Part Six

Arthur rushes forward as the not-Arthur yanks his blade free, the pull dragging Merlin to his knees. The not-Arthur soaks in the sight of Merlin at his feet, then turns, leaving him hitching on air and bowed in wide-eyed wonder to death.

Arthur lifts his sword in both hands and faces himself.

"Pendragon," says not-Arthur. He twirls the sword round, blood flying from the point. Same arrogance in his ease, but he doesn't smile. "A pleasure, I'm sure."

"What in Hell are you?" Arthur snarls.

Not-Arthur grins, incisors points. "You."

A choke; Arthur's eyes flicker to Merlin, hands stained red on his stomach, as a breath wracks through his body. His eyes lift to Arthur and the blue swirls and sucks Arthur to the bottom of the sea—He can't speak, but Arthur sees his mouth move, the horrified O it makes when he fails to say, Two!

A jolt across his hands, like touching metal after scuffing a rug, and the sword flies from his hands and vanishes across the battlement. Arthur grabs for it, but he sees not-Arthur's eyes are tainted a deep orange.

He tisks, fading to blue. "This is too easy." He saunters forward, and Arthur drops into a habitual fighter's stance.

"Sorcerer," he spits, a dirty curse. Choking on rage, only ragged and mutilated language grinds through. "You bastard." His hands curl, uncurl, lifted to fight. His voice rises with the words to a shattered screech. "I will kill you for what you've done!"

Not-Arthur stops, the skin at the corners of his eyes fanning in amusement. "You are more a fool than even I thought. Tell me though, for curiosity's sake—"

Arthur growls and rushes, hands lifted to choke off the unconcerned words, but there's a glimmer of orange, matte rather than shining, and then the not-Arthur's behind him.

"—How you plan to defeat me," he finishes. Arthur skids, spins; Merlin inhales, just a meter from him, but Arthur clenches his jaw and forces himself to keep looking at his warped reflection. His last slip into distraction had left him weaponless. "After all," not-Arthur says, and his mouth twists in mockery, "There are only three with the power you seek."

Arthur freezes. From the corner of his eye fire flares, the dragon diving upon the army. Merlin rattles at his feet, hollowing, but Arthur hears the scraped air twist into a half-name like "'aleng'd."

Not-Arthur says, "It seems there are only two with the strength. I overestimated the legends, I admit." He sniffs at Merlin, now doubled forward, face pressed to the ground. Arthur sees the blood-plastered hair and an ear, his body curled small and unspeaking, and his heart's stabbed with a shard of glass. "I needn't have bothered with this elaborate act; I could have killed him outright. It's lonely, being the most powerful, but I'm sure you can relate to that, Prince."

"I am nothing like you," he snaps, the cracked anger focusing him. "Palengard."

Palengard smiles Arthur's most congenial grin. "But I am you. I spoke your thoughts, and followed your laws, and slaughtered the enemy. Emrys is evil by all standards." He frowns out at the battle. "He has certainly delayed my plans." He looks back, and Arthur recognizes the finality in his own eyes. "It's a shameful death, weaponless and alone," he says, sympathetic, then his lips peel back in an inhuman grin. "It's exactly what you deserve."

His hand lifts, and Arthur deepens his stance, breathing through his nose and panic sharpening color. Palengard speaks, the words sifting chants, and pulls his arm back to throw. Arthur starts, expecting fireballs, but instead Palengard-Arthur's eyes narrow. His palm is open, fingers spread, blood lining the creases. There is no fire.

From below, Merlin rasps, "Not 'lone—" A gasp. "'Ord." The word fades into the exhale.

Palengard glares down, his—Arthur's—face twisted in disgust at the dying man.

Arthur stares at himself, then at Merlin, who's lifted half-sitting on one forearm, the other stretched to Palengard. His eyes are still blue, but blood's soaked thick around him, and somehow Palengard cannot summon the magic.

Palengard snarls a curse to Merlin, and nothing happens. Merlin's eyes shut, the gasp cut off from the strain, and slumps to the side, hand dropping to the stone. But his arm still lies toward Palengard, and his body, frail like a dried leaf, rattles another breath.

Between Arthur and Merlin, the sword reflects red sky, blood pooling in the runes.

"Die," Palengard says to Merlin, eyes broken ice and jaw taught with hate. "You waste my time with this trick."

Arthur watches himself, sees this scene unfold—Merlin soaking red, Arthur spitting on his dying—and he recognizes the evil.

He scoops up the golden sword, bloody handle slick, and swings.

His eyes are blue as sky, and they widen bright with shock as the sword pierces through armor and into flesh, through the heart, the resistance real against Arthur's arms.

Arthur watches his eyes widen round. The hilt is warm through his hands. Not-Arthur gapes, unable to take in air, and begins to shake. His eyes, gone glassy with pain, meet Arthur's. Arthur stares back, horror in his heart as he kills himself. He waits for the cursed last words, the damnations, the struggle against fading light. Blood has stained blond hair.

The dying Arthur glares back—but then his face slackens in fear. His eyes turn to marbles as they recognize the dark shadows that trail an executioner, and the justice death will bring.

Arthur pushes through to the hilt.

His vision like looking through rain-stained cathedral glass, Merlin watches Arthur, haloed in gold, murder Arthur. The sword is a blurred gold thunderbolt but sound is muffled and the vision is the last Merlin will ever see.

He wonders who is real, then the sight glass shatters to black.

Arthur rips out the sword, the runes painted with blood, and steps back as the not-Arthur crumples. A blood stream flows down the panel of armor. He gapes like a fish and falls to his side, one arm twisted so the palm faces to the sky, open to accept the bloody offering, and dies the undignified death of

Arthur watches himself die and feels no pity. As the corpse shifts into a man with rusted hair and dirt eyes, he prays this future can be changed, that this is not what he's doomed to become.

The sky stops bleeding.

There is a crackle and a shimmer of blue from the corner of his eye, and Arthur whirls to see the protective shield tearing, holes stretching then snapping back into place. Then it fades back to invisibility.

Arthur clutches at the sword, palms sweating, and waits. He doesn't understand what just happened, but it can't be good, and he finds himself at the wall, leaning over the stone and staring at the emptiness. Please hold please hold please hold…

Suddenly a line of rocks are arcing towards him. They hit the wall, which shocks back into rippling blue around the points of impact—but three keep sailing through flickering gaps.

They hit the battlements, shattering against Arthur's eardrums, and the army roars in triumph.

The sword is dead weight in Arthur's hands. Palengard's revenge needs no words, it seems; the roaring tells Arthur that his death is still being felt.

There are three scoops in the walls of his castle.

"Damn it," he hisses, then slaps the stone and shouts, "Why!" It is drowned in the tide of renewed pounding, Palengard's tattered army filled with new hope.

The wall is shimmering in and out of existence, dying. How can a dead sorcerer vanquish a wall?

How can a dead sorcerer keep it in existence?

The dragon arcs across Arthur's vision, gold against the bleeding sky. Its neck arcs up as it screams, the pitch arcing into mourning, and falls off. Arthur's heart cringes at the raw grief and he ducks his head, eyes catching the same gold and red in the sword—and just beyond, a too-still form, neck bare to the falling blood.

The sword rings the pure note of panic in Arthur's heart when it falls to the stone.

Words are spilling forth before his knees hit the ground, nonsense babble that slurs in the urgent undercurrent. "Merlin! Merlin, you idiot, get up! Get up you lazy sod…"

Arthur can see the sound missing the ears, and he reaches out because Merlin's supposed to move, he's supposed to ramble and gripe and run and spill with life and even in his sleep it spills over but now that life is missing. His palms fist in the shirt and tug, and Merlin's head tilts back as the shoulders lift but he's limp—the roaring is filling Arthur's mind, no room for thought but to prove he's alive—

His finger pads press into the cold neck, slick with blood drops—and then he starts with a bolt and sees a vision like a too-sharp memory—She is as beautiful and terrible as an angel, her lips as red as the dress and her eyes glowing with malice. "I willingly give my life for Arthur's." The vow slips free easier than he thought it would. He breathes out, happy to have this weight off his shoulders, knowing that he can save Arthur with his whole life, that he chose it and isn't just pulled in a current. Her lips, already soaked in blood, peel back into the smile death wears when called to duty. She reaches for a chalice and calls—And Arthur gasps and yanks his hand away, blinking away the memory.

The foreign pain swirls in his chest for a moment, then he blows it out with a deep exhale. It's not mine.

Merlin's chest rises, falls. The flagstone beneath Arthur's knees is suddenly hot; he looks down and sees copper plating instead. What the…? Just in a rectangle around Merlin and Arthur; the rest is unchanged.

Merlin's index finger twitches. Mint sprouts from the cracks in the remaining stone, and Arthur gapes.

There's a crackle from afar—the shield, dying. Dying with its source of power?

It's a suspicion Arthur fears to have confirmed; that deep-seated denial had hoped that was just another lie of Palengard's and this was Merlin, who couldn't possibly do these things…

Arthur stares at Merlin's eyelids and wonders, if he lifted them, what color he would see.

Merlin's shirt, once blue, is soaked purple, and his pants have stained to rust. Arthur begins to pull off armor, hoping his shirt will stem the flow, though Gaius' voice is telling him, Too late, far too many minutes, far too much blood.

He struggles out of the elbow guards but cannot reach behind his back to undo the guardbrace strap. He hisses, twists, then cries out in frustration. Merlin will never survive being carried down to the infirmary.

The explosion of shattering rock. A fierce roar from below.

Arthur stands, peering over the battlement, and watches the shield burst and flicker in chaotic dying. For a moment, it shimmers iridescent and hums with power—then it fragments to prisms and disappears entirely, leaving Camelot vulnerable, before wavering back to blue…

"Damn," Arthur hisses, and the desperation has him dropping and peeling back one of Merlin's eyes—"Go! Leave! If you ever attack Camelot again, I will kill you." The grief tears his words raw, but some part of him warms knowing that this is what his father has taught him: the wisdom to wield the power.

Kilgarrah bows, and his voice is warmer now, reassuring like a relative's. "This is what you will be."And oh, how he wishes that were true, that the shining Kilgarrah has promised will not be stained by the time he gets there.

As the dragon lifts off into the moon, the greatness folds under the crushing price for it. His only grace is Arthur—a good cause against the crimes, the only purity Merlin can hold to. When the prince asks what happened, Merlin doesn't lie when he says, "You did it."

—Released, Arthur falls back onto the stone and curls in against the overwhelming force.

"Not mine!" he pleas. "Not mine!" And the pain quickly fade with this knowledge, though his heart's still sore with the aching.

Slowly he dares to unfold, the sounds returning him to the present.

The eye was shining gold.

Arthur sits up just as Merlin chokes, one arm flopping and fingers brush his wrist—The spear tears into shimmering blue light as Lancelot charges, and when the griffin falls Merlin whoops, the power still sparkling in him—Another spear goes flying into a boar and it squeals. By now this saving is a daily occurrence, but there's still a glow in Merlin. At least, until Arthur slings his arm around that new rat and makes him a servant. The hurt shocks Merlin, who expected only the usual annoyance; instead it feels like the earth had shifted just for the sport of watching him fall—She's singing the loveliest thing Merlin has ever heard, and the high clear notes catch his heart like magic. Exactly like magic, he realizes… Slow, and time complies just long enough to tug that gold prat out of the way—

A flickered voice ("Arthur") and flash of a lake.

—Each hitched breath stabs into his heart, and while she shakes her life away in his arms he turns up to the heavens and doesn't bother to beg for forgiveness, he just pleas I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm so sorry—For the brief moment that the magic's loose in him, it fills the gaps of pain and keeps him from falling into the fire. Then it pulses from his fingertips into the stone, drawn from one rune to the next. And the fire laughs all around him—"Arthur, I'm"—"Better to serve a great man than rule with an evil one," he snarls, and though it came out of fight, he blinks and wonders—"Arthur listen"— What a foreign sound, and he tries it. "I'm Merlin. I'm Emrys." And now he's evil—"Arthur Arthur"—"I'm happy to be your servant 'til the day I die."—"Arthur Arthur Arthur Arthur...

"—I'm sorry."

Arthur smells mint.

Blinking into focus, he finds himself standing at the edge of a glittering lake, rimmed with mountains on the far side and woods on his coast. The air breathes cool on his skin.

He knows it isn't real because the sky is as blue as Merlin's eyes.

"Can you see me?"

His head snaps to the left and watches his servant pick his way out of the woods. He's clean, and when Arthur looks down he sees he's free of gore as well.

"What is this?" he asks.

Merlin sinks into the damp sand. He's thinner, but his walk is steady as he approaches. "You're the real one," he breathes. "Thank the gods. One of you is bad enough." Then he pulls his shoulders back, dropping the fear away. "It's not real," he says. "It's a… sort of dream-world, between the two others, that the inhabitants can manipulate—" At Arthur's look, Merlin cuts off and says, "Just consider this a lucid dream."

"Except I wasn't asleep," Arthur says. Merlin stops an arm's reach away and stares into Arthur's eyes.

"No, you're not," he agrees. "I brought you here. Well, actually, the magic did. It's going a bit haywire, I'm afraid."

"Why?"

"Because I'm dying." He shrugs and looks to the lake, palms raised to say Oh well. "My control over the magic is failing."

Arthur stares. His cheekbones are sharp lines, and the shirt hangs open to reveal a collar bone that juts out like a shelf. His eyes are still cut sapphires, though, and in this sharp-bright world the angles fit.

Merlin glances back at the silence, his gaze waiting.

Dear God, a chance to ask… Arthur starts to speak and chokes on all the words scrambling to come out. How can he prioritize?

"How long do we have?"

Merlin purses his lips and looks up at the sky, judging. Tilting his head in a so-so gesture, he says, "Five minutes. Maybe less; depends on the magic."

The lake shushes in and out, each breath a moment lost.

"You talk like it's alive," Arthur says.

A corner of Merlin's mouth twitches up. "It's a force much larger than me. I'm… well, time's short, but I'm little more than a channel." He frowns and stares off at the mountains. "Less than, even."

Suddenly he turns back and takes a desperate step forward. "I'm sorry," he rushes, hands half-lifting. "I'm so sorry for everything, Arthur, but please understand that I've always tried to help and I was always loyal to you despite this magic, and it was me all along even if you didn't know about this part and please please please don't hate me becau—"

"Merlin," he says, and Merlin cuts off mid-word, but his wide eyes continue to plead. Arthur swallows, his hands beginning to shake as the shock crumbles into overwhelming emotion. Deep breath, but his gaze must still be hot.

Cowed, Merlin's shoulders fold and his hands clasp behind his back. His eyes drop to the sand.

A breeze shivers the leaves. They whisper, Time.

So many questions. Too many, so Arthur defaults to the no-fail priority of his kingdom. "Is Palengard really dead?"

Merlin looks up, breathing with gratitude for the reprieve, and says, "You killed him."

The sun shines warmth onto Arthur and the lake dances in the corner of his eye. Merlin adds, "I'm not… sure how you managed; I don't remember anything after you—he stabbed me, but some of the magic tastes of him; it was released when he died."

Arthur glares at the lake, waiting for sea monsters to come bursting forth.

Merlin laughs, and it startles Arthur, the laughter. It's something Merlin would do, but this isn't Merlin, this is an illusionary figment of a sorcerer… Merlin never was. But the thought echoes off-key.

"Magic has no allegiance," he says, "Especially now that he's dead."

Arthur is filling with doubt. None of this is real; Merlin said so. Is everything said a lie as well?

"The shield hasn't failed completely yet," Merlin continues. "It's strongest at the base, near the runes, so only missiles can get through now. The spell won't break until I die."

"And how long is that?" Arthur asks. He wishes his voice had been colder.

Merlin's face twists unhappily. "Dunno. The magic's helping a little, but I'm going fast." Though the words are matter-of-fact, Merlin bites his lip and stares at the water, a shiver rattling his shoulders.

Arthur feels the cold in his chest. "You can't save yourself?" Then he realizes the fear was audible, so he adds, "For Camelot's sake."

Merlin throws him a bright-eyed glance and skewed smile. Then he stoops, brushing his fingers through the sand, picking through the stones. "Healing takes a lot of power—concentrated power, especially self-healing." He braces a hand and sinks into the sand with a breath like an old man's. "The magic created this world, but I can barely maintain it now." He sits, legs sprawling, watching the water. "I can't… focus the magic."

Arthur follows his gaze, breathing in that familiar mint. How much time did he have left? The mountains shine in the distance, the snow tinted gold under the sun.

"Kilgarrah—the dragon, it'll just leave, if—when I die. It won't attack Camelot." Merlin brushes the sand from a stone worn smooth by the waves.

Are you a dragon lord too? Arthur bites back the question for a more important one. "You're Emrys, then?" Merlin never was?

Merlin grimaces. The stone is clean of sand, flat and perfect for skipping. "The druids think so." He pushes off the stand, beginning to stand, and suddenly the world wavers like seeing through heat waves.

"Wait, you can't—!" Arthur cries, but then Merlin drops back into the sand and the vision refocuses.

"Sorry," Merlin gasps, rubbing his stomach. "Won't stand, then. Running out of time," he mutters, eyeing the stone like it's responsible.

Arthur had rushed forward in his panic and is now standing over Merlin. Merlin looks up. "You or me first?"

"What?"

"Last words. We're out of time—and I've got the important stuff, so I'll go first." He studies the stone, twisting it round and round, and says, "The sword's forged with the dragon's breath and is meant only for you. Make sure no one else ever wields it, or great evil can result."

Cold is clenching Arthur's heart and slowly twisting as reality begins to sink in.

"Don't worry about the druid. I'm pretty sure that was really Palengard in disguise, trying to lure me out. Or at least send you on a wild goose chase."

It must be freezing; Arthur's palms chill and his breath's quavering.

"Send Gaius my love, will you? He'll write my mum…" He trails off, staring into the lake. "Tell him… well, he's already been told once. So... Well. That's about it." Merlin breathes out, then suddenly locks Arthur in his stare. "Thank you."

Arthur blinks. Throat tight, he says, "For what?"

"For giving me a good purpose. I'm proud to die for you, even if I'm not proud of everything I've lived." He leans forward, neck craning up. "I've told you this before, but you will be a great king one day. The best, actually, and I know this for a fact. Even if you are a prat. It was an honor to serve you."

Arthur swallows. Merlin finally releases him from his stare and adds, voice whisping, "And thank you for not hating me, despite everything. This is… more than I could have hoped for."

Then he leans back onto one propped arm and says, "Your turn. Any last questions?"

The trees are quivering, but they make no sound now. The lake has stopped quibbling. Arthur's voice is stark against the silence when he says, "I never said I forgave you."

Merlin huffs out a breath and rocks his head to the side. "You haven't even hit me."

"You're dying."

"Not here."

"This isn't real."

"The punch would feel real."

"Shut up, Merlin. I thought this was my turn?"

Merlin smiles his most ornery smile, and Arthur's knees buckle.

He drops into the sand. His throat is constricting, but he forces out, "Why did you lie?"

Merlin raises his brows.

Arthur barks a damp laugh. "Alright, fine." He looks down as his hands, convulsively clenched into fists. "Was any of it real?"

A moment of dead silence. Then, soft, "I'm Merlin, not Emrys. I always have been."

Arthur nods. Those spattered memories, flickered by the magic, had told him as such.

He looks at Merlin, searching for that ripping guilt and grief permeating so many of the memories. He sees weariness, an age in the crescents under Merlin's eyes and in the curl to his spine, but none of the pent-up screaming. But the grandness… there was a flicker of it, now that Arthur was looking. But mostly it was just large ears and sharp bones and black hair and Merlin.

The silence is absolute, that known only by the deaf and dead. In this, Arthur cannot bring himself to hate. Any judge of morality cannot hear them speak, and the only witness will fade too soon.

"I'll be needing a friend in the next life," Arthur says.

Merlin smiles, but it's tainted with some dark thought. "I'm sure you will, you prat."

"Idiot." He reaches out for Merlin's hair, but he manages to dodge it until the world wavers.

Panic shocks Arthur as he cries, "But you can't—"

It stabilizes, but Merlin's breathing quick and shallow. "Sorry, Arthur. I've got to go." He pulls back his arm and flings the stone.

"No! Wait!" Arthur reaches out, watching the stone sail towards the lake.

It skips four times, and the ripples shimmer darkness, stretching beyond the edge of the lake and across the horizon and sand and even to Merlin, so Arthur finds himself sitting cross-legged in the darkening vision. Merlin fades, his gaze clinging to Arthur even as his eyes widen, as if that vision of Arthur can anchor him to life.

Arthur reaches out into nothing. "But you haven't told me—"

Merlin stares at Arthur, desperately using that image to maintain some stability because the panic is dragging him into the undertow. They're waiting for him.

He can hear the voices, whispers now but growing fast. There's no fighting this death; he's not immortal, and he knows there's no form to return to, that his body has failed him. He should be grateful for the goodbye his magic granted him, and the victory and friendship he has left in his wake.

The voices are a cacophony, and his breaths hurt from weight pressing his chest. The panic he'd felt these past years threatens to flood, and he's sweating even as his own body fades into the black, as if he can already feel the heat.

He starts to pick out individuals—Will's first, then Morgana's wail… He hears Freya's honey-rich voice, and he begins to cry as his mind slips into panicked fire fire fire … Then there is no more air, and the fear burns away.

"—why," Arthur finishes, but he's kneeling on copper and his fingers are stretched to the stone wall of Camelot.

The dragon screams, and the crackling shield bursts, sending a tingling across Arthur that stands his hair on end.

Then there is only the army's roar, louder than ever and coming nearer.

Arthur only lifts up to confirm his horror—the gates are open and men are spilling through in a deluge of sound and glinting metal.

He drops to Merlin's side. His fingers press into the skin and receive no flashes of memory, and there are no new miracles beneath his feet. There's no pulse or breath.

Arthur leans back. The eyes are closed, but Arthur knows they're blue crystals.

A roar rips from his throat as he pounds a fist onto Merlin's chest. "You idiot! You're not supposed to die!"

Merlin's not hearing, Arthur knows; Merlin is far away, with the lake and the mountains and the memories and that stupid, stupid smile of a martyr, because dying in the name of Arthur is so much easier than living in the name of him!

"You're even more useless when you're dead, and that's—" But he chokes, voice breaking under the strain, and there's a wetness across his face fresher than the caking blood.

The army is coming, and Arthur will fight, hold them out of the castle so that people have a chance to escape out the back gates. He will fight until he too dies. And then he will punch that idiot.

His wheezes, swallows—his throat's on fire—and pushes to one knee.

Distantly, he hears wood splinter. The doors of the castle.

"NO!" He roars to the sky, and falls back, hands fisted in Merlin's shirt. "No." His head falls forward onto the blood-soaked fabric. This is the apocalypse, a red sky and evil's army destroying his world, and their only savior has bled out on the roof.

"Come back," he whispers.

The grief rips his chest, and he gasps against the pain, tearing his throat raw with each breath, and he knows that this is what it's like to be without hope.