Lancelot had been trying to lead a horse to Arthur but the animal must have sensed the magical disturbance. As the ball of light approached, it bolted, the reins slipping out of Lancelot's hands. Then his own steed threw him and he lost his balance along with his consciouness. He came to with the light surrounding the clearing and saw the lance strike Arthur. Lancelot had never seen anything as horrifying. Later, he would wish he could forget that moment as it taunted him in his dreams.
Dragging his broken leg, Lancelot reached the clearing when he heard Merlin's warning. He could not help but want to alleviate his King's pain despite the risk of injury to himself, never having felt so useless. A lesser man might have judged Arthur's lover for not doing anything but Lancelot can only imagine the pain the warlock must feel, probably not unlike the knight's own confusing jumble of emotions but multiplied exponentially.
The King is dead. How is that possible? Arthur his friend. Arthur the Greatest King Albion has ever had. Arthur the Invincible. How was it that he survived so many death threats as a prince only to die before his reign had truly begun? How was Albion to have her Golden Age without her King? Arthur is dead. Lancelot feels numb. It cannot be true. This is an illusion. Something of evil magic. Arthur could have disappeared without a trace. It simply cannot be true.
"Lancelot!" Merlin called, interrupting the Knight's rationalising. "We must make haste if I am to revive Arthur."
He cannot trust himself to speak, his lips move but he cannot find the words. Perhaps Merlin has been driven mad with grief. There is no body to heal let alone revive. Perhaps the loss of Arthur has stolen Albion's sanity.
The warlock does not wait for a response or acknowledgement in his urgency. "Lancelot. Do you trust me?" He spoke distinctively as if each word is a sentence in itself.
The knight nods, accustomed to waiting for instruction.
"Help me gather some stones. Make sure I am not disturbed for any reason, do you understand me?"
Lancelot clears his throat, raking sweat-soaked strands of hair from his face. "What...what are you going to do?"
"It is best that you don't know," Merlin answers with a grim look, feet already moving, wasting no time.
Lancelot nods again, limping off.
Using the stones, Merlin sets up an altar with black candles on the place where Arthur had fallen. Gently, he places the scarce remains of Arthur into a wooden chest decorated with ornate scribblings of runes. Nimble fingers unearth a golden chalice from his tattered leather pack.
"Knife, Lancelot. Please," Merlin orders, dropping to his knees.
Lancelot wrenches the dagger from his belt and dutifully hands it over.
The chalice is placed at the centre of the stone altar, the candles burning with a spicy scent. Merlin slices his palm stoically, filling the goblet with his blood. The warlock starts chanting in that foreign, sibilant tongue. At first nothing happens and then Lancelot feels it. The earth itself is shaking. The elements roar. The very particles in the air are vibrating with power. Merlin's power, Lancelot notes with awe. This is not the stuttering, doubting warlock who enchanted Lancelot's weapon but a powerful mage commanding the universe with his outpouring of warlock had come into his power with Arthur's Kingship but no one had known what that actually meant. Merlin is calling the very divinities to him. Magic is humming from the land, escaping in streams of blinding light. There will be no need to go to the Isle of the Blessed, no, he summons the ultimate place to wager life and death. All the power that he had withheld at Arthur's death now rushes to him. The fabric of reality tears with a crack and time is distorted – bending to the young warlock's will. In a split second, Lancelot sees himself happily married and he's a father and she's beautiful. He wishes he could stay there forever. He sees the thread of destiny gripped in Merlin's hands as this wonderful paradise is taken from him, the warlock forcing Time to obey his commands. Reality shifts again and there is huge fire burning, consuming everything.
The knight is surprised that he can even breathe with the oppressive force of the heat. Lancelot startles as he realises that the world is on fire. He is standing in the fire and it's hot. He can feel the prickle of sweat on the back of his neck and under his armour but it's not burning him. It is not possible for him to be alive in this furnace but he is, standing there between this realm and the reality he knew. Lancelot feels both fearful and amazed at Merlin's display. If Merlin has to, Lancelot does not doubt that he would destroy the earth to find Arthur. Perhaps he would crush the universe itself and sift through the debris in the hope of recovering the tiniest fragment of Arthur. Even if it takes the whole of eternity, the warlock would piece him together molecule by molecule. Lancelot feels humbled in the shadow of Merlin's devotion for Arthur. The flames licked harmlessly at his armour, crackling in his ears. His vision is blurry, the heat creating a mirage of sorts.
There is a woman with ruby eyes. She is wearing a red dress, torn to strips, revealing her pale skin. She is not beautiful, not compared to her, Lancelot thinks.
"This isn't like you, blood traitor," Nimueh taunts, her attention focused on the lanky warlock. "You thought I was evil? You have summoned the very daemons of Hades. This is magic of the darkest nature." She releases a full-throated laugh. "You are worse than me, Merlin." She watched the mage's face carefully, seeing if she could make him stumble.
"I should have known you'd become a daemon, witch. Get me The Reaper, I am not here to make deals with you," Merlin dismisses her taunting with a single-minded purpose. Nimueh is useless to him. He does not care. He feels nothing. He cares only for Arthur and Arthur has been taken from him.
"Very well." She would have all of eternity to taunt him. The former priestess raises her delicate hands to lift up a column of fire.
"Wait here, Lancelot," Merlin commands. "You will not be able to see Him." You are too pure of heart. The warlock lets the knight assume that it is his lack of magic, he wants to keep Lancelot innocent of this place so that he will never have to experience the taint of knowledge, never be seduced by this darkness and never thirst to possess that which should not be his.
"You summon The Reaper, Merlin Emrys of Ealdor," the faceless figure intoned in a deep, thundering voice.
"I do," Merlin says, without bowing to the tall, hooded figure. The warlock's pose is casual, as if he were not bargaining with the devil himself but simply bantering with a common acquaintance.
"Insolent mortal. How is it you do not fear me? You dare to presume you can summon me at your whim without consequence? "
Merlin smiles, meeting the figure with confidence. "My greatest fear has already seized me," he says honestly. "I come bearing a gift."
"Is that so? You come with a bribe? Have you not come to save your King? You would lie to The Reaper?"
"Ah. The Reaper would not fall for such shallow deception. I speak the truth."
The Reaper is intrigued, blackened fingers steepling in contemplation. "So you do not deny my charges against you? Speaking truth in a den of lies? There is something about you mortal that I cannot yet identify."
"So I have been told," Merlin rejoins nostalgically.
"Tell me, how would you save him?"
"I respectfully ask that you do not collect Arthur's body and soul that I might salvage the vessels."
"For necromancy? Such dark magic." The Reaper howled with amusement, a grating gravely sound. "Assuming that I grant your request, your soul will be mine for eternity."
"Dark magic can be defined as magic used for ill intent. I only intend to love. If I be damned by this, I do so with conviction."
"Well said," The Reaper nods, his ragged black robes not moving a stitch as if they were only illusionary garments. He is impressed. "Unfortunately, I cannot even if I do not wish to keep the damaged parts. I have been promised this Pendragon's soul. A blood magic claim by another."
"Who?" The warlock's eyes narrow, lips flattening into a thin line.
"Vengeful are we?" The Reaper chucked.
"I merely wish to know the name of my enemy that I might bestow my gifts upon them," Merlin says with beguiling meekness, eyes aglow.
"Very well." The Reaper is never one for keeping peace. He hopes chaos will come from this. "Adrianne of Nador."
"You are very gracious, Master Reaper," Merlin acknowledges, a grin spreading between his jug-like ears. "Will you consider my request regarding Arthur Pendragon?" Merlin is no fool. He will not be caught again in the same noose. He will leave no doubt as to the terms of this deal.
The Reaper is amused, toying with the stubborn man in front of him. "He is already dead, therefore, he is mine."
"No. He belongs to me." Merlin says this with such passion and certainty that it empowers him.
"You speak as if you had such authority over him," The Reaper snorts with condescension. "What of your claim to him, mortal?"
"A mere mortal would not have been able to summon you," Merlin hedges. How could he explain that Arthur completes him? That he needed Arthur? That he loves Arthur? There could be no words that describe his purpose. Protecting Arthur is his duty. Without Arthur, his existence is worth nothing.
"Indeed, clever one. So you are Immortal?"
"Son of a Daemon," Merlin smirked. "Overlord Daemon, Asmodeus the Incubus, Archdemon of Lust."
The Reaper rumbled with astonishment. "Son of Asmodeus? What a welcome surprise, Prodigal One. I need not explain the cost for Arthur Pendragon's body and soul. Because he is dead and has been passed into my realm, your life will not suffice. You must offer something more. This bargain once it is entered into cannot be broken or changed."
"Indeed." Merlin is careful to add, "I will offer from myself. Not from anyone else."
"Now, there is no need to be so noble. There is an alternative... another Pendragon." If Merlin is surprised, he does not show it. Doggedly, he barters for Arthur.
"No, I will not take from another. Arthur would be devastated. He'd never forgive me."
"Not if he doesn't know," The Reaper said temptingly. "Mortals are such fickle beings."
"Perhaps, but I will keep my promise to him."
"Such an irrational, mortal mindset for an immortal being. You insist on adhering to your mortal morals despite the taint on your soul. Fascinating." The Reaper pauses, then spoke again. "Very well, I will allow you to reclaim him."
"My Master." With a reverent tone, Merlin invokes his true name and the ancient magic which would seal this covenant. "I, Merlin Emrys of Ealdor, willingly offer The Reaper my soul in exchange for the body and soul of Arthur Pendragon of Camelot. I these vessels that he may fulfil his destiny as long as his life shall be." This is a vow of the solemnest kind, soul-binding and eternal. There is no boom of thunder or dramatic explosions but Merlin knows that he will think on this moment again in the years of suffering ahead. It will sustain him through his never-ending torment.
"Daemon child," The Reaper addressed Merlin with an almost sympathetic edge. "You have given up your place with the immortals for this mortal. I cannot understand your reasoning. You would trade a thousand lifetimes to have but one with this being?"
"I have said this before and I will say it again: his life is worth a hundred of mine. One lifetime with Arthur is worth all the lives that I could live." Without him, I am doomed to an existence which shall never be whole. A hell in itself.
The Reaper sounded unconvinced but he replies, "If you insist. I will await your return gladly." For The Reaper, Merlin will return soon. Years are but seconds to him. For Merlin, he hopes that it will be long before he graces this realm again.
Merlin merely nods and prepares himself to be reunited with Arthur. Eyes glowing, the flames melt away and reality, space, time races by him until he can smell the pungent spice of the candles. The altar is in front of him again except the wooden chest is no longer there. It has been replaced by a familiar figure with flaxen hair, limbs askew.
Arthur.
Naked as the day he was born, bleached, bloodless, with a gaping hole where his heart should be.
To be continued: All criticism welcome.