Chapter XIII: Opening the Gates

Gwen tried to follow him. She called out his name, shouted that there were already search parties on the hunt for the missing prince, but Merlin ignored her. Soon she had fallen behind. No surprises there—Lancelot was still unconscious, and anyways, skirts weren't meant for running in.

Even though there were search parties, Merlin dared not wait for Arthur to be found. The exiled Sidhe were dangerous. Unless the searchers were very sneaky archers, which he doubted, they would fall to the blue-topped staves before they came close enough to use their swords.

And that was assuming that the search parties even managed to find him. He had no doubt that Sophia or Aulfric (or both) had used magic to cover their tracks. They might know spells to thwart the hounds, glamors to cover foliage disturbed by their passing, a hundred little cantrips that would hinder pursuit until it was too late.

It might already be too late, but Merlin was trying not to think about that.

He didn't need hounds or tracking skills or a keen eye. He knew where they must be taking Arthur. Where would they bring him but the Lake of Avalon? The mortal prince's death would open the gates, and Sophia could go home to her immortality and her kin. He didn't know what would happen to Aulfric (nor, to be honest, did he particularly care), but he couldn't let Sophia leave, for then his friend and future king would be dead.

So he ran, shoving aside random passersby on the streets and ignoring their exclamations of anger. He only slowed when he reached the city walls, and that was because the guards were doing their job for once. They'd formed a small blockade at the gate and were checking everyone to make sure that they weren't Arthur or one of the Sidhe in disguise.

Most of Merlin chafed at the delay, but the smaller, more reasonable part of his mind pointed out that he needed the reprieve. He was short of breath from his sprint and needed a few minutes to recover. Besides, he could plan as he waited. Except he really couldn't, because he knew too little about what was happening. The only thing he could think of was to rush to the lake and try to take them by surprise.

The guards waved Merlin through without a second glance. He was known to them, and even if he hadn't been a familiar face, he didn't look a thing like Aulfric or Sophia, wasn't smuggling a young blond man out of the citadel. They had no cause to keep him.

He jogged through the forest, occasionally stumbling over a root or rise but generally retaining a steady pace. He couldn't move too fast or too slow, especially when he was still a bit winded from his mad dash through the streets, but he thought he was making good time.

How long had it taken Aulfric to get to the lake? About forty minutes of brisk walking, he thought, maybe a bit less. So, assuming that he managed not to trip every three steps, it should take him maybe twenty-five minutes to get there. Possibly—okay, probably—a bit more, what with his luck and all.

Those twenty-five minutes stretched out into centuries. Running was hardly a complex intellectual task, and the monotony of one foot in front of another left Merlin's mind free to wander. In other words, he couldn't stop himself from coming up with all sorts of dreadful scenarios, each more unlikely than the last but still, he felt, possible. If the Sidhe really did want a mortal prince so badly, they might just send that army that he was imagining.

Fortunately, the waiting army of Sidhe (and all their pointy swords and nasty spells) was just a figment of Merlin's imagination. Not-so-fortunately, Arthur wasn't there.

Sophia and Aulfric were. The girl was submerged to her waist; her father stood on dry land, arms raised and a spell on his lips.

Merlin put on a burst of speed, his exhaustion washed away by a rush of panic. No, they couldn't have killed him already. They couldn't have. "Astrice!" he roared, thrusting out his hands.

Aulfric went flying, limbs flailing as he tried to land on his feet. Sophia screamed, but Merlin silenced her with another blast of magic. She was thrown deeper into the lake. Her scream died in a splash.

The other Sidhe slammed into a tree with such force that the wood cracked. Merlin thought he heard bones snap as well, but he was past caring. The warlock dropped to his knees, grabbed the dazed, wounded man by his collar. "Where is he?" Merlin snarled. "Where's Arthur?"

Aulfric's eyes flickered toward the lake, though his mouth remained defiantly shut.

That was good enough to Merlin. It made sense, too, he thought—what better way to open the gates of Avalon than by drowning the sacrifice in this lake? He didn't know if he should be glad or not. After all, drowning was a relatively slow way to go. Maybe there was still a chance.

Now all Merlin had to do was find him.

Ignoring the cold, he half-jogged, half-swam to the spot where he'd seen Sophia. She would want to be near Arthur, right? Maybe she'd been holding him down.

Merlin sucked in a deep breath and dove.

The water was clear at first but quickly darkened into impenetrable murk. Merlin's hands scrambled about, searching by touch alone, while he squinted for any glint of armor or red fabric in the gloom. Nothing.

His lungs burned. He surfaced long enough to gulp a great lungful of air, then plunged back down.

This time, his hand touched something soft and mobile. He clutched at it, pulled. It was attached to a great weight, one which, a few more pats revealed, was shaped like a man. Even in the dim gloom of the water, Merlin thought he could make out a hint of red.

Then something hit him, a weight pushing him down. Golden skirts blocked the hint of red from his vision. Sophia kicked at him. Her blows were slowed by the water, but they still hurt. Worse, when Merlin tried to resurface, she pushed him back down.

His lungs began to burn. He didn't have enough air for a spell.

Sophia kicked again, but this time, Merlin was ready for her. He grabbed her leg, yanked. The Sidhe lost her balance, tipping to the side. Merlin surfaced, gasped in a huge gulp of air. "Scildan," he choked, conjuring a gold-tinged shield between himself and the Sidhe girl.

The warlock's lungs still burned, but he forced himself to hold his breath and dive once more. This time, he managed to grab Arthur, haul the prince to the surface.

Sophia was still pounding her fists against the shield, which had pushed her several feet away from Merlin and Arthur. She stopped when she saw that the warlock had pulled the prince to the surface, eyes going wide with shock.

"Sophia, go!"

Aulfric's cry distracted both his daughter and their enemy. They turned towards the broken, bleeding man, who was still too weak to regain his feet. Blood leaked from his nose and dribbled from his mouth. "Go, Sophia. I love you."

The girl looked at her father, then at Merlin. No, she wasn't looking at Merlin. She was looking at something behind him. A thousand emotions waged war on her smooth, pretty face.

Merlin looked over his shoulder. He couldn't stop a soft cry of horror.

There was a tear in the air above the lake's center. It was long but thin and seemed to glow. And it was getting wider even as Merlin watched.

The gates of Avalon were opening.

Merlin's blood froze. No. There was no way that Arthur was dead. Just no way.

The crack widened. Soon it would be big enough for a person to walk through.

"Run, Sophia!" Aulfric cried. Somehow, he forced himself to his feet, though he still had to lean heavily on his staff. "I'll hold the boy at bay. Run!"

Sophia choked on a sob. "I love you, Father," she cried, and ran.

Aulfric aimed his stave at Merlin. Without its support, he wobbled, almost fell. But weak as he was, he had enough strength to spit out a spell. A beam of blue light burst from the staff's gem.

Merlin wheeled his shield around. It bent under the force of Aulfric's attack but did not shatter. The Sidhe didn't seem to care. He simply fired another blast.

Arthur was a cold, motionless weight against Merlin's side. His entire body was limp. Though his head was resting on Merlin's shoulder, mostly to help keep him upright, the warlock couldn't feel his breath.

He had to find some way to save him.

Merlin hunkered down inside his shield. He fed a bit more energy to the golden dome, thickening it, and turned his attention to his friend and prince. No, he wasn't breathing, and when Merlin pressed a finger to his throat, he couldn't find a pulse.

"You're too late, boy," Aulfric snapped. He was leaning against a tree, exhausted from his continual assaults on Merlin's shield. "He's dead."

Something within Merlin snapped. "No," he snarled, suddenly knowing what to do, "you are."

And he pulled.

The warlock didn't know what he was doing. All he did, he did through instinct. He'd always been able to use magic without thought, moving things with his mind before he could walk or talk. He could slow time itself without words. But this was more complicated than even that. It was balance and power and healing and killing, and as he guided his magic through the new channels of his instinct, he felt like he was someone more than Merlin, someone a thousand times stronger and infinitely greater.

Aulfric crumbled. There was really no other way to describe how his flesh dissolved into motes of dust that floated away on the breeze. The staff fell to the ground.

Arthur's eyelids twitched.

Sophia screamed.

Merlin paid no attention to the Sidhe. He wrapped his arms around Arthur's torso. He pulled them in as quickly and tightly as he could. Water spouted from Arthur's mouth, flowing down his chin to drip into the lake. Merlin loosened his grip, then pulled again. Arthur vomited up more water. He coughed.

"No, no, no!" Sophia cried, splashing through the lake. "No!"

Arthur was still coughing, his entire body tensing in Merlin's arms. He was still spitting up a remarkable amount of clear liquid. Merlin hadn't thought that so much water could fit into a person's lungs, but the still-unconscious prince wasn't showing any signs of slowing down.

Relief made the warlock laugh. Then a cry from Sophia reminded him that they were still in danger.

The warlock spun around, a spell on his lips, but Sophia wasn't attacking. Instead, she was racing towards the rapidly narrowing gateway. She was five paces away—four—three—two—

The Sidhe jumped, twisting her body sideways in a desperate attempt to fit. But the portal was closing too rapidly.

The gates of Avalon slammed shut, trapping Sophia Tir-Mor between them. She didn't even get a chance to scream before she just vanished. Not even dust remained.

Merlin shuddered.

Arthur's coughs were beginning to slow. Less water poured from his mouth. Now he was sucking in great gulps of air, his chest and belly heaving.

A wave of exhaustion threatened to overwhelm Merlin. The manservant staggered, nearly dropped his charge. He felt weak as a newborn babe and wanted nothing so much as to curl up on his cot in Ealdor and sleep for a week. But the middle of a lake is not a good place to fall asleep, especially without a boat, so he somehow dragged himself and Arthur to the shore.

When he woke, the sun had set and moonlight dappled the water. Arthur was still beside him, his chest rising and falling, his hair plastered to his head. Good. Merlin really didn't want to have to explain to his prince why they were unconscious by the side of some random lake. On the other hand, it probably wasn't good that Arthur was still out cold. Drowning victims were supposed to wake up rather quickly, weren't they? He'd have to ask Gaius. Still, Arthur didn't seem to have a fever, and his breathing and pulse were both regular. He didn't seem to be in immediate danger, but Merlin should probably get him to Gaius. Perhaps he could levitate the older boy until they reached the walls of Camelot?

Arthur stirred. Or at least Merlin thought he was stirring. It was hard to tell with so little light.

The warlock paused. A plan was beginning to form in his mind. As the plot crystalized, a smile spread across the plotter's face.

Merlin was still a bit unsteady on his feet. He supposed he was exhausted magically from whatever he'd done to kill Aulfric, the same thing that had cured Arthur (for he knew in his bones that the former's death and the latter's life were connected), and that had side effects on his body. He just hoped he had enough magic left for his idea.

That, or he was just lightheaded from not having eaten all day.

But whether he was dizzy from magic or dizzy from an empty belly, the point remained that he was uncomfortably wobbly and could probably do with a walking stick. With that in mind, he staggered over to Aulfric's fallen staff. Just touching it made him feel a bit better. He could feel the magic pulsing within it, magic that harmonized well with his own. Perhaps he didn't need to worry about having enough strength for his plan.

Arthur shifted. Merlin wobbled over into the underbrush, where he sat in the shadows and waited.

Sure enough, Arthur stood. He looked just as wobbly as Merlin felt and had to grab onto a tree branch to steady himself. Dazed and confused but awake and alive, the prince surveyed his surroundings as well as he could in the dim light of a crescent moon.

Merlin breathed a spell.

A floating globe of light coalesced in front of Arthur, a misty orb shot through with blue and gold. Arthur jumped almost out of his skin. Merlin grinned.

The prince stared long and hard at the light. Slowly, hesitantly, he reached out a hand to touch it. Gold flared where his palm pressed against the globe.

"Is someone there?" the prince called. When no one answered, he increased his voice. "Is anyone out there?"

Merlin willed the light to bob in front of him. It nudged the prince's arm like a friendly dog. The prince stared at it. The light pulsed once before drifting in the direction of Camelot.

"Who sent you?" Arthur asked softly.

The light pulsed again. Come on, Arthur!

"Who sent you?" Arthur repeated, walking towards the light. "Is he here?"

The light didn't respond, of course. Neither did Merlin. The manservant was still waiting to see what would happen. Would Arthur keep following? Did he trust the light even though it was sorcerous, or would he try to make his own way back?

Arthur seemed to be wondering the same thing. His expression was one of uncertainty.

The moment stretched on and on. Then the prince gave a little half-shrug, squared his shoulders, and said, "Lead on, then."

Merlin's grin nearly split his face.

Arthur followed the light. Merlin followed Arthur, slipping from tree to tree and not making too much noise. What little sound he did make, Arthur didn't attribute to a human. Plenty of creatures wandered the forest at night, most of them much larger than the moths that fluttered around the blue-tinted light.

Arthur would sometimes try to talk to the light. He would ask it who had sent it, where the sender was, why it had been sent. For the most part, though, he remained silent.

Finally (it felt like significantly longer than Aulfric's forty minutes), Merlin and Arthur could make out the glow of Camelot, lanterns and torches and probably a few candles. Arthur quickened his pace.

Merlin waited another couple of minutes, then let his light go out. Arthur jumped at the sudden darkness. He looked around, turning in no fewer than three full circles before coming into a halt.

Why wasn't he moving? Arthur could be rather dim at times, Merlin knew, but Camelot was right there. Perhaps almost drowning had done something to his vision? No, that couldn't be it—he'd followed the light successfully enough, even managing to navigate obstacles like roots and branches and a badger hole (the resident of which had thankfully not made an appearance. By the end of the walk, Merlin was having trouble keeping his light from going out. It would be just embarrassing if he survived releasing a dragon, fighting a water monster in the middle of a plague, drinking poison, and everything else he'd done just to be mauled to death by a badger). Arthur's eyes were just fine.

Perhaps he didn't recognize the skyline? No, that was absurd. Merlin could easily recognize Camelot's spires and towers and walls, and he'd only lived there for a season. Arthur had grown up there. He knew the city and the woods around it like the back of his hand. He'd probably gotten his bearings quite a while ago and only stuck with the light for its illumination, not its guidance.

So what in the world was he waiting for? All he had to do was walk up to the gate. The guards would recognize their prince, would let him in right away. They would bring him to Uther, who would send for Gaius and listen to Arthur's tale as the physician examined him. Arthur would tell what he knew and Uther would rave about the evils of magic almost stealing his son and Gaius would probably ask if Arthur had seen any sign of Merlin, which would prompt a complaint about useless servants. Lancelot would probably be awake by now, and perhaps he and Arthur would exchange a few words before Gaius and Uther bundled the prince off to bed. Then Arthur would fall asleep on his mattress full of down. When he woke up in the morning and demanded an even-larger-than-usual breakfast (which he would do even if Uther remembered to feed him this night), everything would be back to normal.

Arthur looked at Camelot, then back at the place where the light had been. He did this three, four, five more times. Merlin wished that it wasn't too dark to read the prince's expression. Maybe he was hurt and just barely holding himself upright. That was pretty much the only explanation Merlin could think of as to why he wasn't moving.

If Arthur was still tired from his near-drowning experience, Merlin should probably find some way to help him. He had just started going through ideas when Arthur's voice cut through the quiet of the night.

"Sorcerer."

Merlin nearly jumped out of his skin, but Arthur wasn't looking at him. He was staring off in the direction whence they had come, his shoulders square, his jaw tight. Even in the dim moonlight, Merlin could see the determination on his face.

"I don't know who you are or why you're doing this or even if you can hear me, but…." He lowered his head ever so slightly.

Merlin leaned forward.

"…Thank you."

Progress! Sort of. But I did promise that the light would show up again, and this isn't the last time you'll see it. It's not the last you'll see of the Sidhe or the Lake, either.

Sorry that I haven't replied to last chapter's reviews. It's been a long, exhausting two weeks. I'll do my best to answer this time, though.

Next update: December 4. Merlin tells a story.

Alternate chapter title: "Wherein Merlin and Arthur Get Very, Very Wet"

-Antares