The dramatic crescendo of noise from both armies faded to a distant ringing as Merlin's eyes drifted up, stretched wide, boring into Morgana's. For a shivering moment, she seemed as surprised as he felt. Somehow, despite knowing better, an enduringly naïve part of him still believed she would pull a killing blow.
Morgana, who, along with Arthur, had first taught him how to use a sword.
Morgana, who had ridden boldly to aid him in the defense of his mother and childhood home.
Morgana, whose eyes once danced with an abundance of playfulness, laughter, and mischief.
Morgana, who, when lost in his own fleeting, clumsy, adolescent affections for her, he had once imagined might return those feelings. He'd been half in love with her— in another time.
Her darkly coaled eyes now pierced his, the surprise in them melting into a vicious delight as cold as starlight. As they stood, frozen, green fixed on blue, the rest of the world fell away. All that marked the passing of time was the warm wetness rapidly expanding across his shirt. His hand found hers, gripping it over the hilt.
Sound returned as she pulled the blade free, an arc of crimson spattering along the grass to follow its path. The roar of men filled the air as Merlin teetered, stumbling.
Watching with greedy anticipation, Morgana's honey sweet elation withered to fear as he regained his feet and stood defiantly before her.
Careening back, she flung away the dagger in a fit of rage. That blood smeared hand rose between them as though to keep him at bay. "How?!"
A thin laugh morphed into a cough, breath leaking out his mouth in painful wheezes. Merlin tasted iron. "I am the last Dragonlord, kin to the Dragons. Like them… my heart is on my right side."
Despite his veneer of confidence, bright red blood continued to seep out from under his fingers. Desperately trying to stem the flow, he bunched his shirt in his hand, pressing the makeshift bandage tightly to the wound. She may have missed his heart, but Merlin could feel the labor in his lungs. A pinching sensation in his chest accompanied each pull of air, so he settled for unsatisfactory rapid, shallow breaths. Most telling, a faint, wet, sucking sound came from his side whenever he drew in air. No court physician, Merlin still understood at least on a rudimentary level what it all meant; she had pierced his lung.
A tingling sensation had begun suffusing his body; shock, and battle focus holding the agony of the accumulated injuries at bay.
I don't want to die!
Clamping an iron will down on the thrashing thought, he rebuffed the urge to flee. Hadn't he already resolved himself to such a fate? Playing it right, victory could still be theirs. Camelot could not fall. Arthur must not die. So, he had to stop the bleeding.
Merlin mustered as much command as possible, "Purhhaele pina, prowunga!"
He waited. Nothing happened.
While Merlin had never been particularly good at healing magic, this felt odd. It felt as if the magic were sliding from the damage like water from an oiled skin. Rather than press her advantage, Morgana watched with a strange light in her eyes.
"Ic hale pina prowunga" he gasped with increasing urgency. Again, a mental impression came of something slick and oily not so much repelling magic as much as sloughing it off.
"It's useless," said Morgana, her air of victory returning. "Your simple fumbled charms will achieve nothing. It takes an intimate knowledge of the old religion to close a wound dealt by that blade; I've been imbibing it with dark magic every night for months now."
Dismay tightened around his throat, head spinning. The pinch in his chest had escalated into a stabbing sensation with each breath. His traitorous heart was speeding up in response, trying to compensate, the blood weeping from the gash even faster to the rhythm of his galloping heart. Merlin's pant leg was wet with it.
I am bleeding out, he realized, distantly, coldly.
"Forbaern aeltaewlice!" A jet of violet fire roared towards him.
For all his weakness in the healing arts, Merlin's talent soared when it came to defensive magic. The shield he conjured was instantaneous and powerful, suspended as transparent coalescing golden light between the combatants. It cost only a minor effort for him to hold the defense and fend off the sudden flurry of her spells, although he wasn't sure how long his waning strength would hold.
Morgana shrieked in fury, "Look at the power you wield! You have the power to rule the Five Kingdoms: the power to force Arthur to grovel at your feet! At any moment you could have cut Uther down for his crimes against our people and you did nothing!"
The vehemence in her voice scalded him. Merlin knew he owed nothing to Morgana, least of all an explanation. But Arthur? Could he hear them? No, not likely. But if he could, if he did... "Nim bod min pissere nihte bod dryhten."
The improvised spell whispered from his lips, a wish. He hoped Arthur would find it in him to forgive Merlin for using magic on him.
It was painful, but by taking pauses he could speak. "Ruling is Arthur's destiny. Mine is to walk in his footsteps. To protect him."
When had he dropped to his knees? He couldn't quite remember; clear thinking evaded him. Numbness had settled into the tips of his fingers. "I don't betray my friends," Merlin added, distracted as a new sharp agony radiating from his side. A sense of pressure had become noticeable, building steadily in his chest with each billow of his lungs.
"No, you just poison them!" She spat, eyes brimming with something more than rage- betrayal, jagged and raw.
They'd had this conversation once before, hadn't they? Merlin flinched, despite himself, "I had no other choice!"
Even he could hear the pleading, the defensiveness, filling his voice.
"You would do anything for Arthur. Yet had you been victorious here, he'd have had you executed!" She sounded maliciously pleased by the picture she wove. "To be betrayed by your friends after you betrayed your own kind, how fitting. I'll spare you the suffering and just kill you here and now. After all, we were friends- once. Consider it my parting gift."
The many lives his decisions, sacrifices, and mistakes had cost spanned the distance between them. When he spoke, Merlin felt the weight of each. "Perhaps that end is all I deserve. Even so, I swear on the Goddess, I will take you with me."
Another spell flew from her hand, and it, like the others before, was deflected. Morgana sneered, "You're already half dead!"
"Purhhaele dolgbenn" again, nothing.
"I told you; it's no use!"
Dropping his shield for an instant he flung a fireball at her. She hadn't expected the attack, even so, it was weak and easily dissipated by the witch's magic before it could pose any threat. If the focus for a spell strong enough to actually kill Morgana was beyond him, what remained? His thoughts kept slipping away, details hazy. Faintly, the memory of a boy, Gilli, drifted across the years. The young man had been reckless, but he'd closed a bad gash on his own shoulder. If magic couldn't heal this… maybe a mixture of magic and science could.
Slipping a hand up under his shirt fingers probed until he found the pulsing wound, bare skin slick with blood. Bracing himself he pushed fingers into the open flesh, releasing a muffled scream through clenched teeth. "Purhhaele licsar min!"
The pain struck like a physical blow even as a wave of light blinded him, bringing with it a wave of scorching heat. His hand jumped away as the smell of charred meat filled the air, the pain so vicious and consuming that his vision went white and then black. The next thing Merlin knew he was hurtling through the air, skidding across the ground and rolling to a stop on his stomach, dazed.
His body's first instinct was to gasp for breath, which almost sent his body into paroxysms of protest. How was breathing more painful than actually getting stabbed? His lungs seemed to be made of hot lead. But no, this was good, the numbness had faded as this new sharper pain roused him from the half-awake fog state he'd found himself trapped in.
In a moment of either inspiration or desperation, he let himself collapse limply to the ground, feigning unconsciousness. If he were honest, it was barely an act. He could feel the ultimate surrender of his body creeping up on him.
He'd lost hold of the spell he had cast between himself and Arthur when he'd lost consciousness, but no matter. He'd need all his limited concentration if his half-formed parody of a plan was going to work.
Perhaps "plan" was being generous.
A boot dug painfully into Merlin's side, rolling him over onto his back. Fighting to stay limp, he cracked his eyes open until he saw Morgana as a faint outline against the sky.
Standing at his head she positioned the point of her sword straight over the right side of his chest, and his heart, "This time... I will not miss." Raising its point high she drove it down.
The instant she moved, Merlin's arm came up. Eyes snapping open they flooded with molten gold, burning to match the fatigue in his body. There was a ringing clash as her blade was deflected. Glancing off a small shield in his palm and slipping to one side, it buried itself in the ground. At the same time Excalibur flew towards him, flashing in the sunlight as he awkwardly twisted around onto his knees. His outstretched hand closed around the hilt as desperately, inelegantly, and completely gracelessly, he rammed the sword to its hilt in her gut.
Merlin knew the sound it made as it went through her would haunt him for the rest of his life.
Her eyes regarded him with cold surprise as she collapsed, off balance. The blade was jerked from his weak grip, twisting to open the gruesome wound nearly to her sternum.
Gods help him. His thoughts flew apart and he tried to catch her, missed, and crawled to her side through sticky bloody mud. Uncertain what else to do he mustered what strength he had left to pull her onto his lap as the gorge rose in his throat. He held her, tenderly, a grim parody of when he poisoned her. Except this time her shaking hands were clutching at her stomach, holding slippery intestines inside her body from where she'd been nearly disemboweled.
Unlike that ruinous day, he didn't allow himself to look away. He forced himself to gaze with eyes open to all he had wrought. This was what he'd wanted… right?
This doesn't feel like victory.
It was different– killing with a blade instead of magic. Writhing in the blood and the dirt and the sweat and the hot breath as a person stopped existing. Despite his horror at the act, Merlin did not mourn the death of Morgana Pendragon. To those who once loved her, she had died long ago. So instead, panting until the black spots dancing around his vision eased, that's what he mourned; days when enemies had come from outside the castle walls. Times before resentment and dark magic had consumed all of Morgana's kindness and light, turning her into a ruthless shell of what she had once been. A shadow of all she might have become.
Looking at her with eyes unclouded, Merlin observed a creature as deformed and stunted as Aithusa. A tear wound down his cheek.
Morgana's head twitched back and forth. "You cry for me?"
He thought she meant it to sound scornful, instead she just sounded... tired. "Once, you were my friend." Merlin answered, simply.
He expected her to sneer. Instead, Morgana seemed almost wistful. "And you mine. But times change."
Her eyes held his– one last rebellion. A final shuddering breath escaped as a bubble of blood at her lips before her body relaxed in his arms, a flame flickering out.
Gently, he laid her on the ground. Brushing a tangled lock of hair away from her face, Merlin closed her eyes. Long, wild hair spread around her head like a dark halo. For the first time in many years, she looked peaceful. He'd done it; Arthur and the Knights would be released. He'd done it.
Why, then, did it feel so hollow?
Gazing at his greatest foe one final time he staggered to his feet, making it only a few steps before collapsing back to the ground. Morgana was dead; it was going to take Merlin a little longer. He was no longer certain to whom the blood soaking him belonged.
"I fear I'll be joining you soon," he said, aloud, as though she could hear him.
There was no satisfaction in having outlived his killer, if only by a few minutes. Letting heavy eyelids drift closed he focused on the soft breeze that played across his face, wishing the day were warmer. Despite the layer of sweat soaking his skin he felt as cold as a grave. One hand absently stroked the ground beside him as he wondered how long it would take for death to come. Disconcertingly, he realized he couldn't feel the grass; his whole hand had gone numb. From the way his chest felt half crushed, he thought his trick may have made his injury worse instead of better. Maybe it's better this way, better to die here. That way Arthur won't have to have me executed.
A pang of guilt chewed at him that he wasn't able to keep his promise to Gaius. As if the thought had conjured him, Merlin gained a strange distant awareness of the old physician, caught glimpses of his face, and felt hands on him. Someone poured something thick and syrupy with a sharp bitter taste down his throat. It hurt, but everything hurt. He ignored it all, steadfastly shutting it out.
Had he completed all he'd been meant to do? Wasn't he supposed to assist Arthur in building a new Albion and fulfilling his destiny? But, then again, the dragon had never said Merlin would have to survive in order for Arthur's destiny to be fulfilled. Perhaps he had played his part in Arthur's story and his chapter had come to a close. Besides, this mist was so peaceful. He was ready for the pain to end.
Arthur had watched the events unfold on the field while experiencing a tenuous mix of frustration and anxiety. Everything was so far beyond his control.
The sorcerer who had once seemed an old man, full in his might had towered over them all. He stood as tall and impregnable as the soaring peaks of the distant mountains. A colossus carved from flesh and blood, against which even the likes of Morgana became small. Then, somehow, the Titan had been unmasked, leaving Merlin standing forlorn and awkward in his place.
Arthur hadn't recognized his friend. He couldn't reconcile the sorcerer seemingly hewn from might and magic with… Merlin. Merlin, who had always had more courage than brains or skill. Merlin, who was supposed to be dead.
Merlin… who had lied to them all.
The look which had brimmed in the boy's eyes as he'd turned to Arthur haunted his mind; It had been naked supplication. And, in that look, Arthur had known this was indeed the young man who'd walked beside him for so many years. Somehow alive and whole, though he had no explanation for it.
Then the blade. And all confusion, all thoughts of Merlin's deception, of his magic, flew from Arthur's mind. He'd been singularly transfixed by the undeniable truth before him. Arthur had been trained to kill since his youth- he knew precisely where to find the organ that mysteriously seemed to control the mortal body.
He'd been gutted for days on end by the memories of Merlin's supposed murder. Now, resurrected, returned from the tomb by some unknown twist, the blade stuck in the manservant's side felt like it had pierced Arthur's own heart. Aside from his futile warning he hadn't yelled, hadn't screamed. The overwhelming impulse was there, immediately suffocated by the oppressive weight of the moment.
No.
And yet, Merlin fought on. More than that, somehow his and Morgana's words had been carried to Arthur. No doubt by magic. Their brief conversation spun out implications like spiderwebs, but for each question that seemed to be answered a dozen more were born until his head became so crowded with them he thought it might burst.
When Morgana fell, Arthur thrashed against his restraints whipping around to stare at Queen Morcant. "The combat is decided!"
The expression on her face was indiscernible as she watched her fallen champion, giving no reaction.
"You gave your word!" he urged when she remained still, voice low. Warmth welled where skin tore under the manacles, but he did not stop straining.
Turning her eyes on him he saw a struggle happening there, the nature of which he could only guess at. "Tell me, Arthur: even when faced with death your iron-clad composure never abandoned you. Why now?"
"He can still be saved!" His pulse roared along with the words— vision narrowed to the woman before him.
She turned, facing him squarely. "What do you care for the life of a sorcerer?"
The answer that burst from him came without thought, welling from the depths of his being. "Everything!"
Something softened in her gaze at that. He identified perhaps the first shadow of gentleness he'd seen in this imposing figure of iron resolve. The moment stretched into an eternity.
"Guards, release Arthur Pendragon and his men. They have been found innocent. Each is free to return to their people."
Berwyn shouldered his way forward, face contorted in a mix of anger and distress. "Mother, no! You cannot-"
"You will be a great ruler one day, Berwyn, but you must learn that in order to do justice… one must also have mercy. Change will never come if you don't give hearts the chance to learn. Now, do as I command."
"Merlin!"
Arthur? He fought to break free of the fog that had claimed him, reaching for the new voice.
"Merlin, Merlin!"
Prying open his eyes Merlin's vision slowly focused enough to make out Arthur bending over him. Percival, Gwaine, Leon, and Elyan hovered around them both. And Gaius, too, looking heartbroken and forlorn. Rather than being reassured, terror seized him, abruptly sharpening his sight. His body flinched away from the hands on him. The primal urge to flee overwhelmed him now as it hadn't even in the battle; they knew he had magic.
"Merlin, Merlin it's us!" reassured Arthur, although he didn't try to touch Merlin a second time.
Forcing his muscles to unclench Merlin looked at each. His breaths came out in a strangled wheeze, shallow and rapid. What should he say? What words were there?With a great deal of effort, he stretched a fragile grin across his face and managed to gasp out, "What'd you know? I'm not as useless as you always thought."
Arthur huffed out a breath, but a familiar warmth crept into his piercing eyes. "I've never really thought you were useless, you idiot."
Merlin frowned, doubtful.
Arthur nodded his head, a forced smile of his own twitching his mouth. "Yes, believe it or not, you usually mostly get the job done."
The banter may have been as familiar as his reflection, but it felt different. Contrived. In the strain of each of their expressions, Merlin could feel the tension between them, as rigid as a drawn bowstring. Eyes abruptly stinging with desperate tears he opened his mouth to find some response, some way to bridge the distance, and didn't have the breath for words. He focused on drawing what air he could into his body until he again gathered his strength, "This isn't how… it was meant to happen."
"But you have magic!" Arthur burst out, "You, you just have to heal yourself."
Wordlessly Merlin shook his head, a no.
"You're not dying!"
The shout seemed to spring from Arthur's lips against his will, body heaving with rapid breaths in an uncharacteristic show of emotion. The invisible wall separating them crumbled as the King lurched forward, spreading his hands helplessly over his servant's torso. Merlin couldn't tell if the tremor he felt there was a figment of his imagination or not.
"You can't die, you have too much to answer for."
"There's some incentive," agreed Merlin weakly, with as much sarcasm as he could muster.
Head rolling to one side he met Gwaine's eyes, and saw they were bright with unshed tears. His old friend nodded to him, silently, solemnly, before barking an order. "Knights, circle up!"
Without another word they took up positions: shoulder to shoulder, facing out, shielding their King and offering what privacy they could from the prying eyes of those who would not understand this brotherhood. Even Gaius drew back, silently weeping his impotence.
Merlin's attention slid back to Arthur and he smiled apologetically. A golden light seemed to halo around his King, filling his vision with a gentle haze. His body had become heavy, too heavy to move anymore. "You'll have to, to train, another idiot, to run around for you. This time, try not to… such… a prat."
Suddenly, Merlin felt a sharp sting on the side of his face and his eyes flew open. He didn't remember closing them. Arthur had slapped him! The initial surge of indignance drained away, leaving only resignation. The clotpole never knew when to give up a fight.
If he did die... things would be so much simpler, right? And he wouldn't ask for forgiveness- It was better not knowing. This, here, could be enough.
And like the sudden illumination of a gentle dawn, Merlin knew; that with Morgana gone, even without him, Arthur would succeed. Rather than bringing comfort the realization crashed into him with the weight of an avalanche, tears streaming freely as he realized he wasn't needed anymore. Wasn't wanted, really, not with magic.
Pain spiked again through his chest, seizing up his muscles. A groan tore from his mouth. For a long moment after he couldn't breathe back in again. Sternum pumping up and down uselessly, he panicked.
"Breathe, Merlin, come on!"
He couldn't. The billowing frantic convulsions of his chest which had taken over wouldn't let him.
Arms encircled his body as Arthur drew him up, pulling him against his chest. The King spoke firmly, a command. "In and out, just focus on breathing. Follow me."
This close Merlin felt each expansion in Arthur's ribcage as his friend guided him. In and out. Forcing his breaths to deepen he did as he'd been commanded. In response his racing heart slowed, air coming back as he matched Arthur. Though it didn't fill him up, it gave him back his voice. "It's okay."
What was he saying? It wasn't okay! The warm golden light swirled thicker now, obscuring most of his vision. He wanted to stay. He wanted to know.
Arthur shook his head adamantly, "I can't lose you, Merlin, you don't get to just go and die on me! Gaius–do something!"
For the first time that Merlin could recall, he heard fear in Arthur's voice. Fear he didn't understand. Above him, his friend was saying something else. Try as he might to listen the meaning escaped him, the sound fading into the mist. His thoughts, too, began to slip into the warm haze. Head too heavy to keep up he rested his forehead against Arthur's shoulder. Something wet landed on his ear. Pulling back enough to see Arthur's face he found tears heavy in the man's wide blue eyes. Even as he watched, another fell.
A warm surge of affection for Arthur washed over him, and with great difficulty he focused his attention on one of his hands, lying limply at his side. Slowly, an inch at a time, he reached up until he clutched Arthur's sleeve. "I pledge my fealty, my life, to this purpose."
The need to know slipped away, released, along with all questions of guilt or mercy.
The golden light which had steadily infused the scene around him closed in one final time. It was warm. It rushed into his eyes and filled him.
And Merlin found he was no longer afraid.
Merlin's eyes drifted closed a second time, and this time nothing Arthur did could conjure him back.
In his arms, Merlin's muscles relaxed a little more, as if he were no longer trying to stay. Something had broken loose inside Arthur and he couldn't seem to stem the tears that flowed silently down his cheeks. Adjusting his grip on his friend, he bent down his head until his ear was to the young man's chest. There, yes, though it was weak, he found a heartbeat.
He clung to that sound as if it were evidence of hope. As long as that sound went on there was a chance it could continue to do so. Merlin's hand still gripped his sleeve, though the fingers trembled. As long as they trembled, there was life in him.
He stayed like that for what felt both like an eternity and no time at all. Until he could no longer feel Merlin's fingers tremble on his arm, and his hand had slipped away. Until one last quiet wheeze escaped and the rapid, labored, rise and fall of his chest stilled.
Until Merlin's heartbeat sounded like nothing in his ear.
By then Arthur's tears had dried up. Something akin to calm but sharper, less sane, had taken their place.
Uncertain what else to do, Arthur shook him a little. Nothing. Raising one of Merlin's eyelids he found fixed pupils staring into the sky. He knew what that meant and couldn't… he couldn't be dead. Now, more than ever, Merlin had to get up and be okay.
Tacky blood coated his palms, the thick metallic scent of it cloying in his nostrils. There was so much— too much.
"Arthur?" a voice asked, distantly familiar.
"I…" He held out his hands, they were shaking. Arthur glanced around and watched in a strange, detached manner as his whole body violently trembled. He forgot that he was surrounded by witnesses, that he wasn't supposed to show this kind of emotion for someone so below him in rank. Not for anyone.
Gentle but insistent hands pulled him away, making more room for Gaius. He didn't put up a fight; too numb to do anything but stare at the empty, pale shell which was all that remained of his manservant.
Bards waxed on about death, likening its appearance to a peaceful slumber. He'd been barely more than a boy when he'd first learned the truth. Death was rarely anything beautiful. The crimson wash to Merlin's clothes, the marble color of his skin, the blue hue at his hands and lips, all of it dispelled any romantic notions.
Gaius fell to the ground beside his charge, pressing two fingers to his neck. At last, the old man slowly withdrew his hand, a low primal sound like a wounded animal escaping his lips.
The sound resonated deep in Arthur's being and he took a moment to breathe, letting a small, choked sound of his own escape before straightening up. Brick by brick he walled off everything he felt until he was ready to face a world that wouldn't understand, couldn't understand.
Merlin the liar, the secret sorcerer, Arthur's only true friend, was dead.
Oil lamps flickered, illuminating a lean body laid out on a table. Bruises marred the pale flesh. The hues ranged from the pale yellow of nearly healed to a fresh deep purple. Otherwise, the tent was dark as the sound of a camp at night filtered distantly through the fabric of the walls.
Queen Morcant had, surprisingly, offered them the services of her physician. The woman had explained it was their custom in Dyfed to cast a spell of cold over the recently deceased. She claimed, when done properly, it would preserve the body for several days as any mourning rituals were completed. At the close, the beloved was sent out into the sea. In their case, she said it would simply allow them to transport their champion back home for a proper funeral pyre.
Arthur had, in turn, perhaps more surprisingly, accepted the magical aid and they had been given the night to prepare the body.
Together, Gaius and Gwen soaked rags in clay bowls. Gaius barely noticed how the chill of the water and the bitter night air made his joints ache. For the work they had to do, cold worked better. Using the damp cloths to moisten the caked-on blood, they worked to slowly peel and cut away the fabric that had adhered to Merlin's flesh as the gore had dried. The work progressed slowly, gradually revealing the full extent of the external damage.
The sight nearly brought him to ruin.
Gaius existed as a familiar companion with death. In his role as a physician, he regularly saw the worst of injury, disease, and tragedy the world had to offer. He had lived through a war which had slaughtered most of his friends and colleagues. As a young boy raised in a small village with few resources, he had watched, helplessly, as a young cousin succumbed to fever. She hadn't even seen her seventh summer. The helplessness he'd felt had been what first spurred him toward learning the healing arts.
Sixty-seven years later, he felt as helpless as that boy he thought he'd left behind in that village so long ago. He was standing knee-deep in the shallows of a mighty river, the waters roaring through and past him, threatening to sweep him away.
Merlin had been cast out of the current. Body broken; spark extinguished.
The physician did his best to lose himself in the familiar work, trying to ignore the stiffness of the joints and muscles. Once the spirit departed a body became meat. Still to be valued and treated with respect, but not the person who had… gone on. It was like a stone mausoleum, merely a monument to their life, cold and impersonal. That's what he told himself. It was an understanding that had aided Gaius in some of his more gruesome work– allowing him to compartmentalize. But grasp as he might for it, the usual detachment slipped from his grasp.
It didn't look right, Merlin as meat. Merlin as a body. Without his animating spirit, his smirk, his fierce determination. Each time his hands grazed the body, no, not the body Merlin's body, it was with tenderness. Each contact came with the urge to take him into his arms and fall apart. This wasn't just a body; this was his son. This body had belonged to his boy.
Pausing over Merlin's now fully exposed chest, Gwen's long fingers strayed from her cloth, hovering over a thickly knotted scar. "What is this from? I never knew he'd received such a wound, it looks like a burn?"
The words pulled Gaius back from the edge of the abyss he'd been teetering on. Haunted eyes followed to where she indicated, and a fresh wave of pain tightened his lips. "Nimueh, an enchantress. She struck him with a spell of fire. He had gone to confront her in an effort to save my life."
In a halting voice, Gaius recounted the adventure. Gwen listened in silence. More questions followed, and more tales, in a slow trickle at first before flowing readily from the physician's mouth. It brought Gaius a reckless joy to finally release the secrets that his lips had been locked tightly around for so long. Strangely, it was a comfort to speak of them. To recount the way he and Merlin had first met, of their initial efforts to explore the meaning of his destiny. And he spoke of his own clumsy navigation of the bond which had formed between himself and his charge.
As his stories painted a new picture of the last several years, gentle hands passed clean wet rags across Merlin's battered body. They cleaned away the sweat, the mud, the dirt. With patience and loving care their hands erased whatever evidence of abuse they could.
Deep enough into the forest that the light from their fire didn't reach the camp, a small gathering of men were drinking. As the alcohol flowed freely from questionably obtained barrels, they began to find their words even through the muddle of conflicting emotions. Each in turn shared memories of a raven-haired youth with a sharp wit but little sense. As the night wore on and the spirits soaked in, laughter echoed between the trees, a testimony to the celebration of a life ended too soon.
A flush faced Gwaine hopped unsteadily up onto a fallen log. Wheeling his arms to keep from losing his balance he teetered dangerously, sloshing most of the ale from his mug and onto his tunic in the effort. He nodded, thankfully, as Percival handed him a fresh tankard before tossing back the last of the first. Hoisting the fresh drink high he gazed around, eyes bright in a mixture of inebriation and grief. "To Merlin-"
Choking briefly on the words, tears slipped down his cheeks. The knight made no attempt to hide or wipe them away, "The best of us."
Elyan, Percival, and Leon raised similarly full tankards towards the stars. Their voices rose, as one, "Merlin."
Arthur contemplated a familiar piece of fabric in his hands, spine resting against the rough bark of an ancient tree. Shadows swallowed the shape of the king nestled in their depths as he listened to the knight's stories, holding his silence.
Leon had let him know of their intentions to hold a wake for Merlin. A part of him had even considered joining them. He'd come all this way before hovering, unseen, at the edge of the light of their fire. In the end, he'd balked, turning away from the light and concealing himself in the darkness of the forest to listen.
There was companionship with them- this small band of brothers. They'd each put their lives on the line for one another without a second thought, and he trusted them implicitly with his life. But risking his heart? He'd never opened that up to any one of them. A part of him still held the world at arm's length. It was the part that spoke in his father's voice, whispering vulnerability was weakness, and a king must walk alone. He didn't agree with his father's philosophy, but It was an armor he'd worn so long he wasn't certain how to remove it.
Merlin had been the one mysterious exception. Arthur wasn't entirely certain that had been his choice, either; the boy had wormed himself inside of Arthur's guard despite his own best efforts to keep him out. Nobody got under his skin the way Merlin did. In time, he'd been won over by the boy's willful nature and fierce personality. The unassuming manservant disarmed him in a way he wasn't prepared for. Or… he had.
How much had been a lie, all of it? Had Merlin been using him? Had he used his magic to make Arthur trust him?
And now? Well, Arthur didn't know how to name what he felt. Anger, betrayal, sorrow, confusion, denial, each concept was inadequate. He mentally scratched at the swirling mass inside but only tangled himself up more and more. What little Merlin had said before he died did nothing but muddy the waters.
And he would never get an explanation. He'd never know. And he was lost in the dagger and the blood and the collapse of all he'd thought he'd known.
Merlin's solemn voice seemed to drift to him through the years,
"I will protect you or die at your side."
Rage, sudden and hot, flared. Lies. Balling the red scarf he'd been contemplating into a fist Arthur made as though to hurl it away, stopping at the last moment. Unable to uncurl his fist from around the fabric.
Snarling, he twisted and drove the fist into the tree he'd been resting against. Bark and skin alike split, Arthur's hand flaring with pain. As the heat cooled, the throbbing beat shooting through his hand, up into his wrist, focused the drumming thoughts.
He had things to do. What a mess Merlin had made.