Author's Note: For Mory, at the Land of Myth discord server. And thank you to Viking for telling me it was worth finishing.
Until the Day That I Die
"Merlin!"
Arthur raised his torch as his voice echoed across the darkened gully, desperately scanning the small area of light the burning flame cast. Hazy mist rose from the ground, and the sound of his own voice bounced back from the stone cliffs that surrounded him, invisible in the night. He waited – far longer than logical – for a reply, but none came.
Hours earlier the place he now stood had been filled with noise. So much noise.
The cries of war and clash of swords.
The screams of triumph and pain.
The anguished groans of the dying.
They had not been prepared, Arthur and his small band of knights. It was not meant to be a battle, but a journey shared with friends.
He had been deceived – on many fronts it appeared.
"MERLIN!" he cried again, straining to see through the creeping fog that stirred up the overpowering stench of smoke and blood.
A sudden noise from behind made him whirl, sword at the ready.
"Peace, sire," Leon said softly, his hand raised even while his face was pinched and drawn.
"Leon," Arthur breathed, weapon falling back to his side. "How many knights?" he asked grimly, bracing himself.
Their numbers had been so small…the enemy so vast… If it hadn't been for –
He choked the thought off, refusing to follow it any farther.
"None, my lord."
Arthur's eyes shot wide, staring at his second-in-command.
"What?"
"Ten are wounded, three seriously, but not one has been lost." The knight's face betrayed his own amazement. "Arthur, it's a miracle…"
That was one way to describe it, the king thought bitterly, turning away to hide the raw emotions he was sure were visible on his own face.
"And Merlin?" he asked quietly after a moment, glancing back at his older friend.
Grimly, Leon shook his head.
"Is he –" Arthur steeled himself, then forced the question out. "Is he among the dead?"
"We're still looking, sire," the other man answered, sounding as bone-tired as Arthur felt.
"Have anyone that can be spared help. We aren't leaving until we find him."
Leon nodded and then retreated, back to the soldiers that Arthur himself was supposed to be marshaling, comforting, checking on…but he couldn't. Not until he found – not until he knew.
00000
It was almost dawn when Athur finally returned to the place where a makeshift camp had been set up, at the farthest end of the little valley. They had sought refuge there, away from the stink of death. Walking slowly, he checked on the wounded, grasped arms with the weary men, and then finally allowed himself to collapse by one of the small fires.
It wasn't long before Leon sat beside him.
Arthur glanced at him, question unspoken, and the knight simply shook his head. Silently, the king let his face fall into his hands, willing the tears not to come. Not here – not yet.
"Arthur," the man began hesitantly, his voice filled with sorrow. "Many of the dead…they are…burned. Unrecognizable. And Merlin…"
…and Merlin was last seen too far away, held by the enemy.
They'd been on separate ends of the gully when the peaceful day had turned into an unexpected bloody war, and then everything had been screaming and chaos and clanging swords… A desperate fight to at least die an noble death - there'd been no chance of any other outcome and Arthur had known it. Known it when he'd fought his way free for a moment and locked eyes with his servant yards away, bound and surrounded by honorless traitors. Known it when he'd yelled his friend's name, throwing himself in a rage at the masses between them. Known it by the hopeless, lost, and devastated look he'd seen in the man's too-sad blue eyes, right before they'd blazed with the brightest of damning gold and Merlin along with many of the enemy soldiers had disappeared behind flames…
"Merlin probably lies with them," Arthur finished Leon's words, struggling to keep his voice steady.
"Gwaine and Percival continue to search, my lord," the older knight said quietly, squeezing his shoulder for just a moment before rising.
"Thank you," the king replied quietly.
Leon clasped his shoulder once more, then stepped away.
Arthur waited at least a minute before he let his head sag back into his hands, pressing them close to hide the tears.
00000
Morning dawned silent and cold. While the weak sunlight burned off the shrouding mist of the night, it only served to reveal the remains of the dead, many still smoking, and too numerous for their small group to bury in a single night.
His knights were readying for the return to Camelot – wounded and weary, but alive. The history annuls would soon record the past day as a miracle. Outnumbered twenty to one and yet not a single knight lost in battle.
Only a servant.
The king not even wounded.
Except for the gaping wound to his heart.
It was obvious that the victory was secured through sorcery, and yet no one spoke of it. Leon, at least, must have seen what Arthur himself had – the servant's eyes glowing as bright as the sun – but the knight said not a word.
Arthur's own mind seemed to be ignoring the betrayal as well, stubbornly rerouting anytime he thought of magic and secrets and treason.
Perhaps gratitude for their lives was enough to outweigh years of hatred and fear.
Perhaps it was just that no one wanted to speak ill of the dead.
Because they had looked all night and there was no sign of Merlin.
Because what other choice did Arthur have than to start trying to wrap his mind around the idea that Merlin – clumsy, kind, traitorous Merlin – was dead?
The wound to his heart – the one that was swiftly expanding and consuming all of his insides – throbbed and the king turned away from the scene. The able-bodied and less injured knights were still preparing the seriously wounded for travel, fitting sledges to horses and retying bandages. As their king and leader, Arthur knew he should be helping, or at least standing with them maintaining a firm façade that all was well.
But Arthur had never been that talented of an actor.
Instead, he stood apart, scanning the walls of the gully that had almost permanently claimed them – that had claimed Merlin – and silently thanking the loyalty of his men for allowing him that moment.
Without conscious thought, he started walking, his feet pulling him back to the scene.
The place had been beautiful. The gully wasn't long, but it twisted and turned, meandering in a carefree way. Small groves of trees clustered around springs that spilled at random intervals from the rock walls, the water flowing from them coming together to form a small stream at the southern exit. Budding branches and timid sprigs of new grass had been heralding the first touches of spring.
Now it was burned and trampled, reeking of death.
Tears finally crested Arthur's eyes as he forced himself to walk beyond the battle's carnage.
He would come back, once his men were safe and cared for.
He would come back – undoubtably accompanied by his roundtable knights…and Guinevere, Gaius…probably half the castle staff.
Together they would bury the dead – unable to tell friend from foe – and then the little valley would return to what it was before.
Arthur walked on, rounding a twist and passing a corpse of willow trees. A bird sang gently from one of the high branches.
It would be beautiful again – fit for a friend's final resting place.
He paused, letting the tears fall and his heart bleed, accompanied by the tune of the lark. He knew he should return. Leon wouldn't take kindly to the king disappearing so soon after such a successful ambush had caught them by surprise, but his fractured soul needed the small moment of solitude.
The sound of a brook gurgling from the trees to his left trickled into Arthur's thoughts, reminding him how incredibly thirsty he was. Over-powering grief could do that – dry a person up. A cool drink and one last chance to mourn while he could be just Arthur, then he'd return to his men and the role of king.
He pushed through the brush and thick trees, rounded a boulder, then froze.
On the bank of the tiny stream a skinny man sat. His feet were bare, and his clothes charred to tatters. Partially healed, oozing burns littered his soot-streaked skin, angry and red, but despite them and the horrible pain they had to be causing, he sat with his knees pulled tight to his chest, glazed blue eyes staring off into nothing.
"Merlin…" Arthur whispered, afraid to hope or move or breathe, in case the apparition before him disappeared into just more smoke.
The man blinked and started rocking slightly, but didn't answer.
"Merlin!" Arthur said more loudly, emotions suddenly careening like leaves in a cyclone. "I thought you were among dead!"
The servant didn't answer for so long Arthur began to suspect he wouldn't, or perhaps he couldn't. Maybe the fire and magic and battle had broken him. Maybe Arthur's friend was still lost, but to a place far worse than death.
"Would that have mattered?"
Arthur reeled back slightly at the words when they finally came, like he'd been punched. His friend's voice was raw and shredded, as if he'd spent the night screaming.
Something inside the king that worried about laws and secrets and lies shattered, dissolved, and blew away. He stepped forward and lowered himself to the ground beside the trembling form.
"Yes, Merlin," he said with the utmost gentleness, not bothering to hide the wobble in his voice. "It would have mattered a great deal."
A sob tore from the servant and he finally broke his vacant stare. "Please, Arthur," he whispered, tightening his desperate hold on his injured legs even as he let his head fall to the king's shoulder. "Please. I don't want to burn again," he begged.
Arthur impulsively turned and gathered his brother into his arms, pressing Merlin's head to his chest and burying his face in the younger man's seared hair. "Never, Merlin. You will never burn," he promised, his own voice thick with emotion and tears.
They stayed that way until the tears ran out, leaving them both drained.
"Will you come back to Camelot with me?" Arthur finally asked, helping Merlin sit back up.
"I can't walk," Merlin answered, looking away as he shuddered. "Not yet. My magic…it's trying but…"
Magic. It was the first time it had been mentioned by name and Arthur finally allowed himself to complete the thought that he had been pushing aside since the battle.
Merlin had magic.
His irreverent, loyal, incredibly brave servant had magic. Powerful magic.
A million questions shouted for attention inside Arthur's head, but he squashed them all. There would be time for those later. Instead, he looked closely at his friend's badly burned legs and feet, bile rising in his throat at the sight.
"I've seen worse," he lied gently, giving Merlin a sad smile as memories filtered in.
A watery, ragged breath that was almost a laugh escaped his servant's lips. "If I die, will you call me a hero?"
"Oh, I'm sure you won't have to wait that long," Arthur teased in a bid to keep the tears from reappearing. "Gwaine will have a ballade composed in your honor before we even get back to the city."
Merlin's cracked lips curled up slightly. "Gwaine's alive?" he asked hesitantly.
"They're all alive, Merlin. All of them. Battered and wounded, but alive."
The injured man sagged in relief. "It worked, then. They're all safe."
"Thanks to you. Now come on," the king said, wiping a hand across his face to erase the dampness, then rolling to his knees. "If you can't walk, I'll just have to carry you." As gently as he possibly could, he cradled his servant into his arms then climbed to his feet.
"Thank you, Merlin," Arthur repeated thickly, emotions overwhelming him again as he saw up close the many horrible wounds his friend bore. "You're the bravest man I know."
"I'm happy to be your servant, until the day I die," Merlin whispered in reply, the pain-filled blue eyes that met Arthur's making the words as much of a vow as the pledge of any knight.
"Just don't do it anytime soon, my friend. Now, let's go home."