Chapter Ten
Merlin was right.
The end to this nightmare comes rushing closer and closer and now, while Arthur stares between his most trusted knights, his wife, his councilors he just wishes it could be over already. Wishes he didn't have to do this, wishes he knew if they'll live through this, wishes he knew how to pick up the pieces if they do somehow survive.
But only for a moment; then his sword clashes against Gwaine's and he does his best to just keep breathing now and tries not to inflict lasting damage on any of his people.
Gwaine stumbles and Arthur barely has time to turn and meet Percival's lunge before his weapon can embed itself into Arthur's back. They circle each other, swords meeting in a deadly array of force.
It's harder than any fight Arthur has ever been through; harder than the griffin who couldn't be felled by their swords, than the dragon who breathed down fire, than the armies who couldn't die. It's harder because these are his people; he loves them and he would rather die than hurt any one of them.
It's harder because while he must hold back his strength, they fight with all the hatred and fury of Morgana Pendragon. Because he cannot lose himself in the battle, because at any moment they are themselves again and are no longer his enemy but his friends once more.
It's harder because he cannot bear to live with himself if he hurts them.
So, he watches carefully as his sister jumps from friend to friend turning them into weapons against the very man they vowed to protect. And he blocks and he defends, and he does his best to stay alive.
He can't stop them all. There's a cut on his leg he didn't block in time and his head is ringing from where Geoffrey threw a vase that Arthur hadn't been fast enough to duck underneath. At least one, probably more of his ribs are broken from when Leon had thrown him against another knight and Percival had been there to catch him and crush him until his chest had started to cave in before he'd manage to free himself.
It had just been a normal council meeting when Morgana struck; she'd started with Gwen as her puppet, the only warning a malicious smile that wasn't hers before she'd slammed a knife into Arthur's hand, pinning him to the round table.
Then the nightmare had truly begun.
Arthur's been waiting for it, Merlin and he have discussed when and where it would happen, have tried to come up with reasons for why she was waiting to attack. But now, now that he is up against his councilors and his knights and his wife, now that Morgana is no longer waiting, Arthur knows he is not prepared. That no amount of time could have prepared him for this.
And of course, of course, it's a day that George had woken him up and Merlin was nowhere to be seen.
Arthur's on his own in a room full of weapons he has no defense against.
He'd tried knocking them out but apparently the enchantment kept them conscious no matter how hard he hit them; he'd found that out the hard way when George had reappeared in front of Arthur with a knife that managed to find its way into Arthur's arm.
Arthur can't hold them all off; not like this, not when he's barely fighting, and he knows that this is what Morgana wants. She wants him to suffer and die at the hand of someone he loves and trusts or he will kill them. Either way, she wins.
She thinks there is no other way.
Morgana is wrong.
She has to be because Merlin had promised that everything would be alright.
Gwen comes at him, hatred twisting her beauty into something ugly, a sword in her more than capable hands.
"Guinevere, please? It's me, it's Arthur!" he tries though he knows it's useless. Knows that his words will fall on the wrong ears.
"Oh, I know it's you, King Arthur," Morgana says through Gwen's lips in Gwen's voice and Arthur feels another wave of fury slam through him.
But his anger has nowhere to turn. He will not strike his wife down no matter who is in her head and what words spew out of her mouth and what wounds her hands inflict on him.
"Do you like how it feels? To be so utterly betrayed by the people you love?" she keeps talking but Arthur is barely listening; he has heard this spill of blame too many times to pay it any more heed.
"You made your choice, Morgana."
Gwen's face contorts into something monstrous and she snarls out the next words, "So did Guinevere and it wasn't you, was it?"
Arthur screams in rage.
His hands clutch his sword hard enough he can feel the bones beginning to crack and break, but he doesn't raise it against her. Doesn't give Morgana the satisfaction that she craves so much.
Arthur will not hurt the people he loves. Not again.
Guinevere leaps at him and Arthur jumps backward right into Leon who instinctively steadies him but in the next second clamps his hands painfully around Arthur's arms, pinning him in.
He waits for Guinevere, for Gaius, for anyone to come and finish him off while he can't move his arms enough to slash anyone with his sword, but no one comes. Right, Morgana can only control one at a time.
So, he bucks upward, manages to hit Leon's head with his own, breaking the hold on his arms. He raises his sword ready to hit him again, trying to incapacitate him, and barely manages to pull back when he sees the blankness in Leon's eyes. Arthur whirls around backing up against the wall so he can try to find where Morgana will strike next.
He can't find her.
He can't see any hatred or fury or threat. He sees only an uncertain blankness as if they are all sleepwalking and are uncertain of where they are or of what was going on around them.
Arthur takes the time to draw in air, stretches his taut muscles, tries to understand why she would stop now.
Lord Aaron blinks and there's a darkness in his eyes and a knife embedded in the wall beside Arthur's head. He grabs it so that it can't be used against him later.
"Oh, Arthur, you won't win." Gwaine singsongs.
"You can't win." Gaius continues.
"I can keep this up all day long!" Percival chimes in.
"Yeah, so can I." Arthur growls and throws himself out of the way as the door slams open and a spear flies through the air.
And then everything goes up in flames.
Not literally, at least Arthur doesn't think so because he can't feel any heat, but he can't see anything but gold, gold, gold. Instinctively he hits the floor and crawls away—anywhere but where he is because Morgana will be converging on where she last saw him.
When the room darkens enough to see again, there's still specks of gold dancing in his vision, but Arthur ignores them, trying to find out what victim Morgana is hiding in now. Most of them in the room are just standing there, looking at themselves in confusion but Leon's eyes are jumping everywhere as if looking for someone.
He finds Arthur.
They stare at each other for a brief moment; Leon jerks forward; Arthur plants his feet.
And Gwaine punches Arthur in the chest.
The blow sends him to his knees but by force of habit—from a lifetime of training, Arthur keeps his sword in his hands.
He can't breathe.
Gwaine's mouth curls up in a vindictive smirk and he lashes forward again. Arthur tries to raise his hands to block it, tries to move but he's not fast enough. The blow hits him in the same spot—the same place where Percival had already weakened the bones—and Arthur hears a loud crack rend through the silence.
He tries to draw in a breath but all he can feel is his collarbone moving with every shaky heartbeat.
Arthur can't breathe at all.
Again, Gwaine raises his fist.
Arthur can't move for the pain exploding in his chest.
Gwaine pulls back his fist.
This blow will be the end of him. Merlin was wrong: they are not going to be alright. Arthur is going to die here and now.
Gwaine's fist comes at him and Arthur braces himself for the end, sorry for all the people he'll leave behind; sorry for the mess he's leaving his kingdom in; sorry for the guilt that his people will feel; sorry—
The final blow never lands. Gwaine's eyes flare gold then go blank and he drops to the floor, his hand still clenched in a tight fist.
Apparently, Morgana isn't done playing with him yet. Arthur struggles to breathe, refastens his grip on his sword, and lurches upright. He still can't breathe right, his heart feels like it's going to burst out of his chest, and every move sends his collarbone rattling.
But he's not dead yet.
Gwen is there in front of him, she feints right but her weight is mostly to the left and Arthur recognizes this. He still brings his sword to the right because they're—Morgana and Gwen both are too good at this for him to know if she didn't want him to. The force of the swords clashing together makes him want to scream. He bites his tongue instead and keeps his sword raised. The taste of blood fills his mouth.
Then her eyes flash gold, go blank, and she drops to the floor.
Finally! A wave of relief so intense he stumbles from the force of it that's followed by a wave of terror just as strong. Merlin!
Merlin is here. He has to be, or else Arthur would be dead right now.
Merlin is here. Merlin might die here.
But Merlin is here.
And Arthur straightens his back and clenches his sword tighter.
Merlin's arrival helps tremendously, and it couldn't have come at a better time—except earlier, of course—because Arthur's body can only take so much abuse before his heart stops.
But Morgana always comes for Arthur.
She never gets in another hit, another throw, another injury. Whoever she is in comes at Arthur, and somehow Merlin destroys the enchantment, and they are lost to unconsciousness. He isn't just stopping Morgana's initial assault he's taking out her weapons.
Eventually, there's only Arthur standing in the council room, surrounded by the unconscious bodies of his people.
Morgana appears in a whirlwind of lightning and rage throwing him back against the wall and for the life of him he can't keep hold of his sword and it flies across the room, useless to him now.
"No!" She screams and there's no hint of the woman he used to look up to, "No! You will be mine!"
He just looks at her in silence, and he realizes very suddenly that he no longer even loves her. He will always love who she used to be, will always respect the way she stood up for herself, will always miss her compassion and her strength and her bravery. He will always love Morgana, ward of Uther.
But Arthur hates Morgana Pendragon.
"Where are you, you coward?" she cries, her eyes running across the room looking for Merlin. "Show your face, you hypocrite!"
She could look all she wanted; she was never going to find Merlin. Not if Arthur had any say in the matter.
He's tempted to lunge at her, to drive his dagger through her body, to end this once and for all.
But... But Arthur is no fool, he won't get two steps before he's blasted against the wall by her magic. He won't get anywhere near close enough to wound her let alone kill her.
They are past the point of letting each other step close and trying to reach the past.
So, Arthur doesn't move towards her instead he walks away.
And because she is so wrapped up in her rage, in her temporary defeat; because she is prepared for Arthur's fiery rage, she has no recourse for the cold mask he has created for this moment.
Every step hurts, every breath reminds him how close to death's door he is, but he keeps walking. Three rooms down is how far he gets before suddenly she's there.
Not her body or maybe she is—it's hard to tell—it doesn't matter; she doesn't need her body to wreak havoc with his life.
But her mind is there with him.
Inside him.
For one split second he panics, no—Merlin! No—wait, wait why is he panicking? There's no need to panic. No need at all.
Merlin will be here soon, and he'll take care of things. There's nothing to worry about, no need to think about the pain, no need to hold onto his dagger so tight, no need for such weapons at all.
Merlin will be here and then Arthur will take care of everything. Yes, that's right, everything will soon be fine.
Merlin had promised after all.
He waits; takes the time to just breathe and it seems like no time at all before there's hesitant footsteps behind him. He turns slowly, carefully, ready to attack but relaxes when he sees his servant standing a few feet away. Arthur puts away the dagger and grins unsteadily, "Merlin!" He was still alive, still here, still willing to come to his king.
"Sire."
"Is it over?" he can't help but whisper, hoping against all hope that Merlin would declare this battle over. It will mean more coming from his voice than anyone else's.
"She'll be back," Merlin replies. He stays still, his eyes dark with an emotion Arthur doesn't understand, his hands hang loosely at his sides.
Arthur has never thought he looked so dangerous as he does now.
"But for now, is it over?" he begs. He needs this to be over, needs things to go back to the way they should be, needs everything to be okay like Merlin promised.
Merlin nods once, "I think so."
Arthur feels the tension inside him lessening then cries out in pain. Now that the battle is over, now that the rush of danger has passed his body reminds him he needs help and he needs it now. He falls to his knees. "Arthur!" Merlin rushes over to him reaching him before Arthur even finishes falling. "Arthur! It's alright, we'll figure this out."
Merlin slips to his knees in front of him, his eyes scouring for what needed done first, "Where does it hurt the most?"
"My chest," Arthur whispers, "My heart," his broken heart that has been torn to shreds by everyone he has ever loved and nothing Merlin can do will help him.
Merlin's hands are on his shirt, trying to see the damage, trying to fix what cannot possibly be fixed.
And the dagger slides so smoothly into Merlin's heart.
Merlin doesn't see it coming, doesn't feel anything, doesn't even have time try to stop it. Arthur leaves his dagger there; a testament to what happens to those who betrayed and lied and deceived.
Merlin's body falls forward and Arthur gently, so gently—because it's still Merlin, his servant and adviser and idiot and friend, it's Merlin—lays him on the ground.
Arthur feels cold.
"Well, that's because you're dying," he hears himself say. "And oh, how long I've dreamed of this day. No more Emrys. No more Arthur." That's an odd thing for him to say, why would he say these things? "No more Merlin," he says the last name with such derision and hatred that it throws him for a loop.
No more Merlin?
No, no that couldn't possibly be, no...
"And it's all your fault, Arthur Pendragon," he tells himself.
All his fault. Yes, it was wasn't it, because Arthur has always trusted the wrong people and made the wrong choices and failed to destroy Camelot's enemies and protect his people. Yes, Arthur is to blame for everything.
Except...
Except, it wasn't all Arthur's fault.
Because this nightmare that Arthur is living in, that has trapped him in guilt and shame and betrayal and death, this entire thing is all... It is all Morgana's fault.
She used Arthur's people as her spies. Wrecked havoc with their emotions. Used them to hurt others. Turned Arthur's people into her weapons.
She chained Merlin up.
She whipped Merlin until his back was a mess of open wounds.
She carved lies into Merlin's skin.
She broke Merlin's bones, felt the bones cave in beneath her and laughed at his pain.
She cut Merlin up like some sort of twisted art piece.
She choked Merlin until he couldn't breathe, until his neck was covered in bruises so thick you couldn't see the white of his skin.
She branded Merlin a traitor.
Morgana stabbed Merlin through the heart.
And Arthur? Arthur was never going to let her touch him again.
Never let her use his hands and his feet and his body and his words and his dagger to hurt those he loved. Arthur Pendragon would not be Morgana's weapon for a second more.
The world exploded.