CHAPTER 12
The creatures, so Gaius informs them, are Dorocha - spirits of the dead. Knowing this helps them little. No mortal has ever survived their touch.
"My magic is useless against them," Merlin tells Arthur once they are alone. "I have never felt so powerless. When it came for me, I felt this emptiness. I couldn't breathe."
"Get some rest, Merlin." What else can Arthur say? "If those creatures return, we should be at our best."
The day passes, but it is only a brief reprieve before another death-filled night. The following morning, people flood in from the outer villages. They will house them for now, but Arthur knows this cannot last.
"Somewhere in all your books, Gaius, there must be something," he pleads with the Court Physician. "All I'm asking for is a way to fight them."
"If I am right," Gaius answers slowly, reluctantly, "and the veil between the worlds is torn, then there's only one path open to us. To travel to the Isle of the Blessed and repair it. For the tear to be created would've required a blood sacrifice. To seal will require another."
The solution is clear. If laying down his life will spare the people of Camelot, then that is what he must do.
"We ride before nightfall."
"Arthur-" Gaius tries to stop him, but he is already out of the room.
Of course Merlin tries to dissuade him.
"You can't do this."
Arthur strides down the corridor. "I've made up my mind."
Merlin follows doggedly a half step behind him. "There must be another way. Somewhere, somehow. Just give me some time."
Arthur stops abruptly, so that Merlin almost trips over him, and gestures outside the window. In the courtyard, yet more villagers are queuing up. "My people are suffering, Merlin. We don't have time."
It takes them two days to reach Daobeth, a once magnificent fortress that serves now as only a crumbling relic of times gone by. The first night camping they are lucky, with no attacks from any of the Dorocha. Now that they draw closer to The Isle of the Blessed, Arthur suspects their good fortune has run out.
"Pair off." He instructs his men. "Find any wood you can. Get the fires burning."
But as darkness draws in, so too do the Dorocha.
It is long since midnight when Gwaine throws the final log upon the dying embers of their campfire.
"Perhaps we should draw lots," Gwaine half-heartedly jokes. They have all been kept awake by the distant shrieks of the wispy figures. "See who goes to get more."
"I'll go."
Arthur, along with the rest of his knights, eyes Merlin doubtfully. "Are you sure you're the right person?"
He doesn't mean it as a slight on Merlin's courage, although he knows that's how the knights must hear it. He only means to offer his servant an out, given he has no magic to rely on any more.
But Merlin's response is easy-going and without hesitation. "Well, since when have you known how to collect firewood?"
The knights laugh, visibly relaxing at the blithe joke, and even Arthur dares hope as they venture together into the darkness that everything will turn out alright somehow.
"Merlin!"
The Dorocha emerges as if from nowhere, and Arthur drops his armful of firewood in favour of tackling his servant out of its path.
The spirit swoops ferociously above them, careening into the night sky with a furious howl, and Arthur yanks Merlin back to his feet.
"This way!"
They run through ancient passages, weaving deeper and deeper into the bowels of the castle. They find a spot to hide in one of the fortress rooms, but over the pounding of his own heart in his ears, Arthur can hear fast approaching wails. He shivers involuntarily.
"It's cold," he says defensively, at Merlin's questioning look. "You're not feeling it?"
Merlin shakes his head.
"You know, Merlin, you're braver than I give you credit for."
"Really? Was that a compliment?"
"Don't be stupid."
They huff quiet laughs, breaths misting in the air.
"All the things I've faced... I never worried about dying. Maybe somewhere deep down I knew there was someone out there watching my back."
Merlin nudges Arthur's shoulder with his own. "Magic or not, we will win. Together."
Arthur nods, willing himself to believe it. "They say the darkest hour is just before the dawn."
"Feels pretty dark right now."
"Well, it can't be long then."
And, almost as if it has overheard their hushed conversation, a lone Dorocha finds them. It sweeps into the room through the closed door, and Arthur's breath stutters, frozen, in his chest. He thinks of his kingdom, of his father, of Guinevere... and of Merlin. Merlin, who has stood with him until the bitter end. Merlin, who will never know what it is to live openly as his true self.
Merlin, who has just surged forward to meet the spirit head-on.
"NO!"
The Dorocha soars straight through Merlin, holding him mid-air for only a moment before flinging him away with a screech. He hits the opposite wall with a sickening thud, and slides bonelessly to the floor.
Blood roars in Arthur's ears. He barely registers the knights' arrival, or the lit torches they have brought with them to chase the creature away. His world has narrowed to the limp outline of his manservant against the decaying wall.
"Arthur? Arthur!"
Lancelot's face fills his vision.
"What happened? Where's Merlin?"
Arthur is unable to speak, so raises a hand instead, pointing. Lancelot turns to look, and curses at what he sees.
"It was the Dorocha," Arthur finally manages. "Merlin... he saved my life."
Lancelot hurries to Merlin's side. Ever so gently, he rolls the servant onto his back. Arthur sucks in a sharp breath.
He's dead.
His skin is frosted over, lips blue with cold. His eyes, wide and lifeless, stare out at nothing. Arthur forces himself to stare back and he imagines the irises flaring to life with gold sparks.
Just one more time, he thinks desperately. Please, Merlin...
Later, he will wonder if perhaps he has some of his own latent magical ability, because something does spark in Merlin's eyes. A flare of murky ochre, a far cry from Merlin's usual vibrant gold, so brief that for a second Arthur thinks he has imagined it. But then Merlin takes a shallow breath.
And another.
And another.
Arthur, able to breathe now that Merlin is, bellows, "He's alive!"
The knights, gathered in a huddle of silent solidarity behind him, look to their king disbelievingly. There is no time to explain anything now, and so Arthur barks out orders.
"Percival, take Merlin back to the campsite! Lancelot and Gwaine, start the fires! Elyan and Leon gather all the blankets you can find! We need to get him warmed up, now."
"I can't believe it."
It is Elyan who speaks first, once it is clear that Merlin is no longer in any imminent danger. The sun has fully risen now and the manservant is propped between Gwaine and Lancelot, swathed in blankets.
"When I saw him, all frozen like that, I thought for sure that he... well that he..."
The frost has melted from Merlin's face, but his skin remains a disturbing ashen grey no matter how close to the fire he sits. He has remained disturbingly unresponsive, saying nothing and barely moving, although his eyes follow them sluggishly around the campsite.
"Nah." Gwaine wraps an arm tightly around Merlin's shoulders. "Not Merlin. He's gonna outlive us all, I reckon."
The knights murmur a soft agreement, and Arthur is grateful that none of them question the circumstances of the servant's survival too deeply. He thinks even Merlin himself would have had a hard time talking his way out of this one.
They decide that Lancelot will take Merlin back to Gaius, a decision that does not sit well with Arthur. He knows that he cannot abandon the quest, not with the safety of his citizens at stake, but still he finds himself regretful that - yet again - duty to his kingdom must come before duty to his friend. His friend who has just risked, and may still lose, his very life in order to keep Arthur safe.
Before they part ways, Arthur takes Lancelot to one side.
"Look after him, Lancelot. Whatever it takes."
Lancelot is evidently confused. "Of course, Sire."
"Whatever it takes."
Arthur has had his suspicions for some time now that Lancelot is already privy to Merlin's secret. He does not want any hesitation or fear of Camelot's retribution to come in the way of using magic to help heal the warlock. He looks over Lancelot, appraisingly, and feels the knight do the same to him.
"I trust you entirely."
"Very well," Lancelot says solemnly. "I will do all in my power to ensure Merlin is safe."
Arthur prays that will be enough.