished.
"The price is paid, and what was rent is mended," she said, thrusting the now-clean dagger back into her belt. "One drop of life-warm blood to soothe their fury. One to call them back to their rest. And one to atone for disturbing their peace. It is done."
Arthur's shoulders slumped with relief. At least there was that. He hadn't failed entirely. Then he snapped back to attention as a chill crept down his spine. "…Three drops?" he asked. "That was all you needed? Three drops?"
Her smile was cruel. "A blood sacrifice to tear the veil; a blood sacrifice to mend it. No more than that was asked, no more than that was required. If you were told to do more than spill his blood, it was not I who said it. I did not tell you to take his life."
"You never said—"
"You never asked," she cut him off. "You assumed. You never looked beyond what you thought you knew. I would have answered your questions, had you been humble enough to ask them. It is no fault of mine that you did not."
"Then you should have punished me! Not him!"
"I have done nothing to him. Nor to you. This is no punishment of my making; this is a consequence of your own actions. Life and death are not toys, Camelot's king. The spirits are not pawns to be pushed about on a gaming board. It was that arrogance that rent the veil, and I do not take kindly to being manipulated."
She was addressing Arthur; to his surprise, insofar as anything could get past the horrified fury that was numbing his brain, she was glaring at Merlin as she said that last.
"How have I tried to manipulate you?" said Arthur, his voice rising. "It was Morgana who ripped the dead from their rest! Not I! Perhaps I failed to ask the right questions, but I didn't bargain with you, I didn't plead or cozen or lie—you set the price, and I tried to pay it. Where do you see trickery in that?"
She didn't look terribly impressed with that speech, but she gave him a grudging nod. "Perhaps the deception was not yours, Camelot's king," she conceded. "But I have been cheated. And I will not forget this."
She vanished. Or rather, it seemed that she had never been there in the first place; she had fit perfectly among the dark shadows and gaping nothingness of the rift. It was almost impossible to imagine her beneath a bright sky, in a world that once more seemed meant for the living.
The living.
Oh, gods…
There was a muffled clink of chain mail behind him. He didn't turn towards it. Not yet. Not quite yet. The blood was still dripping. One drop; two. Three. Somehow it didn't feel right not to witness that.
"…Sire?" Sir Leon. Of course it was him. Duty called, and Leon would always answer.
"How are the others?" Arthur asked, his back still turned. Wyverns. They'd been fighting wyverns. Wyverns were dangerous; he had to know what had happened so they could regroup and wait for another attack, if necessary. If anyone was wounded, he had to know about it. He had to be the leader, he had to be king. See to the living; that had to come first. And as long as he was thinking about wyverns, he wouldn't be thinking about… anything else.
Slowly, the knights came forwards, ranged themselves in a rough circle around the altar, where he could see them without having to turn away from the bier. Maybe they knew that Arthur didn't quite have the heart to move just yet.
"Everything's all right," said Elyan. "All at once, the wyverns just flew away. She must have called them off when you… We're all fine, sire." Percival glared at him, and he cut himself off with a wince. They weren't all fine.
"Yes," said Arthur. He took a deep breath. "…How much of that did you hear?"
"Most of it," said Gwaine. His voice was dark, furious. It barely sounded like him at all. Gwaine never had that much hatred in his voice. "We got here just as the hag started in with her damned word games."
"Good. I'm glad you heard it for yourself," said Arthur in a flat, emotionless voice. "I don't know how many times I'm going to be able to get through explaining that I gutted Merlin like a sheep in the slaughterhouse because I was too stupidly arrogant to listen to instructions." He let out a sharp breath. "And wouldn't he have enjoyed that little admission."
"It wasn't your fault," said Leon. "We all thought that this was what she wanted. You told us that even Gaius thought so. Misinformation isn't arrogance."
Arthur went even stiller than before, because he refused to flinch. "Oh, gods—Gaius. How am I going to tell him about this?"
"You won't need to," said Lancelot. "He would have known before we left that Merlin wasn't coming back to Camelot, and he would have known why. He's had time to prepare himself. He's the one who told you about the sacrifice in the first place."
"Yes, and I told him that I would be..." Arthur trailed off.
"Sure you did. And anyone who'd met Merlin for more than fifteen minutes would have known that there was no way in hell he'd ever let you do it," said Gwaine. "You knew that. We all did." He swept a sharp glance around the circle, not quite accusing, but demanding recognition of an unflattering fact from each of them. He got it.
"Gwaine's right," said Percival. "He would have found some way to take your place. Whether you wanted him to or not. If he had to hit you over the head and knock you out, that's what he would have done."
"And Arthur, don't forget the Dorocha attack," said Leon. "He didn't have long in any case. This way, at least he died for a reason."
"He had all the time in the world," Arthur said, nipping that comforting little illusion in the bud. "The Cailleach healed him. She gave him his life back. Presumably so that it would hurt more when I took it."
Elyan bit his lip. "Do you think that's what she meant by cheating?"
"What?"
"The Cailleach. Do you think she was angry because he was… already dying?"
Arthur clenched his teeth. He'd known, hadn't he? He'd known all along that offering Merlin in his place was wrong, was selfish, was dishonorable… "Maybe," he said. He took a breath. "There's nothing I can do about it now, in any case. Come. We ride for Camelot."
"And Merlin?" Gwaine asked.
"We'll take him home," said Arthur. "Give him the hero's funeral he deserves. What else can I do?"
The other knights nodded somberly. Lancelot looked away, involuntarily picturing the scene and trying not to shudder.
He took a deep breath, careful not to let his face betray him. If staging a ceremonial cremation on a warrior's pyre, with half of Camelot watching in stricken silence as the flames rose higher, brought Arthur even the faintest scrap of comfort, it was all to the good. Funerals were meant for the living, not the dead, who didn't care. At least Merlin would never know it was happening. And at least Arthur would never know that the gesture he intended as a high honor was a point-for-point recreation of his friend's worst nightmare.
*.*.*.*.*.*
"I don't know how you do it," Lancelot had said. They'd been sharing a blessedly dull watch after a day that had been far too exciting in all the wrong ways. It was the darkest part of the night, that fey hour when there's no place for anything but honesty. Even the moon was behind a cloud, so there was no light except for their tiny campfire, and no sound except for what they were making themselves. The other knights were sound asleep— snoring, in several cases. Not Arthur, as it happened, although in the morning Merlin would probably tell him that he had been. And then he'd duck as the other knights snickered. Familiar little rituals to put them all in a better humor. "I've tried, but I really just… don't understand how you do it."
"Huh?" Merlin looked up from the hauberk he was desultorily polishing, more for the sake of having something to do with his hands than anything else. "Me? Oh, it's not that hard. You just take the cloth and rub it in little circles, like this."
Lancelot rolled his eyes at the weak joke. "I mean it, Merlin. You shouldn't be here."
"Thanks; too kind. You're almost as good as Arthur at making me feel appreciated. Tell you what— next time, tell Arthur to take George along on one of these everlasting camping trips, instead. Let me have a day off for once."
"As if you'd let him go anywhere without you. And I don't mean here on patrol. I mean here in Camelot. You're taking your life in your hands, day after day, and I don't think I could be that brave."
"Says the man who trained his entire life for the privilege of rushing into danger with a sharp stick. While wearing a bright red target on his back so the enemy couldn't possibly miss him."
"A sharp stick?"
"Sorry. A very sharp stick," Merlin corrected himself, grinning briefly at another eye roll from Lancelot. Then the grin faded. "It's just a matter of having something worth dying to protect. That's all it is. I'm no braver than anyone else. Less, maybe. You— all of you— offer up your own lives every day, every bit as much as I do, and you're doing it because you want to, not because destiny says that's what you're meant for."
"I don't know anything about destiny—" said Lancelot.
"—Count yourself lucky."
"I do. I also recognize courage when it's right in front of me. Just keeping your secret is terrifying enough. I can't imagine what living with it must be like."
"I'm sorry," Merlin said. "I never meant to burden you with any of that."
"Not what I was getting at. But Merlin—just today. Don't think I didn't notice how convenient it was when that bandit accidentally tripped over a tree root that hadn't been there two minutes earlier. Someday, someone else is going to notice, too."
"Maybe not. They haven't yet," said Merlin, more for form's sake than because he sounded like he believed what he was saying. "I'm not that bad at keeping secrets."
"Merlin."
He sighed. "What do you want me to say, Lancelot? That I'll probably burn someday? I know it. Just like you know that someday an enemy could be just a little stronger, or faster, or luckier than you. I'll burn. It doesn't change what I have to do, or why I have to do it. And it doesn't mean that it's not worth the price."
"I wish I had your equanimity."
"So do I. Trust me, the thought scares me. But I've had my whole life to get used to the idea. By now, I just…"
"You just what?"
"I just hope that when it happens, it isn't Arthur holding the torch," said Merlin, matter-of-factly, and went back to his polishing. "I don't think that's too much to ask."
*.*.*.*.*.*.*