10. Part 1:Trail of Blood
("Time Was" from About Time)
One day Arthur calls Merlin from work. Don't come by the shop, everyone's going out for drinks and he'll catch a ride with one of the others.
Merlin goes back to the apartment they share since Arthur's return from Avalon. Sits and listens to the silence.
Not quite silence. Because he thinks. Arthur forgives him, but he doesn't want him. Doesn't need him. Because he's useless, bound to fail again, eventually.
Is failing.
He opens the freezer for a single-serving microwave meal, and ends up with the half-bottle of Crown, instead. He doesn't dilute it with Coke. And he's on his second unmeasured drink, when Arthur calls again.
"Where are you, I thought you were coming, too?"
Something twists in his chest like it's trying to unwind. He was wrong, Arthur does miss him and want him around – but he's angry at that relief too, and nervous about being awkward around Arthur's co-workers. Especially the history-buff boss, because Merlin's never sure how he's going to react to some of the absurdity that comes when someone's only read about this war or that in books – and maybe he'll reveal too much, the way Arthur's too controlled to. Especially the girls, who might be as perceptive as girls can be, and might recognize his jealousy and wonder. He wonders what Arthur's told them about his relationship with Merlin.
High school friend home from military deployment. PTSD.
He doesn't commit to showing up, but after finishing his second drink, he goes. To prove that he's not sitting home alone getting drunk and stewing in his emotional confusion – maybe to force that to be true.
When he comes in the door, Arthur's group is the loudest and happiest in the place. He stands in a dark corner by the entrance, unnoticed, and watches. There's a smile on his face to see Arthur enjoying himself, but it's twisted.
It feels a bit like, watching Arthur with the knights. After their commoner friends had been officially promoted and recognized. And Guinevere raised to queen. And Merlin still fighting inner demons of truth and deception and foreknowledge and threat, while they all laughed and teased.
He knows, if he joins them, the dynamic will change. The atmosphere will fracture and cool, and everyone will try to make him feel welcome, even though they all – except perhaps Arthur – know he's not. He never has fit in with Arthur's friends, and he never will. Arthur doesn't need Merlin's insolence to take him down a notch, connect him with his subjects. Evidently doesn't need him to be a magical shield, either – there hasn't been a single glimmer of malevolent magic, or even more ordinary danger, since he's been back.
Arthur starts to turn, with his head up like he's scanning the crowd, and Merlin ducks out before he's finished the turn.
He leans against the rough brick wall outside the door, and tries to slow his breathing. Feeling the pounding rhythm of the music through the masonry, feeling too vulnerable under the street-light. He thinks he got out without Arthur noticing him.
Numb and tired and sick, he goes home.
At the balcony, the second-floor external entrance to their apartment, he inhales pine brush and distant stars and thinks about jumping. The feeling of disconnect and freedom, the sudden stop to everything.
Inside, he retrieves the bottle of Crown from the kitchen counter. It makes more sense to finish the last swallow than put it away for next time, when there's not enough there to be good for anything – and then it's more than a swallow, but it's fine and Merlin finishes it anyway.
Then he has to take a piss. And washing afterwards, in front of the sink, he reaches to open the cabinet.
Something's missing… his straight razor isn't there.
He stares for a minute, trying to think clearly. No, he hasn't done anything with it, which must mean… Arthur. Which only makes him mad, right now. With Arthur, for daring to remove something he clearly considers a temptation – with himself, for making Arthur think it's necessary.
Just to check, he goes to the kitchen. And, the knives are gone, too. The anger heightens – the sick feeling twists in his belly and rises to drown his heart in the expanding black hole. There's more rage than grief, so the emotion is locked inside his throat against verbal expression, and it hurts. Without thinking, he grasps the empty glass bottle of Crown and hurls it at the wall with all his strength.
It shatters.
He's not sure why that surprises him. Each piece glitters in the carpet, gorgeous and mesmerizing and deadly.
Merlin thinks of Arthur coming home. After midnight, tired and buzzed and unaware, kicking off his shoes by the door and… Merlin drops to his knees to begin picking up the pieces.
Because he's always done what he's supposed to. He's always been responsible. Always the one picking up the pieces.
Amber liquid clings to some in sticky drops. He's not even aware that he's looking for one, until he finds it. In the sharp tinkling jumble, one. He pushes to his feet, takes the glass to the kitchen trashcan. Keeps the one.
Goes to the bathroom and shuts the door. It might be hours before Arthur gets home. And while minor scratches and bruises always heal for him at a normal rate, always a fatal wound closes too swiftly to allow the fatality.
If he cuts deeply enough, Arthur will never know it happened.
Merlin pinches the flat, smooth sides of the glass piece, sliding to a crouch with his back to the wall, next to the tub. Nausea fills him.
He knows he shouldn't. Knows he shouldn't need to. It's not normal, it's not healthy.
Neither is he.
He sets the sharp, clear edge to his skin and pushes, a bit. The pain draws up from his soul, from his heart, to that smaller spot on the inside of his forearm. A pain he can see and understand, a pain he chooses, which makes it bearable.
It's still, not about suicide. It's not even a cry for help, since he doesn't mean for anyone to know. At this moment, he is fully in control. What comes next, his decision and only his.
To be, or not to be.
He pushes harder, and shudders as his skin splits. Sharper pain, bright blood, sliding warm over cooler skin. Even, the sort of adrenalin rush that comes from possibly-imminent death. Skating that fine line, that for him doesn't exist, but his body doesn't know it.
Careful, careful. Too much, and the decision will be made, thumbs down.
He finishes the cut. Only one, and not long. Deep enough, but not endangering tendons or major nerve lines.
His fingers twitch, and he reaches his arm over the tub so the blood will trickle down. He can rinse it out later, before stumbling to his bed to sleep off the exhaustion of blood loss. Because if he falls asleep here, for sure Arthur will catch him and know. And what he fears about being his own worst nightmare, pushing Arthur away, will come true.
He watches for a minute, turning his arm so that the red stream has to choose a new route earthward, over his skin. It's throbbing past his elbow now, and the tension in his chest eases so that he can breathe.
But now there's guilt. And it's sour and too late, so he closes his eyes and lets his head thump against the wall behind him, feeling the detached drifting sensation begin. He meant it when he told Arthur, I'm sorry.
He means it this time, too.
The slam of the apartment door startles him aware – no uncertain question of dreaming - and Arthur calls his name.
He straightens a bit, feeling stiff and sluggish at once. Blood is drying in runnels down the tub's slant to the drain. But his body has slumped, propping his arm too high, and so there's more blood down his elbow, dripping on his shirt and jeans and the linoleum floor, glistening dark red patches spreading. It hasn't stopped – it hasn't healed – Arthur is home too early and the irony chokes Merlin's startled gasp.
Outside the door Arthur says, "Merlin – the hell is up with this glass? Where are you – are you here?"
He panics, trying to reach up from his position on the floor for the lock on the inside of the bathroom doorknob. It's beyond his fingertips, he's too slow and not strong enough to push himself up to it – and Arthur bursts in, knocking him back.
One brief glimpse of Arthur's face as he sees the blood – horror, realization – and Merlin whirls away, trying to draw himself into a tighter ball. Trying to hide. Hide from the hurt in Arthur's eyes – he might as well have used the glass shard on him.
Arthur says his name again, and then a few helpless, sickened obscenities. Merlin hears him whip the hand-towel off its holder, then Arthur's body is crowding into Merlin's, fumbling for the arm to wrap it, to hold it.
And everything Merlin expects him to say – why would you do this, you're so stupid, this isn't the answer – doesn't come out.
Instead Arthur says, "I'm sorry."
And it's a sob, and Merlin doesn't understand. Even when Arthur uses his other arm to gather Merlin's awkwardness tight up to him, and another sob escapes.
"I'm so sorry, Merlin."
"Shut up," he tries to say to Arthur's collarbone. "Not your fault. Don't worry. It'll stop in a minute."
"I thought – I thought we were going to talk about this."
Dizziness lowers Merlin's inhibitions.
"I waited," he says thickly, then repeats so he'll be sure Arthur understands, "I waited, for you, so long… there's nothing left of me."
"I can't believe that," Arthur says, his arms and his jaw tight with tension.
Merlin ignores him. "You need someone strong and smart, and I'm not either, I'm – not okay. I'm useless to you, you're better off without me."
Arthur's grip tightens around Merlin's forearm so that it twinges and he gasps, pulling away – but he doesn't think Arthur even notices. His friend keeps his other hand on the back of Merlin's neck, keeps their faces close together so the blue flame of his gaze burns into Merlin's soul, a cleansing fire.
"Never say so," he commands. "I need you, Merlin, and I daresay I always have. Remember how I was when we first met? Pretty useless, myself."
Merlin huffs. He wants to agree, with heavy sarcasm; he wants to argue back, Never.
"You were patient with me, right? So how can I be anything but patient with you? We've got time, don't rush it, don't expect too much of yourself. You said you're not okay, but I think you're doing pretty damn fine for what you've been through. Don't hide from me, Merlin, and don't fear me. We'll get through this – I'm not going anywhere."
"Don't say that." Merlin summons an anger-strength sufficient to shove Arthur back against the toilet, though he keeps his hand tightly around Merlin's throbbing forearm. "Don't say that. You don't know."
"I'm not going to leave you, Merlin," Arthur says, his intensity gentled by Merlin's, somehow.
"You don't know," Merlin mumbles. "You don't know…"
"Okay," Arthur concedes, probably remembering the uncertainty of life at least and maybe destiny also. "But you don't either. Make the most of the time we've got, huh? And nothing but death separates us."
"Promise?" Merlin says, feeling stupidly pitiful.
"Yes. And you've got to promise, no tempting fate?" Arthur lifts Merlin's towel-wrapped arm and his eyebrows, as much asking if Merlin can make the promise, as if he will.
Right now Merlin feels like he'd promise Arthur his soul, just to apologize. He really is handling Merlin's issues, quite well. And with no hint of an ulterior motive – no jesting about breaking in a new servant, no questions about the stability of Merlin's magic in relation to his mind. No metaphorical checking of his watch – how long d'ya think your nervous breakdown's gonna last?
It would be great to relax into Arthur's unconditional care and unshakable loyalty, for a change. Trust him.
"I'll do my best," Merlin sighs. And Arthur nods like that's good enough.
"In the meantime, Merlin, why…" He hesitates, and his tone changes, "Why, didn't you come have drinks, instead of…" Merlin thinks, this, but Arthur finishes with, "staying home? I know you don't have many close friends right now, and – these are good people. While we're waiting for the next step."
"I have to focus on you," Merlin tells him. The ache is receding, so he knows the cut is finally closing, but between blood loss and alcohol and the late hour, he's not filtering like he normally would. "Once. I thought about going back home where I was needed, and my best friend died. Once, I thought about getting married and she died. Once, I met my father. And before I could even think about bringing him back to my mother, spending time as a family, learning details of my heritage, he was killed."
Questions in Arthur's eyes. But he doesn't ask them – Merlin is grateful, but knows it'll probably come sometime. If they're going to talk.
"That was then," Arthur says. "And maybe…"
He hesitates, and Merlin pulls away from him again, opens the towel carefully to show smeared skin but no fresh blood. Arthur grimaces but doesn't stop him – probably he's seen how Merlin's body keeps him alive willy-nilly. He pushes himself up with an elbow on the toilet, yanks his bath towel down from the bar, and wets a corner of it under the faucet. Merlin watches him lean forward to begin cleaning the blood-smear from Merlin's skin.
"When I died," Arthur says, slowly but deliberately, and Merlin is distracted from remembered pain by the proof of Arthur's life here in front of him, touch and motion and look. "You lost more than anyone. Because I wasn't just your job, I was your… friend." He gives Merlin's face a quick glance, as if to be sure Merlin won't contradict him, but Merlin's too overwhelmed to say anything. "You made me your… reason for being. You had nothing to turn to."
The truth of his words aches on Merlin's soul like ice on a bruise.
"At the risk of sounding – of being – arrogant… You've done the same ever since. You've made waiting, your reason for being."
That's true. It resonates, how lost Merlin was, leaving Avalon – how confused he's been since Arthur's reappearance.
"Let's try something different, this time around?" Arthur says. He wads the damp bloodied towel in the sink – Merlin reminds himself to clean it with magic in the morning – and reaches down to grip Merlin's upper arms and pull him to his feet.
"Let's," Merlin manages.
Arthur steers him out of the bathroom. "Watch your feet, there's still glass," he says, before lowering Merlin to the futon. He lifts Merlin's feet and unfurls the blanket Merlin's been using over him. He runs a plastic cup of water in the kitchen, and brings it to balance on the carpet where Merlin can reach it.
Merlin relaxes, and looks at his arm. It's not bleeding, but there's still a red line, thick and angry, marking his skin. Not healed to an invisible scar. Maybe it's because, Merlin isn't exactly immortal anymore, now that he's not waiting. That's a sobering thought – he thinks it should stop him if he ever considers this again, over a talk with Arthur.
He listens to Arthur picking up more glass. Even, cursing him mildly – "Dammit, Merlin…"
It has a possessive sound that makes Merlin smile into the dim of the unlit living room. He resolves to take Arthur's advice. To let things happen in their own time. To not try to rush for a perfection in their relationship that's probably impossible anyway. They'll bicker and argue, sometimes, maybe even fight outright. But then, always listen. Practice patience, and renew commitment. It isn't fair to make Arthur the sole source of his happiness, or his mental health. Or blame him, then, for not being enough. No one person should be everything to another, even when it's Emrys and the Once and Future King. He's got to learn to make time and space in his life for other people, other pursuits, just as Arthur will…
"You all right?" Arthur says, standing by the light switch.
" 'M all right," Merlin murmurs.
The light flicks off and he can't see Arthur anymore, but he feels none of the panic - that somehow that means Arthur's disappeared.
Heading down the hall to the bedroom, Arthur says, "See you in the morning."
And even though he can't promise, Merlin believes him.
10. Part 2: Trail of Blood
("Rise of the Kraken"and "Homeward Bound" from Son of Poseidon)
"Sire-it's-coming-for-us!" Lancelot yelled, and Arthur's feeling of exultant almost-triumph fled so rapidly it left him gasping and cold and momentarily lost.
The great sea-monster was tipping the ice floe magically formed beneath it, to keep it where they could fight and kill it, in its haste and fury. How badly was it crippled from their attacks? If it got into the water, would it retreat and bide its time before it could surface again to target some innocent merchant ship months and months from now? Or would it drag their ship down immediately with it?
Tentacles curled toward them – but the head-body made no appreciable progress. Too slow from the ice underneath it, or unable without the appendages that had already been hacked off to do more than lurch and lean, held out of the water.
And – he estimated length and distance – none of the arms would be able to encircle the ship, just–
"Hatchets!" Arthur bellowed, yanking his own from his belt in the hollow of his hip.
The tentacles bumped the hull, scratched and slithered and writhed into view–
Three of them, reaching over the gunnel. From the corner of his eye he saw Lancelot abandon the helm to twirl an every-ounce-of-strength slash at the arm questing up the quarterdeck; Merlin turned, trying to freeze the kraken's limb for the captain with the magical use of the air element, Arthur thought. He heard the chirps and squeals of the mer-people's language strident and angry, down in the water and to his left but close, and figured to leave that arm to them.
And the middle third one. Maybe not as thick as a tabletop was round, but definitely sized like a tree-trunk. Up and over the rail, seeking wildly, blindly.
He ducked the grotesque appendage and leaped for the rail, intending to chop it off as short as he could, heedless of any damage he might cause to the ship.
The flesh split and oozed a thick blue-gray liquid Arthur assumed was its equivalent of blood. The arm was rubbery and resistant, but the hatchet was sharp and heavy. He raised his weapon, rising on his toes, and hacked at the limb as hard as he'd ever brought his sword down on an enemy shield.
Arthur drew back again – and found his focus drawn suddenly the hundred paces, if one were to pace at sea, back to the kraken's alien face atop the ice.
And it was looking at him.
He slashed – but the hatchet never found its mark, either to deepen an existing attempt at severing or at least cut a new wound to weaken it. Something struck his wrist and the long handle of the weapon so suddenly and violently it flew backward out of his hand.
Arthur spun with the motion, seeing the last six or eight feet of tentacle flail out of his range of vision.
As the axe spun past Merlin.
Who looked like he'd just that moment twisted to watch its flight, and had lost his balance – knees bending – body thumping down to land on his back on the deck.
Just lost balance, Arthur told himself, just breath knocked out…
Except for the gash opened in the side of Merlin's neck.
He scrambled across the yards of wet planking between them – the ship tilted as at least one of the tentacles found a hold and pulled – to see that the side of Merlin's neck had been cut wide open.
Not his jugular vein. Not his windpipe. But still…
Merlin's eyes, wide and scared, found his as the younger man gasped and choked with the shock of the wound. Blood slipped over fingers fumbling to gauge severity, maybe, or just in reaction, sliding away over the slanting deck-boards. He squirmed and his bare heels rubbed and thudded in involuntarily movement as Arthur tried to reassure, to stem the flow of blood, to still his panic.
"Merlin, hold still – you're not dying, do you understand me? You're bleeding but you're not dying – let me try to stop the–"
The blue of Merlin's eyes intensified, focused over Arthur's shoulder. His free hand scrabbled to grip Arthur's sleeve - as Arthur was seized from behind and dragged off Merlin and away.
His first thought was, Lancelot or a couple of the sailors, moving him so that–
He struggled – and his fingers met wet rubbery sea-flesh. Hundreds of tiny needles pricked him in a spiral around his ribs, and stuck. He cried out, and his boots left the deck, and Merlin half-sat, reaching a blood-smeared hand for him.
His right shin knocked the gunnel hard as the capturing tentacle forced simultaneous surrender and retreat, and his entire body seized with the sharp immediate pain. Fighting was useless, though his arms were free – he flew twenty paces into the air.
Now over water – now over ice.
Arthur yelped as the tentacle jerked to a halt in midair.
Blur of gray – Balinor's bearded face, fierce with battle-rage – the sea-king's upper body surged from the water bowed backward. His arm snapped forward and one of their harpoons – salvaged at some point during the fight evidently – shot through the air to pierce the tentacle holding Arthur.
The limb thrashed in reaction, and Arthur grabbed the harpoon reflexively for balance as the kraken dashed him down.
He cringed – braced – plunged into the sea. Instinctively holding his breath, he pulled and twisted the harpoon wildly, as the barbed suckers of the arm pulled and twisted at him and he thought, Blood in the water. Not a good thing.
The water was white all around them with the fury of the fight – then frothy pink. His lungs burned; he might have been inches from the surface or several fathoms by now, he couldn't tell. He couldn't see.
The shaft of the harpoon loosened in his grip, slid several inches freer – all at once the harpoon was free – and so was he.
Something large and solid and cold bumped his right shoulder – he twisted, panicked, and it pushed against his entire right side. He broke surface involuntarily and gasping for breath.
Floating on a small separate piece of ice.
He blinked and saw Balinor, head and shoulders above the waves – giving him a keenly appraising glance. He lifted his head, moved his legs to balance an upright position, and hefted the harpoon. The sea-king gave him a brief decisive nod – You'll be all right – then flipped and dove, heading toward the remaining arms to the near northwest.
Arthur's ice-boat bumped and grated on the larger flow, and he crawled without thinking to the greater mass, for safety and stability. His leg throbbed; though he didn't think it was broken, it was hard to stand, and he used the harpoon momentarily as a crutch to get him to his feet.
The arm he'd fought flopped blue blood and gore in the water, on the narrow rim of ice around the body-head.
He turned, arm-hand-fingers adjusting grip on the harpoon to position it suitable for spear-throwing. He knew nothing about the probable anatomy of such a monster, but between the eyes was always a good aim in his experience.
Arthur didn't hesitate, hurling the weapon with all his strength.
…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..
Merlin didn't understand what had happened, at first. He felt a glancing sting on his neck – and then his balance was lost on the heaving deck – and then his breath was lost when he landed on his back.
His neck hurt more with every second, every heartbeat.
His fingertips told him a confusing story of a gill-slit – I should be able to breathe, then – where liquid trickled out, rather than flowing in and through…
His body reacted apart from his confusion, as if he could physically scramble back from the pain and the – he checked his fingers – blood.
Wait, blood? He felt Arthur's hands and heard Arthur's voice and wanted to whimper like a child, Help me, save me – but the prince's words were calm and rational.
"You're not dying, do you understand me? You're bleeding but you're not dying."
Okay. Not dying – he believed and trusted Arthur – meant he could haul himself upright and keep on…
Movement caught his gaze and attention. Just over Arthur's shoulder and coming for him! a dripping, squirming tentacle.
There was no time for warning. There was no time for magic.
The tentacle snaked around Arthur's ribs and yanked him backward. Irritation, Merlin saw in Arthur's eyes, before the prince glanced down, and realization replaced it. Merlin reached for him – he flew backwards, struggling, crashing very nearly right through the gunnel.
Merlin fell back, gasping, blinking spots from his vision as blue sky and white cloud rocked above him, slashed with the dark lines of mast and boom and shroud. His hand – his neck – slippery with liquid agony. He clutched tighter, and it seemed to help.
He rolled to his side, getting his elbow under him. Lancelot and the sailors were a faint thought. He had to get… up on his knees… up on his – he tumbled back down, letting out a cry of pain.
Alright, then, he'd have to crawl. He made it to the gunnel and dragged his feet beneath him, straightened his knees – to see Arthur doing the same, a stone's throw from him and down on the edge of the ice.
And the prince had a harpoon. Puzzling, but good.
But. Merlin could see that his white shirt was shredded and blood-stained from the tentacle's inimical embrace. He could see that Arthur's balance was affected by his injuries, his situation precarious, in spite of the temporary release from the kraken's arm, flopping empty and gory near his feet.
It made him angry. It made him want to stop defending and holding, and instead attack, with Arthur.
Heat rose behind his eyes like staring into the sun just at the horizon too long. Heat rose in the center of his chest – he looked past Arthur arching his whole body backwards in anticipation of his cast, to the flat unfeeling eyes of the kraken. Maybe doomed – whether it knew it or not - but determined to cause as much death and destruction as it could, in dying.
If he were Balinor, he could call a storm, a storm of focused violence with lightning like the prince's black powder – he could – he could-
Arthur heaved the harpoon, his aim true.
Something like desperation, like temper, fired from Merlin's heart as well.
The soaring weapon burst abruptly into flame, flickering blue like lightning, red-yellow-white like the explosions.
But metal couldn't burn.
Comprehension wasn't necessary. Merlin felt his very will fly with Arthur's cast – urging it on, finding the mark of greatest vulnerability.
End this. Put the creature out of its misery. Prevent any further harm to human or mer-man.
The flesh of the kraken's head flash-melted when the harpoon struck. The monster reeled, and Merlin could not see so much as the butt of the shaft, so deeply buried was it, but smoke flickered from and looped around the great wound. Tentacles writhed; most were only stumps now.
Then the great central mass of the monster lurched, collapsed, shuddered. It squirmed to the right… at least two of the tentacles sprawled to stillness.
Merlin felt it was dying. The battle was over; this was the end. He could hear the sailors' cheers, wild and sharp with tension not yet fully released; he felt nothing but grim relief.
There was still one tentacle, though, between the ship and the creature, too close to Arthur for Merlin's liking.
"Arthur!" he rasped out, and the prince turned immediately. Merlin – one hand still sticky-tight to the side of his neck, made a quick motion with his other hand, before gripping the rail for balance again.
The human prince seemed to agree. He stepped back as the creature died slowly, and the tentacle curled, now retracting, now striking out aimlessly. A few of the sailors on the bow of the ship were calling to Arthur also – they had the rope ladder unfurled down the hull for him.
Sire. My lord. Return to safety. Come back.
Arthur dove shallowly into the water, swam a few awkward strokes, and reached the ship's side safely. Merlin watched him climb up – tired and sore, to judge by Arthur's movements, but he could see no specific weakness betraying a more serious hurt.
The sailors tipped him over the gunnel; he waded through their congratulatory shoulder- and back-slaps and leaned on the starboard-side ladder rails to slide rather than climb down.
"You all right?" he called to Merlin.
Merlin didn't want to nod, or speak. He only gave a little smile of acknowledgement.
"Was that you? Fire-magic?"
"I really…can't think about that, right now," he croaked, and Arthur nodded, his smile showing understanding and weary triumph.
"Arthur!" Lancelot called, relief in his voice, and Merlin turned toward the captain on the quarterdeck as Arthur answered.
"I'm okay."
"I can see the three long-boats, still afloat, beginning to row back, but not how many–"
"Merlin!" Arthur called from behind him, suddenly, urgently.
Just as he was turning – it felt like, someone had given Merlin a hearty slap on the back. But Arthur's voice did not sound close enough for him to touch Merlin, and he'd be surprised if the prince was so rough with him and – Merlin stumbled.
Strength and balance failed him at once, one hand still held to his bleeding neck. The gunnel was too low to catch him, rather aided in tripping him over.
He flailed, one-armed – but still fell.
Merlin felt no fear at the sudden close approach of the water, and the brief initial slap of the surface was a fond teasing welcome.
Sorry about that – still so clumsy – don't worry about -
The cool of water sliding past him as he sank felt like his mother's embrace, eased the pain in his neck. The deep and endless blue was soothing, and he relaxed into it, satisfied with the victory, and that his part in it was over.
Going home.
…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..
Arthur watched it happen with the horrified disbelief, the helpless disconnect of a nightmare.
The last mindless twitch of a tentacle-end where the death of the heart and brain hadn't quite reached. Arthur couldn't imagine that it had been intentional, but the coincidence was devastating.
Merlin knocked off-balance, stumbling into the rail, and tipping right over.
Arthur leaped for the gunnel where he'd disappeared, hearing the thudding of footfalls as sailors followed. "Merlin!"
The younger man remained submerged as the white water of his splash subsided. Arthur glimpsed white, half a fathom down – skin or shirt – then nothing. He lifted his head and saw only the three long-boats, toiling over the waves though still too far away to assist, no savior mer-men in the immediate area.
His muscles bunched, fully intending to hurl him over the side in rescue.
"Hold him!" Lancelot shouted the order. As captain of the ship, his sailors would probably obey him instinctively, over anything Arthur might have to say about it.
For the second time, Arthur was roughly grabbed, restrained – held back, pulled back, this time by the human hands and arms of the sailors.
"Get off!" he shouted. "Let me go! That's an order!" He heard his tattered shirt rip in several more places, and the marks on his body left by the sucker-barbs burned as they were rubbed.
The captain bellowed again, "Hold him! Arthur, no!"
Arthur didn't stop fighting to launch himself over the rail, but Lancelot blocked him, his breathing quickened from his rush down the ladder and across the deck.
"Sire, you can't," he said, his tone still managing to be quietly and respectfully commanding. "Forgive me, but I can't let you."
Arthur knew it for truth. Lancelot had to protect his crown prince even against the prince's wishes; he couldn't dive himself, as captain, or order his men to risk themselves, either. But no one else volunteered to make the plunge.
He struggled anyway. Merlin couldn't breathe. Hadn't reappeared.
If there was blood in the water, he couldn't see that either.
A/N: If you enjoyed this chapter, thank bigtimedreamer101 for reminding me I still had chapters to post for this one!