A/N: I couldn't wait to write this part, despite the fact that is was so hard. That's all I'll say, apart from bear with me. You'll know what I mean soon enough.

Title: Portents and Prophecies

Author: FlYiNgPiGlEtS

Summary: is it too late, or can Arthur save Merlin?

Ratings: T (?)

Characters: Merlin, Arthur, Gwen, the knights and Gaius. Also a few OCs.

Pairings: no slash. Gwen/Arthur.

Spoilers: Set between series 4 and 5.

Warnings: blood. Stab wounds. Some not so nice stuff – watch out if you're squimish. Character death.

Disclaimer: unfortunately, I don't own Merlin; it belongs to the BBC and Shine.

VI: Portents and Prophecies: Part IV

It had worked. Against all odds, it had worked.

The spell was outdated and complicated, barely usable. Even in the days of the Old Religion, it was deemed too dangerous for all but the most powerful High Priests and Priestesses, who, with all their power and might, could scarcely master the enchantment themselves.

Yet time had slowed for him. It had curved and caved, allowing only him to move though it at a normal pace, but causing the movements of those inside the citadel to be sluggish and slight. Though it must have been a wonderful sight, to see the extraordinary colors and creations of Camelot as a still, wondrous painting and not a palette of light and noise, but Merlin hadn't stopped to watch. He had just ran – ran as fast as his legs would carry him, crashing up stairs and clambering around corners, slamming doors and stammering spells – until the halls gave way to the royal chambers and he was standing in front of Arthur, protecting him like he always had and always would.

That had been all that mattered: protect Arthur, worry about wayward rules of the universe later. And, even up against fate and destiny and whatever else was out to take away his king, Merlin had done it. He had done it. The prophecy had not come to pass and Arthur would live.

Arthur would live.

He was standing over Merlin now, Arthur, staring at him – at his golden eyes. Dimly, he realized that the king knew about his magic, but it seemed so irrelevant amid the strange, icy agony that consumed him. The world spun and spindled, and someone was crying and begging, but none of it made enough sense anymore. He had saved Arthur, and that was all that mattered.

Arthur was holding him now, speaking, sobbing, and Merlin let his heavy eyelids fall closed. Somehow, even if he didn't remember much of anything, he knew Arthur had understood everything Merlin couldn't put into words, all the things he'd never had the chance to say. And so he let himself float away, safe in the knowledge that he had been true to his word – he had been Arthur's servant until the day he died.

Arthur didn't know which one was the brightest – the red or the gold. Merlin's crimson blood, or his golden eyes.

He watched, fixated, as the once-magnificent colors of Camelot mutated so suddenly into his worst nightmare, unable to look away, unable to wake up. It had happened too fast. Nothing made sense. He wanted to believe it wasn't real.

But it was. As much as he wanted to believe he was dreaming, it was obvious that he was very much awake.

Merlin was a sorcerer.

Arthur's sword slipped from his hand and fell to the floor with a loud clatter.

Merlin had magic.

Arthur's legs collapsed beneath him.

Merlin was going to die.

Blood soaked through the knees of his breeches as he crawled forward. His broken wrist protested angrily, but it didn't matter. It didn't matter, as long as he got to Merlin. He had to get to Merlin.

Guinevere was talking quickly, tears still streaming down her cheeks, but there was a new kind of determination about her, and the words she spoke to Merlin were no longer unintelligible. One of her hands was pressed hard against Merlin's stomach, trying to stop the bleeding, and the other on his shoulder as she tried desperately to keep him awake. Arthur's couldn't tell if it was working. He couldn't tell if he was crying with her. He couldn't even tell if Merlin was still alive. So he kept going, kept dragging himself forward, until he was at his friend's side too.

Merlin appeared unconscious, breathing but barely, his lungs gurgling manically with each infrequent inhale. An alarming amount of blood pooled around him and Guinevere's attempts to stop it didn't appear to be working, even when she untied Merlin's neckerchief and pressed it to the wound. She was speaking to Arthur now, but he didn't hear her orders. A few moments later, though, when he was the one clutching the neckerchief to Merlin's bleeding stomach with his uninjured hand and Guinevere was leaving the room in a hurry, he knew he must have done or said something in reply to her.

Too soon, too suddenly, he was alone - so completely alone. And he was so scared.

"Merlin," he whispered, voice cracked and constricted, words barely making it past the burning lump that had lodged itself in his throat. Though he didn't expect a reply, he needed to say that name, to remind himself that the sorcerer lying in front of him was Merlin – Merlin who, despite his magic, despite the voice in his head, the one that sounded suspiciously like his father's, screaming that magic was evil, deserved to be saved. Because if there was one thing Arthur knew, it was that Merlin was not evil. He could deal with the magic later, when Merlin was better – and he would get better, Arthur swore it.

A strangled choke broke the horrifying silence of the room, and Arthur looked down in shock. Two bleary, glazed eyes – their normal blue now, not the gold he had seen earlier – stared up at him, blinking through heavy lashes confusedly. Arthur knew he wasn't awake, not truly, but leaned closer anyway, desperate to talk to him, desperate both to reassure him that it would be all right and yell at him for keeping his magic a secret. After some debate, he settled for the former.

"Merlin," he said again. "Gaius is on his way." Arthur remembered now – Guinevere had gone to get Gaius. Softly, sounding pathetically unconvincing, he added, "He'll have you on you're feet again in no time, lazy daisy."

Lazy daisy. Merlin was never going to shut up about that.

Seeming to find more lucidity in Arthur's not-so-reassuring words, Merlin managed a pained smile and what might have been intended as a laugh, but turned into a rattling cough that turned the servant's lips an even more alarming shade of blue. A thick string of blood dripped from Merlin's parted lips and onto his ruined tunic. His body was shaking uncontrollably, from the immense blood loss and from the fear in his wide eyes as he stared so sadly up at Arthur. Neither of them needed to say anything. Arthur knew what Merlin wanted to say, saw it in his tear-brimmed eyes. I'm sorry. I'm scared. Goodbye.

Wordlessly, refusing to let the tears in his own eyes spill, Arthur shuffled so that he could pull Merlin closer to him. It was a hard task, with Arthur trying not to aggravate Merlin's wound or his broken wrist, but somehow, sometime later, he managed it.

Afraid to let go, Arthur clutched Merlin's trembling form against his chest, arms encircling his body, which seemed so suddenly small and fragile. The warlock's dark hair tickled the bottom Arthur's chin where it rested gently atop his head as the king moved slowly, soothingly back and forth. Arthur knew these were his last moments with Merlin, yet he refused to accept it. Merlin couldn't die.

Arthur didn't realize he was speaking out loud, a mad stream of untrue reassurances tumbling from his lips, until Merlin's hand gripped his uninjured arm weakly. For once, it was Arthur who guessed, "Shut up?"

Underneath his trembling chin, Merlin bobbed his head slightly in response. Arthur's laugh sounded more like a sob. Merlin's hand tightened slightly around his arm. It's all right, the gesture said. That's what Arthur had been telling him, but only when it was Merlin giving the comforts did it seem true, at least for a short moment of blissful ignorance.

But Merlin was becoming limper in his arms, fingers barely able to cling to the arm of Arthur's bloodstained tunic, and they were running out of time. There was so much Arthur wanted to say, but no way to put any of it into words. The tears he had fought so hard to hold back were flowing freely now, dropping into Merlin's hair. Arthur realized, absently, that Merlin was crying too, but he didn't call him a girl; he simply held him closer.

A short while later, Merlin's hand fell from his arm and the throttling breaths Arthur had been so desperately listening to came to a stop. Arthur buried his face in Merlin's shoulder and sobbed.

That's how Gaius and Guinevere found them. It had been too late.

Some time later, Arthur sat in one of his wooden chairs by the fire. He didn't remember how he had gotten there and couldn't comprehend what the hushed voices across the room were saying; he just stared into the orange flames, welcoming the warmth, even if it didn't stop his shaking. The blanket around his shoulders didn't help either.

Someone had changed his clothes and replaced them with clean garments. His broken wrist had been wrapped and supported in a sling. A painkilling draught had probably been forced into him as well, for he didn't feel much of anything but a deep, cold feeling of numbness.

The blood that had covered the floor had also been wiped away, but Arthur still saw it. He still remembered holding Merlin in his arms with painful, vivid clarity. It was all he really knew anymore – Merlin was gone.

Lord Lucius' body had been removed. Arthur presumed Merlin's had as well, though he remembered not letting anyone near them when Gaius and Guinevere had first come in, not until the knights – Percival and Gwaine? Or Elyan and Leon? – had forced him away. It had been the right thing to do, even if Arthur had wanted to cling to Merlin forever.

Now he sat alone, though he recognized the faraway voices as Gwen and Gaius'. The knights were there too, Arthur realized, part of whatever deep discussion that was going on. It seemed urgent.

Then someone was beside him, a hand gently caressing his hair. Guinevere. She smiled compassionately at him, though there was so much sorrow in her deep eyes, which were red-rimmed and bloodshot from crying, and she murmured softly to him. Soon he was being eased to his feet, face to face with his four most faithful knights and Gaius, who all looked as grief-stricken as his wife. Leon was speaking as though he didn't quite know how to address Arthur anymore, but his words became a blur just like everything else.

Until he mentioned that name, the name Arthur never wanted to hear again – Lord Lucius. Now he had Arthur's full attention, and the king broke free of his mourning stupor with a shocked, furious, "What?"

"Sire," Leon said cautiously. "Lord Lucius is alive. We have him in the cells now."

Arthur didn't ask why or how. He didn't insist that he had killed him, that it was impossible; he held out his left hand, the one that wasn't in a sling, and, his voice low and livid, said, "Hand me my sword."

Gwaine picked Excalibur – the real Excalibur – up from the table and handed it wordlessly to Arthur. It felt good to hold Excalibur again; even holding it with his weaker hand, the sword felt like it belonged to him, more so than any other weapon he had ever owned.

With an appreciative swing of his sword and slight nod of his head, Arthur swept out of the room. The warning bells clanged in this distance, signaling that a prisoner had escaped, and Arthur knew exactly who it was. He picked up his pace, pushing through the crowds of guards that were running madly though the palace, and straight to the cells.

Lord Lucius would pay.

End of Part IV

DON'T HATE ME! IT'S NOT OVER YET! Lord Lucius is alive, isn't he? See, not everyone stays dead in Merlin. Just BEAR WITH ME! I'll try and update ASAP!

Reviews, good, bad or 'how-could-you?!'-centred, always welcome :)