Chapter Six:

Self-Faithful Proclamation.

He's still alive, although he doesn't know for how much longer. His own thoughts are muffled inside his mind, trapped underneath the grave of stones that have fallen around him. They are too great to lift, but he can barely move his own body-weight, let alone rocks as well. He has been weakened by the smash into the rock-face, and the charms controlling his magic usage to Nimueh's advantage. However, the life of his best friend is in danger, and there is nothing that he will not do to stop the dissolution of Camelot at the fearsome hands of the sorceress. Merlin has to concentrate, focus all his power upon relieving Uther of his torment, and ridding Albion of Nimueh while he is at it.

There is a shield around him. The very mind-power that he can conjure up, to help him in the moments that he needs it most, is that which has saved his life. The rocks cannot touch him, merely rebounding off the power that radiates from him, falling in an almost neat and orderly circle, around his fallen and immobile body. But he is not yet dead, and that means that he can do what he can to help. There is not a moment to waste, although if there were, Merlin would take that moment, and use it wisely. He has no plan, no thoughts, and certainly no idea whatsoever of what is carrying on outside. He does not even know whether the king and the prince still cling onto the conscious weight of this world. They are strong men, he fathoms. They will not have fallen to the depths needed to destroy their faith in their kingdom.

Faith. That is the one thing that the sorceress has failed to consider, in her conquest for the deaths of the elder Pendragon, and the one boy who could stop her succeeding. Faith, and hope. And Merlin, still a young man, although so much more powerful that the sorceress, is the one person who could draw upon that lack of depression in order to save the kingdom.

A moment later, he feels himself begin to heal. Without even speaking the words that were once so necessary for the casting of any sort of spell, his body begins to close up the wounds that he has sustained, replicating the blood over again. It hurts like the worst form of magical torture possible, although there is nothing that the boy can do but sit and wait until he is relieved of the weakness that had been so unwillingly forced upon him. He already feels stronger. Stronger, and most determined to continue on this self-proclaimed quest, to destroy the woman who once wanted him to join with her. We could be so great together,she had said, although his powers are only to be used for the benefit of those who need it most, not for neglect and hatred. He will never give into her.

Merlin forces himself to sit up, underneath the shield that had done so much good, and protects him from the falling debris of the stone wall, hiding him in this cavern. However, he cannot fail to keep this protective covering at the same potency, or the boulders will continue to fall, through the non-existent protection. Once again, the very survival of his magic has protected him. The young warlock would have died a thousand times over, if not for him being different to everyone else, and the fate of Camelot would have been sealed much prior to this time.

He practically scrabbles to his feet, terrified that, at any moment, his magic will weaken, and there will be no way for him to protect himself against the bloody onslaught. Regardless of his paranoia, the barrier holds, and he is safe to stand. Merlin presses his hands flat against the stone, looking for some weak spot; a point that he can use against the overall effectiveness of his dark tomb. Closing his eyes, the darkness becoming even more prominent, although he cannot see to that, he uses nothing but the power that he has again drawn on to search out the best place to strike. Tendrils of imaginary golden light touch the dense surfaces around, making haste through the tiny gaps between the ill-fitting boulders, and searching for the vitally weakest point, which will be the escape. Because he can do no good trapped in here, whether the witch believes him to be dead or not.

After several moments of nervous waiting, prompting the seekers to pinpoint the best spot, his eyes snap open, and the light, that only he can see, gathers around a small opening to the lower right hand side of his surroundings. The visible daylight shining through means that the gap is just enough. Golden sparks die as they touch the rock. Crouching, his fingers find the hole, forcing tiny chippings of rock out as his broken nails touch the sides, in order to release maximum power. The incantation he whispers is out loud, rather than in his mind. He wishes to force all the power he can into this one.

But there is the constant risk that his shield will fail. By restraining himself in that respect, all the magic that he can is summoned into the new spell… Forcibly retracting the barrier from about him. If he does not time it perfectly, then he will be crushed. Closing his eyes once more, he calls upon his other senses to tell him when to strike. Only the right moment will be accepted. Any other time, without warning, and he will most likely be killed. The risk is so great, but it is a chance that he will gladly take.

Outside, there is no battle being fought, even regarding the warrior king's past as a battle tactician. Camelot had been such a strong nation, now it is void of magic – Like the king. Strange, at the moment when he could have needed magic to heal himself, he would not show any weakness whatsoever. The minutes pass almost in silence, save for his weakened breathings as he troubles to stand upon those feet that have seen him through. The woman stands, arms folded across her chest, watching him with a smirk in her eyes. She loves seeing him like this. It returns her to a state of plenty, of power, of the situation and standing that she once held, before he ripped that so sharply and cruelly from her, and every other sorceress and warlock the kingdom over.

"If you are going to kill me…" Uther mutters, although he almost cannot bring himself to complete the sentence. He would give his life for his son's time and time again, although he could not bear to think that she would go back on her word to him. Nimueh merely laughs, knowing exactly what he was thinking.

"The boy's manservant is already dead and fortunately buried, hassle-free. Your life is of so little importance to me, Uther Pendragon. I could crush you like a bug, right at this moment. But I think that it is more fitting for you to suffer, as you have made your kingdom suffer. I am sure that a large majority of your subjects would be here to watch you breathe your last, if they were so able…" The cold smirk that tugs at the corners of her perfectly painted lips remains, her eyes blank and emotionless in the pale sunlight that glimmers across the surface of the lake surrounding them. "Yet I grow tired of my little game. You will die."

Uther raises both his hands in both a gesture of peace and to hold her in her tracks. He is not prepared to sacrifice himself just yet.

"How do I know that you will keep you word? That you will save Arthur's life, if you take mine… If one man must die to save another, then my life will spare that of my son. But I want your vow." He demands a price of her, although one that she is willing to pay. Taking his life will ensure that Arthur becomes the next king of Camelot, and he will most certainly bring magic back to the stale kingdom. And she gets to witness the death of her most hatred-filled enemy.

"Done…" The single word is uncaring, dropping her arms and extending one hand slowly towards him. The king does the same, believing her to want to shake on their makeshift deal, although tongues of light splay from her wrist before he can grasp her hand. He wants to pull away, although the power will not let him. He is apprehensive; scared, even.

Licking his skin, the fragments of light flicker around his hand, binding around his thumb and fingers. He looks up. The same light is touching her fingers, wrapping them both together, in an unbreakable vow of the promise made. The king will perish to save the life of the prince.

"You have my word. My word is my bond." Nimueh's words are almost lazy, withdrawing her hand backwards, and snapping the tendrils of light as they begin to fade away. Uther glances down at the palm of his hand. Scarred in the weathered skin, as though the remnants of a dagger's strike, is a worn couple of lines, intersecting through the centre to form a visible cross of rough, white skin. Yet he feels no pain. Nimueh raises her hand, the hand that had been touched by the magic, to reveal an identical symbol. "My word is my bond." She repeats, forcing back the smirk as sparks appear at her fingertips. Uther cowers backwards, just managing to remain standing.

"Then do it."

"Felecio, incantartum!" She screams, without a moment's delay, her words practically drowned out by the second crack of thunder… Which is accompanied by a sharp crackle, and the sound of a dramatic explosion from the opposite side of the clearing. A rift appears to open, shattering the stone grave that had contained the supposedly lifeless body of the boy, and he stands there, entirely unhurt. Having not directly seen the manservant cast the spell, Uther believes that the ensuing lightning was the purpose behind the explosion, although that thought is shattered to dust as both magicians raise their game, curses spat out against the darkening sky.

"Oculus flagmento!" Beads of fire, shooting through the atmosphere, rain down upon the small form of the warlock, although he brushes them away, and they transform into harmless flakes of snow as they descend. He does not look at the king. Merlin's face is the picture of a blank, emotionless canvas. Uther's mouth is agape, disbelieving. All this time, the warlock has been the manservant… Yet this is not the time to cut in.

"Sectos." Calmly, quietly, Merlin casts the spell that he knows she will have no resistance to. In a blinding flash of light and a scream of revenge, she barely has time to formulate the shield around her, before the spell contacts. Uther, already averting his eyes, is saved from the magnesium-bright sparks that flicker out of existence after a moment, but Merlin does not need to look away. That formidable shield protects from everything.

When the thick smoke clears, evaporating into the atmosphere above, the two are alone. Nimueh is gone.

Uther chokes out a couple of words, which Merlin only just makes out, through the thick, heavy silence.

"Is she… Is she dead? Did you kill her?" He does not yet question the magical ability that he just witnessed, first hand. He would never have believed it to be true, if he had been told the fact, rather than looking on in awe and disgrace.

"No." He replies. She had managed to bring up the defence just in time. "But I think I made her angry…" The young man pauses for a moment, unwilling to suggest anything before the king, and not wishing to bring up the concept of his blatant treason until Uther finds sense to do so. Clearly, it is not yet the opportune moment, and the king is biding his time carefully.

The skyline has darkened as the two have composed themselves, and it is clear that Nimueh is not happy one bit. She no longer will settle for one death. She wants them both buried, and by her own hands.

"Very angry indeed…"

A/N.
Kudus for reviews, but I won't force you to, i.e. Don't expect me round your house with a baseball bat if you don't. XD
My super-awesome plot kicks in next chapter. I promise you, it really does!