Lest we forget, warlock.

~16~ Merlin Lost

It was a tired, dampened, depleted company that hiked out of Mitheras that day. The sun held no warmth for them, no comfort. The world was the same as always, just...darker, less colourful – empty. Losing Merlin was like losing a brother, a lively, overly-cheerful little brother. It tore at their hearts and dragged their morale into the dirt.

Fortune permitted them a small mercy in allowing them to leave the city unhindered through a gap in the outer wall, and in returning Lancelot's horse. The beast had food and water still in the saddlebags. Merlin's loyal yet stubborn bay was nowhere to be found. Then fickle Fortune left with a snicker and a final flick of her spiked tail: the food in the bags was rancid, but not from heat or time. During the few minutes that the Knight Famine was free, every source of sustenance for days around had either fled, been killed, or went rotten, as the company would quickly find out.

The first night's rest was both a blessing and a cruelty. Finding a cozy tree grove for shelter, they lit a fire for warmth, but they had to split the few blankets they had amongst each other, for they only had enough for one person comfortably. Though they knew the sleep was going to be nightmare-free at last, it wasn't enough to make them rest. Their minds were in complete turmoil. Too much had occurred for them to just close their eyes, and even Lancelot slept little in his weakened state. Dawn was kissing the sky by the time they finally gave up, and set off.

As they trudged southwest towards home, Gwaine and Arthur worried for Lancelot. The poor knight was not boding well, and the lack of food wasn't helping. Then, after two days, Fortune finally returned and opened her door to their begging by providing them with a brace of rabbits. But Lancelot couldn't keep anything in his stomach. It took several more days of heaving whatever he ate before he was able to start holding things down.

There was something else, something that baffled the other two: when they were just out of range to hear him clearly, the knight was muttering something under his breath. If they approached him or asked what he said, he just glanced at them strangely, blinking, and claims to have said nothing. Lancelot was not a superstitious man, nor a religious one, but they figured that the bizarre, inaudible speech was just murmured prayers for a lost friend.

Gwaine and Arthur led the horse, with Lancelot tied to the saddle so he wouldn't fall. They were now a week's travel from Mitheras, but it could have been more if it wasn't for the current, painfully slow condition that they were in. They were approaching the ravine; it could be seen from the crest of a hill three miles distant.

They hadn't forgotten, of course, the inexplicable occurrences in the tower, including Arthur's wounds healing by themselves at an unnatural pace, the shield protecting them against Morgana's black fire, and the Archons being pulled back into their archways. They talked to each other about it, but fought inwardly with themselves to avoid believing that Merlin had been a sorcerer. It was impossible. There was no way he could have been a sorcerer. If he was, why was Arthur still alive? Sorcerers were malicious beings, according to King Uther, yet the servant had been under the prince's employment for years. If Merlin had been a sorcerer, Arthur would have been, if not magicked dead, then poisoned, clubbed, stabbed, or strangled in his sleep by now, wouldn't he?

Wouldn't he?

Lancelot was the quietest of them, but the others took it as him simply being spent and too tired to debate.

It was after the latest baffling discussion that Arthur started to feel bad, really bad. He had sensed the simmering unease over the past few days, but hadn't fully acknowledged it until then, when it suddenly ballooned. He hid it from his companions well, but as the internal struggle raged on, he became determined to find out what was provoking it so harshly, before the others noticed his growing silence periods and ill aura.

That evening, Gwaine made the fire and wrapped Lancelot in blankets to keep him warm while Arthur collected every water skin they possessed to refill. As he rooted through the saddlery of the chestnut horse, he found another skin at the bottom. It had a stained rag tied to it, and the prince vacantly removed it and put it into his pocket as he wandered towards the brook, some ten paces into the trees.

He fell to his knees and uncapped the first water skin. Before he dipped it into the icy creek, he caught a look at his reflection. He could barely believe what he saw. Pale skin, stringy hair, gaunt features. There were a few bruises, healing, but very discernible. His lips had cracked and split from drying out, the spawned beads of blood speckled around his mouth. His eyes were hollow and sunk into his head, and ringed in dark purple. A corpse was more pleasant to gaze upon.

Exhaustion had done this to him. Exhaustion, fatigue, and depression. Exhaustion from weeks of demanding travel, fatigue from the clutches of countless nightmares robbing him of sleep, and depression from the loss...

The haunted look was as worse as he felt. It made him angry.

He punched the reflection. Water spattered everywhere. Disregarding his drenched sleeve, he dropped the rest of the skins and got to his feet, but knew not what to do. He just stood there, grinding his teeth, fists clenched, muscles taunt.

Why was he like this? The Knights of the Apocalypse were banished. Morgana was gone. The threat on Camelot was no more. He should be rejoicing...with as much dignity his royal status would consider proper. After all, Gwaine was strong and well, Lancelot was still alive and kicking, and he himself was unharmed (he remembered the bruises), more or less. They only lost a servant, a lowly servant who was of no importance compared to a prince and his knights, right? Just a servant...

He relaxed, and snorted. Yeah, Merlin was just a servant. Easily replaceable. Arthur could, would, swiftly find someone less insolent, more efficient, intelligent. After all, it was a great honour to serve a prince of Camelot. While Merlin had never treated that with any respect, there was no doubt that someone else most certainly will.

This reassurance calmed him, and he knelt once more to refill the water skins. As he did so, the rag fell from his pocket, the one that had been tied around a skin in the chestnut's saddle. He picked it up and realized that it wasn't a rag at all; it was Merlin's torn neckerchief, the one Lancelot had found in the ravine. They had neglected to give it back to him.

Arthur wanted to throw up. Instead, he tossed his head back and howled in anguish at the sky.

† † †

The Camelot search party was one of many scrutinizing the land, but the one that came across them was taken by complete surprise. The companions had hidden as the party trampled down the road, but once they saw the distinctive gold dragon on a red field insignia, they burst from the foliage, calling out greetings. Gwenevere was with them.

Arthur embraced the handmaid as she sobbed with relief, not caring who saw. The others knew of the prince's love for Gwen, and left them alone to talk.

"We've been so worried," she said into his chest, struggling to keep her voice strong. "You were gone so long, and the nightmares hadn't gotten better—"

"But they have now, right?" The sudden agitation in the prince's words was unmistakable, and he stiffened.

"Yes, yes, they're gone, finally gone." Arthur relaxed, and Gwen pulled away. "I don't know what you did, but we were travelling to find you – with anyone still in their right minds – when they suddenly stopped. Everyone slept for the whole day, even the watch."

"Gwenevere." Gwaine came up to them both and bowed politely to her. She smiled and gave him a friendly embrace.

"I'm glad you're okay," she said, but frowned. "But, Lancelot? What happened to him? And...where's Merlin?"

Arthur's eyes found Gwaine's for less than a heartbeat.

"Arthur?"

The prince heaved a breath. "Gwen, something's...happened..."

It's a strange thing, losing a friend. Like a punch in the stomach when sleeping peacefully by the river. Like walking up stairs in the darkness, and expecting that one more step only it was gone. The foot comes crashing down so abruptly and startlingly, there is a long pause to recompose oneself. The effects vary from moment to moment, from day to day, from person to person.

Gwen took it hard. She wept into Arthur's shirt, ignoring the filthiness, bloodstains and stench of sweat, and the prince held her close.

"You must tell me everything that happened—I don't care if it's a long story. We have a long trip to Camelot." Gwen finally unlatched herself from the Pendragon and brushed away her tears. She was strong, in heart and mind. She would not let despair engulf her. That was why Arthur loved her.

"Yeah, a long trip." He heaved a deep breath, then put his arm around Gwen's shoulders and nodded at Gwaine. "Let's go home, shall we?"

† † †

He didn't remember flying being so bumpy and heart-jolting. He clung tightly as the exhausted wyvern tilted crazily in the air, struggling to remain in the slipstreams heading southwest. He prayed that the creature had enough strength for another mile or two, for the mountain wasn't far now.

As the destination drew ever closer, the wyvern started to squeak uneasily and turn in different directions. The rider kept it on course until they reached a wide stone ledge on the side of the mountain, where he guided the creature down to perch. When he dismounted, the wyvern squawked in terror before he could thank it and took off, suddenly having the strength and speed to vanish into the clouds.

He waited, standing at the edge, looking down upon the world. It was beautiful from there; forestland spreading further than the horizon, a great blue lake to the north, a field of tall grasses bowing in the breeze like ocean waves. He wanted to stare at it forever, and then Kilgharrah stepped to the edge beside him, towering high above.

"I was worried that you had forgotten me, young warlock."

Merlin smiled, but did not look up at the Great Dragon. "I could never forget you, old friend."

There were a few minutes of silence as they listened to the mountain wind, and then, "You came on a wyvern. Not the most dignifying form of transportation, I must say."

"I had little choice, I'm afraid," Merlin shrugged. "I also wasn't being particularly choosy at the time."

Kilgharrah chuckled deeply. "No, I should think not."

The warlock sat, legs dangling over the edge, and the dragon lay down. They watched the setting sun. "You have some explaining to do, Merlin. I sensed your presence from miles away. There is a new power you wield. It is alien to me, but very great. What have you been up to this time?"

From Merlin's pocket the Phoenix Feather emerged, dull and cold. "I didn't do it on purpose."

Again Kilgharrah laughed. "Sure you didn't. Because nothing ever dramatic happens wherever you go." He snaked his head down and inspected the Feather for a moment. Merlin was gusted by a blast of air as the dragon snorted. "I should have known," he toned, lifting his head up again.

"You know it."

"No, actually. I know very little of it, as little as you. Probably less."

The warlock glanced up at him when the words grew solemn, but said nothing.

"You have the scent of something ancient, warlock, something I do not recognize. If you would be so kind as to explain..."

It was difficult for Merlin to imagine Kilgharrah's thoughts as he recited his tale, from the moment he found the Phoenix Feather beneath Camelot the previous year to the collapsing tower of Mitheras. The dragon remained still the whole time, even as the story drew to a close. Finally, his massive scaled chest expanded as he heaved a great breath.

"I have lived a thousand years, warlock, but even as a hatchling, the elders of my race knew little of the Ancient Kingdom. The Time of Prophecy was another name for the age; however, I am not sure why."

Merlin felt a stir in his stomach. He had neglected to speak of the insane man in the bowels of Mitheras Tower. What the prisoner had said, as though with prophetic words—

"But you are not interested in the Ancient Kingdom so much as that little feather in your hand, am I right?"

Merlin jumped. His thoughts had wandered astray. "Yes. Why did the things happen as they did? Arthur's cut healing, Fąmem and Mėtû returning to their dormant world, my own wounds vanishing...I don't understand."

"I am as in the dark as you, young warlock. I do have a theory, nonetheless." The dragon stood and stretched, rustling his wings as Merlin waited impatiently, eagerly. When Kilgharrah lay back down, he finally spoke again. "You said you had picked up the Feather first under Camelot. You, not Morgana, though she acquired it later from you during a series of calamitous events. She had done a great many things with that Feather, none of them on the bright side of the moon. These included the liberation of this Mėtû and his Night Mare. But you were still the first to touch the Feather, not her. I assume that means that this channel tool recognizes you as its master." Merlin went to interrupt, but the dragon pressed on. "When you stole the Feather back from her, it reversed everything it had been used for against its will, and in reverse order that they had been committed. The final deed the witch had done with it was cut Arthur Pendragon's cheek. Was that not the first thing that was undone? And then, immediately after, Famine was forced back into his void. Do you see what I'm getting at?"

Merlin nodded numbly, blinking. "But my knife wounds! They weren't caused by magic, but they were healed, too."

Kilgharrah chuckled once more. "Merlin, Merlin, is it not clear? Is it not astronomically obvious that the Feather's abilities, united with your own, cannot be overcome? You are the master, warlock. The Feather is under your charge, and it will keep you safe from any wound, magical or of man's steel.

"You can do wonders with that little thing, Merlin. It is yours to command and protect. Use it wisely."

"Use it." Merlin stared sightlessly at the tool, glowing gold in the setting sun. "I can't keep this." He looked up at Kilgharrah. "Morgana was proof that others could still control it. If it falls into the wrong hands..." he threw his arms to the sides wordlessly, then shook his head. "What do you think I should do with it?"

"The choice is yours, young warlock. It has always been yours and always will be. I'm sure that whatever choice you pick will be in the right." With that, the Great Dragon stood and spread his massive wings. He bounded from the edge and took flight. Merlin watched the majestic creature as he soared for the horizon.

Then he started in realization.

"Wait! I need a ride home!"

Pfft! Come on, guys, you didn't really think I was gonna give our favourite warlock the boot, did you?

No, it was obvious, I know x3

So this was the reason why I suggested that you read my 'Frostbitten' story before this one. The events of acquiring the Phoenix Feather took place in that tale. I hope the ending of this one wasn't cheezy or cheap because it seemed like I was desperate for an ending, if you get what I'm saying. It wasn't like it was the only possible resolution I could think of and so even though it was corny it was all I had. No, I meant for it to be this way.

One last chapter, mates.