19. Part 1: Grief

("Ten Months Later" from Refined by Fire)

Arthur resisted the temptation to spur his mount to a faster gait, knowing how foolhardy that was, riding through the forest at midnight. The sound of Merlin's horse behind him helped him control his calm.

Hold on, Father, we're coming.

The irony was as sour as the aftertaste of the feast-wine in his mouth - bringing Merlin back to Camelot to save the life of the man who'd condemned him to death. Arthur shook his head to clear it.

"What happened?" Merlin's voice said, closer than he expected, and he flinched – feeling his friend's steadying hand for a moment at his elbow. "Arthur?"

"We had a feast tonight." He couldn't see more of Merlin than a faint outline in the darkness, an occasional flash of moonlight through branches and budding leaves overhead, but the younger man hummed as though Arthur's statement carried no surprise for him.

An incongruous wave of warmth swept through him at the thought that Merlin had remembered it was his birthday, even though he had no duties or responsibilities connected with the day anymore. It made him feel just a bit lighter.

"My father hired a troop of entertainers," Arthur continued, trying to hold on to that warm feeling as another ripple of nausea and dizziness lapped through him. "One knife-thrower attempted assassination."

Merlin's breath hissed sharply between his teeth, and Arthur felt his hand again, as if he might have missed – and Arthur might have neglected to mention – a wound of his own.

"No – I'm fine," Arthur told him. "It was a trick – a tainted apple." He clenched his teeth and his right fist atop his thigh at the thought that the gleeman had succeeded in that part of their plan so easily, challenging his courage to stand the target for his knives. "He came to my room after the feast. I had dismissed Orryn, he was trying to…"

Arthur swallowed hard. He hated the blurred sense of reality, the helpless instinct to cooperate, the clumsy way the new fuzzy-haired servant handled him and his clothing… and someone he was close to was hurt, because he wasn't aware enough to help.

"And then," Merlin said quietly.

"My father came also," Arthur said. "We'd had a disagreement earlier…"

Uther wanted to raise that levy, and Arthur opposed the decision. It seemed almost trivial, now. Agonizingly mundane.

"I don't even know what he was going to say," Arthur realized. I'm sorry I was wrong or you are wrong and you will submit.

The first jolt of energy at finding a stranger approaching with a bared blade in such restricted chambers had died so suddenly, leaving Arthur slouched on the floor, hardly able to keep the hilt of his sword in his hand. He'd seen his father fight before, and not too terribly long ago, but it was close quarters and the assassin determined. Even knocked down, with the king standing over him with the sword, he'd managed to produce a knife…

"In any case, my father took the knife intended for me, in the chest," Arthur concluded slowly. "Gaius said the blade might have touched his heart." And my father is dying. "He can't do anything, but maybe magic…"

"All right." So casually spoken, Arthur wasn't sure the sorcerer truly understood the situation.

"Merlin, I can't promise – anything. I can't promise anything will change, that you can come out of exile… If this works and he wakes and we tell him–" Arthur caught his breath as they emerged from the dark cover of the woods to the moonlight on the citadel.

"Maybe it's better if you didn't," Merlin suggested. "At least that it wasn't me, specifically? But. Arthur, I can't… promise anything, either. Except my best."

Arthur nodded, his throat too tight for words; when his father was healed, then they'd deal with his acceptance of how.

It was eerily familiar, traveling the halls and stairs with Merlin at his side. And yet so surreal at the same time, to do so at night, with the younger man silent and hidden, and Arthur's father…

He burst into the king's bedchamber without knocking, startling both Gaius and Guinevere, on either side of the large bed, into straightening. She tried to stuff a wad of bloodied bandage behind her back, a look of consternation on her face. A pang of sick heartache shot through him at the sight, but he forgot her entirely a moment later as Gaius hurried to intercept him.

"Gaius?" he managed, before his throat closed off.

Something about the physician's demeanor – betraying more concern for Arthur than for Uther, that wasn't right – something about the raised eyebrow, the sternly checked emotion, the deepened lines of stress and exhaustion, told him.

Even before he looked past Gaius to his father's body, covered with the sheet up to his chin. His face framed by the pillow, serene and white, hair brushed back… told him.

He halted, for one earth-shattering moment, and his whole world changed.

Dimly he heard Gaius. Too much bleeding. Couldn't stop the bleeding. So, so sorry, sire.

Too late.

One step closer, two. To see his father's face more clearly. To hear the last words he'd said, lying there in Arthur's arms – too weak to lift him. Too dazed and horrified to lift his voice sufficiently for the guards… who after all were dead in the corridor by the assassin's hand.

It's my time.

No, you can't die.

I know you will make me proud, as you always have. You will be a great king.

He spoke aloud, "I'm not ready."

No one said, You have been ready for some time, Arthur.

Distantly he was aware of Guinevere approaching him, hands now empty, taking him in her arms. He felt her shudder with quiet weeping, and understood that it was for the sake of her love for him.

But in an odd way, it felt like someone else.

Standing there. Someone else, lying in the bed. Because no one was lying in the bed; his father was commanding, authoritative, the weight of his presence palpable, undeniable.

Gone. Not here. Somewhere… else.

Arthur realized that Gaius no longer stood in front of him. Guinevere had released him and retreated past the edge of his vision. His feet moved, carrying him to a seat in the chair at the bedside, and then no further.

He breathed, and time passed, and the candles flickered. But nothing changed.

His father was gone. He was an orphan; that thought didn't frighten him as it had as a child.

He was free, but as a boat cast adrift.

And at the same time, locked finally into the responsibility of a kingdom. If he made a mistake, there would no one to give him that look of disappointment. Also, no one to say with authority, I'll take care of this.

The room was still. The night was black. He was alone.

"There were things I should have said – I wanted to say – and never did. I wanted to be like you. I wanted to make you proud. And then – I was glad I wasn't like you, and I wanted to force you to recognize that. I wanted your respect. And then… I wish we could have been friends, Father. I wish…" So many things.

An echo of last words – Know this, Arthur, I've always loved you.

Arthur leaned his elbows on his knees, clasped his hands, leaned his forehead on his fingers. Closed his eyes to make his world smaller than the room. So small, so manageable. But, not so easy to deny entrance to reality.

He wanted to scream, or run away, or throw up. Anything to rid him of the painful lump that swelled and smoldered in his chest, scalded his throat. But it wouldn't change anything. This pain could only be endured, until it consented to recede.

So he endured.

Details occurred to him, things that would need to be done. Dismissed to someone else can see to that.

Are you with Mother now? Are you happy? Are you telling her everything she missed?

Have you finally, all the gods send it so, found peace?

19. Part 2: Grief

("Who Owns Magic" from Revelations)

In the eighteenth year of the reign of King Arthur of Camelot and Albion (of Brytannea), Merlin the sorcerer wrote a lengthy missive to his sovereign, found in his chambers after his disappearance, transcribed as follows:

Dear Arthur. Don't be mad at me. I know what I'm doing, truly. You don't need me anymore, not really, Albion is united so there's nothing important left for me to fix. We both know why I was doing it, anyway. A fool's errand, right?

The girl I met last week is an enchantress. She means to lock me up in a tree or a cave – what I see of the future keeps changing, I guess she hasn't made up her mind yet. She doesn't know I know.

Arthur, I'm not going to fight her, I'm going to let her. She can't use any magic she takes from me, and quite honestly I'm looking forward to hours and hours of rest, uninterrupted by dreams. You know.

You are still and will always be the Once and Future King. You will be there for your land and your people when they really need you – and I will be there for you when you really need me. I promise.

It was signed: Yours, Merlin.

…..*…..

"Gaius… Gaius."

"How can I bear this? He's always been there for me, I can't get used to not seeing him. His smile, and that light in his eyes when he was happy. He was my conscience, too, Gaius, I relied on his simple wisdom so much."

"Is he with you? Is he dead? We can't find that girl – damn her – so I don't know… I don't know… Is he gone, or just…"

"We all miss him. It's not just me. Everyone loved him. And without his body, we can't even – really – have a funeral. Maybe a memorial, though…"

"I was thinking of Camlann the other day, again. How saved my life. And we've had peace – well, mostly – since then. I wish… I just wish I could have saved his life, you know? But if… if he thinks that this is his peace…"

"He promised that he'd be there, when I really needed him. I guess, since he's not here… I'll just have to keep on, the way we would've if… And just, never forget him."

"I miss him so much already."

19. Part 3: Grief

("The Liftlic" from Something Completely Different)

1.9 (Excalibur)

Seated on the cold hearth in his chambers, Arthur bent over his knees, eyes squeezed shut, arms slowly losing sensation in a tight band around his shins. Misery threatened to pull him apart – radiating hotly from a place just below his breastbone.

Heartache was the least of it. Loss and regret only half. Responsibility and all that came with it would press him til he couldn't breathe, like a boulder on his chest that couldn't be displaced.

He was king.

Expected, for all his life, but not like this. Not so abruptly and violently. Not while he'd been sleeping and his father fought the challenger, the mysterious Black Knight, for him – and lost. And the challenger dead also – long dead, according to Gaius.

Whom he could no longer trust, since the old man had drugged him to prevent him following through on the challenge he'd issued. The challenge his father had fought – and lost.

His heart pulsed with loneliness, and another sob strangled him.

A different sort of weight settled across his shoulder-blades, a strong and comradely arm, coaxing him to lean, to rest – and without bothering to open his eyes to identify the person who'd dared enter his private sanctum to disturb and assuage his grief, he obeyed.

His weight was supported. His forehead found the crook of someone's neck, and the warmth and presence of a strong lean flank against his side – silent and unassuming – released his tears.

He wept for what he'd never had. He wept for what never would be. He wept with a child's self-pity, with a man's knowledge of his own imperfection and the consequences of his mistakes that his people would bear. It exhausted him, and cleansed him.

And only then did he wonder who. Not Gaius. Not Leon, or any of the others – not even Gwen.

Arthur inhaled hay and sunflowers, and relaxed still further on the exhale. Oh, of course. Maybe it was his loneliness, more than any conscious word, that had called out – and this one would understand loneliness, the air-spirit whom he'd freed from enchanted imprisonment in a faraway oak tree.

Merlin's fingers were slowly combing and petting his hair, and it was soothing. He said in a low voice that held no merriment at all, "What happened?"

Arthur sighed. Reached to wipe his eyes, and straightened away from Merlin's arm and fingers, speaking in awkward, jerky sentences with long pauses. "My father was killed this afternoon. A stranger came, three days ago. Wanted a duel, to the death. One of my knights was quicker – and the second day, my father held me back from taking the repeated challenge. Someone else died, and today… Today my father fought and died in my place. I didn't even know it til it was over."

"And now you are king," Merlin said, with the same soft understanding.

Arthur made a sound that was almost another sob, and twitched something like a shrug. "I'm not going to be a good one. I can't be good enough. I'll never be what he was, and you know I want to change things, but there are risks with any change and people will be hurt and everyone will doubt me and question me, and that might weaken the kingdom and there might be wars…"

Merlin exhaled through his teeth, not really a shushing noise, something unusual but still calming. He breathed deeply and slowly, and Arthur found himself matching those breaths. He wiped his eyes clear again and no more tears blurred his vision.

19. Part 4: Grief

("The Last Dragonlord" from Kingdom Games: A Game of Two Kings)

"You saved my life!" Arthur said in remorseful astonishment, then glanced up and down the green aisle of the labyrinth they were in for any sign of their attacker.

Merlin didn't bother; he trusted Arthur to protect them.

"Yeah!" Will gasped, flat on his back on the ground. "Don't know what I was thinking…"

Merlin knelt to lay his hand on his friend's chest, the arrow shaft in the curve between thumb and forefinger. He closed his eyes and concentrated.

"Can you do anything for him?" Arthur said in a low voice.

Will gasped and grimaced.

"Will," Merlin said, fighting for calm. "Can you hear me?" His friend's brown eyes met his. Pain there, but awareness remained. "It's right through your heart."

He heard Arthur's breath hiss through his teeth, and the prince stood and stepped back, giving Merlin and Will privacy, while standing guard.

"The arrow is blocking its own holes, now," Merlin continued, striving for the manner that Gaius used when dealing with patients. "You're not losing too much blood. But if I try to pull it out-" by hand or by magic – "I'll rip your heart in pieces."

"Then leave it!" Will wheezed.

"That'll give you minutes, only." Tears dripped from Merlin's chin. He found Will's hand and held it tight.

"Merlin," Will panted. "Merlin!"

"I'm here," he said. His magic rioted through his veins, and there was no outlet.

"You're a good man," his friend told him, "a great man. One day, your prince is going to be a great king. Make it happen."

"I will," Merlin swore.

A pained smile flitted across Will's face. "It was boring without you," he said. Tension relaxed from his body. "It was good to see you again." All that was left was his grip on Merlin's hand.

"You, too," Merlin said. Stupid, inadequate.

Will's face twisted in a last spasm of pain, then was still.

The internal connection that told Merlin he was mere inches from Will faded, faded… Merlin huddled over on the pain that remained in his own heart, til his forehead rested on Will's shoulder, and he shook with the effort of controlling his sobs.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Merlin tensed as a figure strode around the corner of the labyrinth, sword drawn, long blonde hair rippling over the chainmail. He threw up his hand, shouting, "Arthur!"

The prince took one long step to put himself between Merlin and Morgause, lifting his weapon. Balinor tensed also, but Merlin didn't know whether his father would choose to a defense of steel or of magic.

She put out her free hand and spoke, and Merlin recognized the selfsame killing spell Nimueh had tried a year ago. Merlin leaned into the shield he tossed up in front of Arthur–

Except she hadn't spoken to curse the prince.

Merlin stumbled, desperately trying to spread the shield, pull it, stretch it, and heard his father grunt as the spell hit him also.

His chin collided with the clay.

In the blurry distance he heard Arthur call his name. Sunlight glittered from the prince's sword as he spun it, moving to engage the sorceress. She was trained in sorcery but dressed as a warrior. He should have realized that Morgause would want to cripple him and best Arthur with the sword. Of course she'd want to pit her skills against the growing reputation of Camelot's new prince.

He blinked at the fog covering his eyes. His magic spun and shifted inside him, begging to be used, to defend and to save. He held his breath, and the magic rushed to his head – it felt his skull was splitting right down his forehead – his eyes cleared. He only needed to see, to fight.

The insistent drone of a colony of bees in his ears was punctuated by the clang-clang-rasp of swordplay. He focused on Arthur and Morgause – who seemed to be fighting entirely without magic. He turned his head to find Balinor without losing Arthur, and a shadow fluttered toward them from a side avenue.

A black-skinned warrior flowed toward them, raising his crossbow. He fired at Balinor – Merlin caught the bolt dead in midair as Balinor gasped and flinched.

Myror's attention flicked to Merlin, and he raised one eyebrow and nodded, a bizarrely civilized tribute to a worthy enemy. He fitted another bolt into the bow, pointed-aimed-fired as swift as thought.

"Merlin!" Balinor rasped, twitched toward him.

The bolt froze before him.

Myror frowned at him, took two steps closer. "Death does not have to be difficult, or slow," he said aloud.

Merlin! see to Arthur! Balinor ordered. I will handle this!

His hands and feet were nerveless, his arms and legs sluggish. He pushed himself up to his knees as Arthur pressed Morgause sharply into the hedge-wall, raised his sword for a killing-blow – she twisted away, fast as a snake, and kicked the back of his knee.

Arthur dropped, and Morgause struck.

Merlin flung out his hand, freezing her weapon in place. Arthur flinched in pain, but grabbed the blade in his gloved hands as she thrust her weight on her weapon and snarled. He heard his father scuffling with the assassin, but the connection he felt to Balinor shone within him, so he didn't worry – and he didn't look.

"Cume–" Merlin whispered – even his tongue was slow! – "Cume theoden!"

It was nothing more than a burst of breeze and dust, but it was unexpected, and Morgause stumbled back, far enough that Merlin slammed a protective wall into place, trapping her in the aisle and separating her from the prince.

She slapped it angrily, unable to reach Arthur, who climbed slowly to his feet, his sword and hers now both in hand. She placed her palms against the hardened air, and her eyes glowed golden. Merlin put one hand down on the earth and pushed against her efforts until she released her force. The sorceress glared at each of them in turn, then spun and sprinted down the corridor, around the corner, out of sight.

Merlin sighed, pulled his feet under him, and straightened.

And his connection to Balinor fractured.

He turned so fast he lost his balance, and his father, who was near enough to touch, tipped backward into him.

They were falling – blood on Balinor's sword in Myror's hand, a foot of the steel reddened and dripping – he clutched his father and screamed his fury at the assassin.

Myror was dead before his feet left the ground, his spine shattered in more than one place. His body fluttered backward and bounced off the hedge at the end of the row.

Balinor and Merlin crumpled to the ground, Merlin immediately sealing off the center of the hub to shield them both indefinitely. He eased his father down, kneeling beside him as pins-and-needles pain filled his body – arms, legs, soul. He put his hand over the blood-soaked hole in Balinor's shirt and began to speak the healing spell.

"No!" Balinor coughed, catching at his hand and interrupting the spell.

"I can save you!" Merlin protested urgently, trying to free his hands from his father's grip.

"Merlin, listen to me!" His father coughed again, and blood flecked his lips. "We cannot all survive victorious. I knew I would die today…"

"Please," Merlin pleaded, tears blurring his eyes. "I can't do this alone." He was not ready for this. Not prepared. Always he had Balinor's warm presence behind him, to comfort, to guide, to instruct. "Let me–"

"No, you mustn't use your magic for this," Balinor said, and Merlin knew it would be impossible to heal his father against his will – healing magic needed the cooperation of the patient, especially for a serious or fatal injury, he had learned this from Gaius. His father coughed again, laid his head down on the packed earth. "Use it to save yourself, save your prince."

"Father, please," Merlin sobbed, unashamed of his tears. "Don't–"

"Promise me," Balinor whispered. "You will remember what I taught you, you will tame your magic to the precepts you learned – for healing, for protection, for good."

"I promise – but, please, I am strong enough–"

"I have seen so much in you that makes me proud," his father sighed, raising a blood-covered hand to Merlin's shoulder. "I know you will continue to make me proud." He smiled at Merlin, and the light and life left his eyes.

"I'm sorry," he mumbled. "I'm sorry. Father…"

Healing, protection, good. Make me proud. How could he dishonor his father by doing any less?

It was too much. He hunched over, sobbing. He threw his head back, screaming. His every instinct wanted to lash out, unleash his rage.

Calm down, now. Easy. Merlin. Sympathy and comfort and love throbbed through his link with Arthur, golden and strong. We'll figure it out.

He trusted, and wept.