CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Merlin had used every spell in his arsenal, and it wasn't enough. Only raw, base instinct was keeping him alive as Morgana threw all she had at him.

He was scorched and bleeding. Every breath was agony. He was pretty sure his leg was broken.

He thought he had saved a few of Camelot's men.

Dozens more had perished.

He tried to keep her focus, but her magic was too strong to be contained. She lashed out with a desperate fury, whipping the elements into a tempest, ferocious and wild. Sharp rocks scathed across his flesh, the earth lurched and rolled beneath him, frigid wind slapped his face and stung at his eyes. Fire and ash swirled as a hurricane, incinerating everything in its path.

Merlin didn't know if he could hold out much longer.

He wrestled with the flames, struggling to pull them back towards himself, missing the staff that had disintegrated under a direct hit from Morgana's amplified magic. His fingertips were cracked and blackened, splinters were embedded in his palms, but still he stretched out his trembling hands.

Morgana slapped him down.

Her spiteful laughter filled the air. "How the mighty have fallen. The Great and Powerful Emrys, reduced to this. Pathetic."

A wretched cough brought up blood, but he spat it onto the ground and pushed himself to his feet. His broken leg threatened to crumple, forcing him to shift his weight onto his one good foot. He was off-balance, unsteady, but there would be no surrender, not while he still drew breath.

"Forþ fleoge," he rasped.

Morgana rolled her eyes and turned the back of her hand to him, dismissing the spell as if it was an errant breeze. "You'll really have to do better if you want to kill me, Merlin."

"Hleap on bæc."

She flicked it away, lips curling in derision. "I grow tired of this." She cast her gaze to the heavens and dark clouds gathered as her eyes burned gold. Thunder rumbled. She raised a hand.

He was going to die as Nimueh had done. It was poetic, in a way, as though his life had come around full circle.

Merlin braced.

Morgana stumbled, as if from an unseen blow.

"No!" she shrieked. The clouds rolled back, dispersing harmlessly. Her flames dropped low, her tempest stilled.

The flood of stolen energy was gone.

Merlin knew that this was his moment. With what little strength he had left, he sent his magic down into the earth and commanded: "Wíntreów becnyttan."

Vines burst out of the ground and ensnared Morgana's legs, winding rapidly around her until her arms were tightly bound to her sides.

"Got you," Merlin exhaled. The combination of pain and relief made him woozy, but he blinked hard and managed to remain upright.

Inexplicably, instead of fighting her bonds, Morgana smiled sweetly at him. "Oh, my poor Merlin. You think you've won, don't you? But there's something you're forgetting."

Merlin was too tired for her taunts. "And what is that?"

Her smile grew to a wicked grin. "I am not the one you need to worry about."

"Not anymore," he agreed. "You can spend some time in Camelot's dungeons until Arthur decides what to do with you."

"Where is my dear brother?" Morgana asked, a glint in her eyes.

Merlin froze.

"And Mordred? He is the one you sent to rescue the Druid Elders, is he not?"

"He succeeded."

Her voice dripped with distain. "He was meant to. You see, Merlin, I have been one step ahead of you from the beginning. You have failed to learn from my brother's mistakes; you trust too easily. You should have killed Mordred while you had the chance."

Merlin had been sorely tempted, on the darkest nights when sleep eluded him and the vision of Arthur's death was all he could think about. But he had refused to let his fear turn him into a murderer. "Mordred is loyal to Arthur."

"Oh, he was," she said in a false tone of sympathy. "But my trap has been sprung, and by now my magic will have ensnared him. Mordred's mind is no longer his own." Her lips curled with smug satisfaction. "Arthur is as good as dead."

Fate. No matter what he did, how hard he tried, how desperately he fought, all roads led to the same destination.

But he couldn't accept it. He wouldn't. There was no life without Arthur.

"No!" Merlin spun and frantically searched the field for any sign of his King. The ground was strewn with the bodies of the fallen, but small clusters of soldiers were still fighting. The Saxons appeared to have suffered significant casualties and had begun to retreat, pursued by the tenacious knights of Camelot who were determined to drive them from their land. He should have been glad that the tide of the battle had turned in their favour, but he could not see Arthur.

'Mordred!' he cried desperately.

'I will be with you in a moment, Emrys,' came the distracted reply. 'There is something I must do first.'

'No! Stop!'

'It won't take long.'

'Please, Mordred, I beg of you. Don't do this.'

'I must fulfil my destiny.'

'No! Mordred!'

There was no response.

Arthur was going to die.

"Run along, then, Merlin," Morgana taunted. "Hurry back to your precious King. You might just make it in time to watch him breathe his last."

Merlin lurched forward, but there was a sickening crack as his injured leg twisted brutally beneath him. Jagged bone pierced straight through raw flesh, and the revelation of his failure speared his heart.

His anguished scream rent the air. The resulting shockwave flattened every enemy soldier in Camlann.

He saw Arthur, then. Standing amidst his fallen adversaries, seeming surprised and somewhat awed that the battle had ended so abruptly. He looked around, searching for his saviour, and his eyes landed on Merlin.

He opened his mouth to speak, but Merlin would never know what he would have said.

Because Mordred had walked up behind him, sword in hand, and Arthur didn't even register him as a threat.

Merlin cried out a warning, too late. Forever too late.

Mordred's blade ran him through.

ooOOoo

White-hot pain lanced through his gut.

Arthur stared in shock at the bloodied sword tip protruding from his stomach.

The Saxons had been defeated. They'd won.

But someone had stabbed him in the back.

"Sire," Mordred gasped.

The face of his youngest knight swam into focus. Mordred was crouched in front of him – when had he fallen to his knees? – and his shaking hands were stained with blood.

Is that my blood? Arthur wondered.

"My lord, I- I didn't mean to," Mordred stammered. He was as pale as a ghost. "I don't know what happened. Oh gods, what have I done?"

"I think you killed me," Arthur said. He could see the mortal wound, he could feel the blood soaking through his gambeson, but he still couldn't quite believe it.

He had survived arrows, dragons, poison, even the bite of a questing beast, only to be murdered by one of his own.

"Why?" he asked. Why did everyone he cared about betray him in the end?

Mordred was crying. "I'm so sorry, Arthur. Morgana, she- must have bewitched me somehow."

Arthur nodded wearily. He should have known that his sister was responsible; she had spent years plotting his demise. Her plans had been thwarted time and again, but she only had to succeed once.

"Forgive me, sire," Mordred begged.

Strange, that Arthur wanted to comfort the man who had dealt him a mortal blow. "Not… your fault," he slurred.

The world began to tilt, blurring at the edges.

Hands grasped his shoulders. "Don't, Arthur. Don't give in."

He didn't have much choice. The darkness beckoned.

Death would bring a form of peace, he supposed. Not the peace he had longed for, but perhaps his people could experience it in his stead. He knew that Guinevere would be a good queen. Wise and just, generous and kind, she would lead Camelot to a brighter future.

He wished he could be there to see it.

But a part of him had known that he might not survive this battle.

He had seen it in Merlin's eyes.

Merlin.

On the outside, such a simple, straight-forward young man. Clumsy, dedicated, earnest, smart-mouthed. An idiot most of the time.

But Arthur had always suspected that there were hidden depths to him. He had these strange moments of deep sincerity and unexpected insights. One minute he would be spouting nonsense, and then he would say something incredibly wise.

He interfered where he shouldn't, he spoke up out of turn. He offered counsel that wasn't asked for and delivered quick-witted retorts that a servant should never dare to utter. Then there were his unexplained disappearances, his odd strokes of luck. His courage in the face of danger, and his refusal to ever let Arthur ride out alone.

More than that, though, was the way he carried himself sometimes, and the sadness he hid behind his smile. It was as though he bore the weight of a heavy burden that no one else could see.

As King, Arthur had felt that no one could understand the responsibility that rested on his shoulders. But in quieter moments, what he saw in Merlin's eyes made him think that maybe he wasn't alone in this after all.

Now, at long last, he knew why.

Merlin was Emrys.

There were so many questions he wanted to ask. So many things he wanted to say.

He knew he wouldn't have the chance.

But at least he had learned the truth, here, at the very end.

He knew what Merlin had done for him, had risked for him, had sacrificed for him. The pain he had suffered in silence. The fear he must have felt, the hope he had held onto.

Arthur forgave his lies and his secrecy, knowing that his loyalty had never wavered.

Arthur's only regret was that he wouldn't be able to say thank you. Or goodbye.

"Tell Merlin," he said.

But the rest of his words remained unspoken.

He slipped away.

ooOOoo