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The grey, waning light of dusk renews the doubts Arthur has confessed privately to Guinevere, though he will speak of them to no one else. Would they not have been better off facing the enemy at Camelot?
Even now, despite Guinevere’s assurances, he doesn’t know whether the decision to ride out and meet Morgana’s army at Camlann is in the best interest of the kingdom. He told his advisors they owe it to the people to defend them, but if his army is defeated at Camlann and Camelot falls, what protection will his subjects have then?
There is much he does not know: Whether the dark, glowering threat of Morgana’s bitter vengeance will finally be lifted. Who will win the day and who will live to see another. But this he knows in his bones, with a certainty he cannot name: He is meant to be at Camlann this day.
And then there is Merlin. Merlin, who is not here. Merlin, who gave him some cock and bull story about an urgent errand for vital supplies. What could be more vital than the war with Morgana? Than Camelot’s very survival? Something is not right, and Merlin’s absence makes everything seem wrong. Dangerous.
Arthur surveys his men arrayed around him, waiting for the impending clash of armies, their skin burning in anticipation of the blood that will be spilled this night, and he feels Merlin’s absence keenly. It is like standing naked and vulnerable, his cuirass forgotten or his sword unsharpened, though he doesn’t know exactly why.
Merlin had laid out Arthur’s armor as a last token of--what? Duty? Fealty?--before telling him he would not accompany Arthur to Camlann. It had been a feeble gesture.
“You know, Merlin,” Arthur had said. “All those jokes about you being a coward...I never really meant any of them. I always thought you were the bravest man I ever met. Guess I was wrong.”
Wrong? No. Arthur knows the limits of his own wisdom, but he does know a coward when he sees one, and Merlin is no coward. Merlin has marched by his side directly into the mouth of hell too many times, the dangers all too real for Merlin’s bravery to have been feigned. No man who is a slave to fear or who places the value of his own skin above all else could have pulled it off, again and again, only to succumb now, in Arthur’s hour of greatest need.
There is something else at work here. If not a coward, then what? This line of thinking awakens prickling doubts that Arthur has kept buried in the darkest recesses of his mind. Deep down, he suspects Merlin is mystery and artifice wrapped in callowness and folly. Arthur is, after all, his father’s son, and Uther was nothing if not careful. He taught Arthur never to be overly credulous, but to read people’s deepest secrets, to look for veiled agendas and hidden motives. On some level, he has long known that Merlin is not what he seems. What young man is so unafraid to challenge his betters, as Merlin has been since the day they met? What servant sticks his nose into affairs so far above his station with such little regard for propriety? And yet Arthur has hidden his suspicions away, unwilling to take them out and examine them in the cold light of day. He has never admitted, even to himself, that his ignorance regarding Merlin is willful; never allowed himself to wonder whom he is protecting, and why.
So why is Camlann so different from all those other threats that he and Merlin have faced together?
And how, in the name of all that is sacred, did it come to Arthur in his sleep--and unmistakably in Merlin’s voice--that Morgana would try to outflank his army using a mountain pass he hadn’t known existed?
The waiting, with nothing but his doubts and fears to keep him company, is nearly unbearable. Surrounded by his knights--the men who own his heart more securely than he does himself--Arthur feels entirely alone, like a sailor stranded on a naked rock in the midst of an angry, whipping sea. He shifts restlessly and kicks futilely at the dirt, as if sheer force of will might break the dam that holds back time and hasten the battle. By nightfall, they will come, Morgana and her Saxon hoards. This is no time to fixate on an enigmatic servant. With so much hanging in the balance--the kingdom, the crown, the lives of his soldiers and his subjects--why do his thoughts circle endlessly back to Merlin?
Damn Merlin and damn them all. Would this waiting never end?
The questions are too unsettling, and Arthur does what he has always done: pushes them back down into the darkness from which they’ve risen. The time is nearly at hand. He must play the king for the sake of his men and find the words to inspire, the courage to lead.
“Tonight, we do battle,” Arthur tells his gathered army. “Tonight, we end this war.”
Yes. But how?
______________________
The battle is joined, and Arthur has lost himself in it. In the chaotic clash of men and metal, the din of fury, the smell of blood, Arthur’s mind is finally clear. His yesterdays melt away; his past is without substance; his doubts evaporate as if they never existed at all. There is only this moment, this thrust, this slash, this parry, this foe, this kill. He is more alive than he has ever been or is ever likely to be, in part simply because he is not dead. So many others are, already; some by his own blade, some by the blades of his men, and too many by the blades of the enemy. The battle cries of the living mingle with the anguished imprecations of the dying.
As he whirls and cuts in cold fury, the earth beneath his feet grows slick with the mingled blood of the fallen. The ground is quickly littered with the bodies of the dead and dying. How many, and in whose colors, he cannot say. Even if he could stop to look, the dark veil of night would make it impossible to distinguish Morgana’s men from his own. The torchlight by which the slaughter proceeds is enough only to see the enemy directly before his eyes--barely enough for that. The time will come for each side to count their dead like gamblers tallying their losses, but that time is not now. There is only the next adversary; the next blade; the next man to die at his hands. Arthur kills and moves on to kill again.
He no longer wastes his energy wondering how it has come to this. The time for questioning is past, or perhaps it has yet to come. There is no room for doubt on the battlefield--only blood to be spilled.
As Arthur plunges his sword deeply into the vitals of yet another unfortunate Saxon, a noise fills the air, so loud that it drowns the din of war, a sound different from that of men fighting and dying. Arthur looks up to see a monster swooping from on high, a dragon screeching in unearthly fury as it bears down upon the battlefield. The creature’s breath of flame garishly lights the night sky, momentarily illuminating the carnage like a grisly tableau on a gigantic stage. There is no time to run, nowhere to take cover, so the men on the field crouch and shield their heads beneath their arms. The heat as the beast passes is scorching, a reminder of the terrible pain that accompanies death by fire.
The dragon makes another pass, closer this time. The hairs beneath his armor singe, and Arthur smells scorched flesh nearby, where men have born the full brunt of the attack. But soon the dragon wheels and climbs, moving off. Arthur feels his gorge rise. To fight with strength of arms is brutal, but at least it is honorable. This--this is a cowardly gambit.
With the dragon’s cry still shrill in his ears, Arthur rises and whirls, acting on blind instinct a fraction of a second before a Saxon broadsword can cleave his skull. The dragon has proven a greater distraction to the men of Camelot than to Morgana’s army, who no doubt expected its appearance. As Arthur parries and lunges for the kill, he curses himself for his momentary lapse. He cannot afford even the slightest mistake. There are no second chances here; too much thinking can get a man killed.
He turns again, his blade catching two attackers mid-air as they leap toward him. Excalibur becomes a blur as Arthur wields it with the freedom of a warrior bent on the absolute destruction of everything in his path. He lunges and kills; slashes and kills; he has no idea how many his blade has felled, and still they come, enemies hungry for a taste of his steel. His chest heaves with the effort, but he dares not wonder how long his strength can last. He whirls and strikes yet again...
...and his sword catches nothing, only empty space meeting his blade this time. The force of his motion nearly carries him off his feet as he is blinded by the crackle and flash of a powerful lightning bolt, and then another.
All around him, his enemies fall, lying motionless where they land. It is beyond his comprehension, and Arthur raises his eyes to search for an explanation.
An old man stands atop a nearby hillock, his flowing white hair bright as the moon against the blood-red night sky, a long staff resting by his side. Arthur recognizes him immediately: It is the sorcerer. The one who promised--and failed--to save his father.
The old man’s eyes are locked on Arthur, and he senses a familiar spark in that penetrating gaze.
The sorcerer raises his staff and lightning splits the night again, felling still more of Arthur’s enemies. Again, and again, until half the Saxon army lies senseless--dead?--and the other half breaks and runs in panicked, disordered retreat.
The turn of events is so sudden that Arthur can barely register it before a familiar, blood-curdling sound returns--Morgana’s dragon, swooping through the crimson-stained darkness, heading straight toward them. Standing exposed on open ground, Arthur can only stare at the beast as it grows closer and brace himself for the tongue of flame that must assuredly find him.
A voice rises from the hilltop. It is the sorcerer calling out in strange words, his tone deep and ragged, as though the very mountains themselves have learned to speak. Though Arthur does not understand the language, he recognizes the note of absolute authority and command that will brook no defiance. The dragon cuts off its attack and turns back as the rumble of the sorcerer’s voice dies on the wind, carrying the monster harmlessly away.
The sight lifts Arthur’s spirits and kindles hope in his heart.
“For the love of Camelot!” Arthur calls, twirling his sword in sign of victory. His men heed his call and surge forward, and Arthur leads them in pursuit of the retreating Saxons, the sorcerer’s lightning bolts guiding the way.
__________________________
The battle is waning now. The sorcerer has turned the tide. Some few of the enemy still stand and fight. Arthur engages them as they arise and dispatches them with little grace. This is not a court tournament or a contest of knights pridefully demonstrating their skills. It is an ugly job to be done as quickly and efficiently as possible. Arthur takes no pleasure in it.
The ranks of both armies have thinned, and what remain are spread out in the disarray of flight and pursuit. It is easier now to see the extent of the slaughter. He stops here and there to give comfort to those of his men with enough life left in them to ask of him their due: a few words or a touch from the king for whom they have sacrificed their lives. It is man’s imperfect nature to crave the notice of rank and title, even at the moment the soul is about to cross over to a place where such things can have no meaning. It saddens Arthur, but as king and living symbol of the greatness that is Albion, he will not forsake its people. If the dying take comfort in him, then so be it.
In all his life, Arthur has known only one man who can show so little respect for the outward signs and badges of power, but who can sometimes offer such sound counsel as to its proper use: Merlin. What’s more, where others look for a king in order to find greatness, Merlin looks for greatness in order to find a king--and failing to find greatness, refuses to acknowledge the king. Merlin alone possesses the instinct to look at the heart and not the trappings when taking the measure of a man. Perhaps that is why Arthur misses Merlin so much now, when he feels so humbled by the sacrifices made in his name, under his banner.
A scarlet-cloaked knight sprawled upon the field reaches up, and Arthur kneels beside him, barely touching his shoulder before the last breath leaves his body. Arthur’s face falls when he feels the chest rise no more. He is beginning to feel the toll this day has taken, now that the wild furor of battle is past. He is weary in body and unsettled in mind. Were it not for the sorcerer, things might have gone very differently--would have gone very differently.
Who is he? What does he want?
Arthur still crouches beside the fallen knight when he hears the rasp of unsheathed steel behind him. He rises and turns just in time to meet it with the flat of his own blade. Rearing back, he prepares to lunge and deal his hundredth death blow of the day.
But he stops.
Mordred. The Druid boy. His own knight, until recently as dear to him as all the rest.
The moment Arthur hesitates, Mordred drives his blade home.
Arthur breathes once. Twice. His eyes lock on the younger man’s, eyes so blue he thinks he looks right through them to a summer sky. Another breath, and Arthur falls to his knees.
“You gave me no choice,” Mordred says. An explanation? An apology?
Arthur fills with rage at this betrayal. He staggers to his feet and lurches forward, plunging his sword into the yielding flesh, pausing before mustering all his strength to draw it out again.
With a faint smile on his lips, Mordred falls at Arthur’s feet, dead. Arthur turns to walk away.
One step. Two steps. Three, and he is on the ground.
King Arthur would see no more of the Battle of Camlann.
_____________________
Arthur wakes with a start and a sharp intake of breath. He feels the gentle warmth of a fire at his feet and struggles to see by its dim light. Someone is here with him.
“Merlin,” he says, before pain sears through his side and erases all thought for a moment; his back arches and he cries out in agony. Merlin is at his side in a flash, urging him to lie back.
“My side,” he gasps, his head reeling. He reaches for Merlin, grasping him by the shoulder and hanging on with all his ebbing might. Arthur has been wounded before, many times. It never felt like this. His side burns like there are glowing coals pressed to his skin, yet at the same time he is filled with an icy numbness - like the place where Mordred’s sword pierced him is already dead and sucking the vitality from the rest of his body, dragging him inexorably toward cold and silence.
“You are bleeding,” says Merlin, holding fast to Arthur’s arm, as if it were a rope by which he might prevent Arthur from drifting away.
“That’s all right. I thought I was dying.” His attempt at lightness rings hollow in his own ears. He fears he may have hit on the truth.
But before he has time to think about it--to wonder if he is in fact dying--Merlin is spouting some nonsense about defying a prophecy, about not being in time, and Arthur struggles to focus and make sense of what he’s saying. “I defeated the Saxons. The dragon.” Merlin is choking on the words, his face contorted with the effort of holding back tears. “And yet I knew it was Mordred that I must stop.”
Arthur smiles weakly and pats Merlin’s shoulder. Here I lie, mortally wounded, and Merlin’s the one being overly dramatic, he thinks. Typical. He marshals his strength to set Merlin straight.
“The person who defeated them was the sorcerer,” he says, as if explaining something incredibly simple to a very small child. He looks for the light of understanding to dawn in Merlin’s eyes, but instead his face crumples into a twisted mask of misery, and he grips Arthur harder--so hard that the links of Arthur’s chain mail press painfully into his arm.
“It was me,” Merlin says, his voice hitching on the words.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Arthur insists. Merlin is sobbing now, and Arthur frowns in confusion. “This is stupid. Why would you say that?”
“I’m a...” Merlin starts, and the words die in his throat. He pauses, takes a breath, and tries again. “I’m a sorcerer. I have magic.”
Arthur’s eyes grow wide. He fears Merlin’s mind has been affected by grief or something worse. Yes, that must be it. What other explanation could there be? The sorcerer was an old man, not this youthful, comfortably familiar face before him. But Merlin is not finished.
“And I use it for you, Arthur. Only for you.”
“Merlin, you are not a sorcerer. I would know.” And yet, already, from the dark recesses of his mind comes unbidden the thought, And I did. I did know. But I did not want to believe that the one person who professes unswerving faith in me has been the greatest liar of them all.
By way of reply, Merlin turns toward the fire, holds out his hand and whispers strange words. The flames rise and fall back, and there, hovering in empty space, a tiny dragon flares into existence, flaps wings of orange flame, and fades to nothing. It’s like a dream or a fevered hallucination, except that Merlin is here, too; Merlin is still gripping his arm like a lifeline. He doesn’t feel like a hallucination.
Arthur tries to speak but cannot find words, his world crashing in on him with the brutal force of a nightmare made real.
_______________________
Arthur is five years old, standing on a balcony overlooking the courtyard of the citadel, holding his father’s hand. The people are gathered below looking up at them, silently awaiting the words of King Uther, words they hope will bring reason and solace to a world filled with madness and terror. In their midst rises a pyre so great, young Arthur imagines it holds all the firewood in Camelot. Atop the pile, bound tightly to the stake, stands a frail old woman, her head bowed in shame or exhaustion - Arthur cannot tell which.
“Before you,” Uther begins in the deep, rolling tones that the child Arthur associates with everything strong, true and wise, “stands an evil so foul that it cannot be allowed to survive. This woman is a sorcerer!”
The word sends a chill to the young prince’s bones. If Arthur has learned anything in his five years with his father, it is that Uther embodies strength and fortitude and spurns weakness and cowardice. The king fears no man, living or dead; he lives in the absolute belief that his own strength and the might of Camelot will vanquish all enemies.
Yet here is something that Uther seems to fear--a weak old woman bound to a stake. He must fear her, or else why bind her so tightly? Why warn the people against her? Sorcery, Arthur reasons, is the only thing Uther fears; the only evil that threatens even a king. Uther the mighty, Uther the valiant, shies from it like a child from a misshapen shadow in the night. Sorcery is the name, Arthur learns, for every nightmare he has ever had.
The pyre is lit, and Arthur watches the old woman burn. He hears her screams, smells her flesh roast. And he sees his father smile.
Arthur looks at Merlin with fear in his eyes.
“Leave me.”
“Arthur...”
“Don’t. Just... You heard. Just....” Arthur tries to turn away, but the pitiless pain in his side won’t allow him even that small comfort.
Merlin rises, sorrowful, and does as he is told. But he does not go far.
____________________________________
Arthur has slept fitfully through what remained of the night, but between the physical pain and the mental anguish, he has found no true rest. When the sun finally rises, it brings no comfort. Merlin, it seems, has been awake all night tending the fire. Arthur feigns sleep to avoid any further discourse with him. Merlin’s confession made a fitting climax to a night of absolute treachery. Morgana, his sister, bent on usurping his throne, waged war on him and nearly won; Mordred, his knight, bent on his destruction, has brought him to the precarious brink between life and death. And Merlin...Merlin is a sorcerer.
Merlin...who defeated the Saxons. “For you, Arthur. Only for you.”
Arthur’s head spins. He has lost too much blood to think clearly, yet there is so much he must try to fathom.
“Any change?”
Arthur recognizes the voice instantly: Gaius. He sees a chance now. Perhaps Gaius will help him escape. It has been torture, lying helpless on the ground through these long, cold hours, at the mercy of a sorcerer. Merlin has remained stubbornly by his side and has done nothing to threaten him--only obeyed his one request, to be left alone. But he has magic, so he is not to be trusted.
Gaius is by his side now. Merlin is nattering on about yarrow, lady’s mantle and sticklewort. Arthur can’t follow it, but hears the urgency in the voice. It has something to do with him, he knows. Merlin sounds worried, and Gaius sends him away to tend to the horses. Arthur sees his chance. He opens his eyes and reaches for the old healer, using all his strength to draw Gaius close.
“He’s a sorcerer,” Arthur says, relieved to have finally said it aloud, half afraid the words might themselves hold some dangerous magic. Gaius is oddly unmoved, and Arthur realizes his mistake. He falls back, disappointed. “You knew.”
“Arthur,” says Gaius, leaning close, “he is your friend.”
“I want him gone.”
“There is no need to fear him.” No need? The old man is either enchanted or mad, Arthur thinks. Probably both. But then, Merlin has been living in close quarters with Gaius for years. He’s had every opportunity to cast all manner of spells on him, to place the court physician under his control. For that matter, Merlin has come and gone freely throughout Camelot. He could have cast his spells on any lord, any knight. On the king himself.
And yet Arthur does not believe he has been enchanted, despite Merlin having had every opportunity. It is a riddle to him, one his pain- and fatigue-addled mind cannot solve. He needs more time.
“Have him take word to Camelot....to Guinevere.” It is a desperate ploy to put Merlin at greater remove, but Gaius refuses, telling Arthur that Merlin can do more for him than any physician. Arthur turns away, frustrated.
“Arthur, he doesn’t just have magic. There are those who say he is the greatest sorcerer ever to walk the Earth.”
Arthur turns and stares at Gaius in disbelief. “Merlin?” It’s the most preposterous thing he’s ever heard. His bumbling servant--the most powerful sorcerer in the world? No. And yet...the old man defeated the Saxons and sent the dragon packing. If he and Merlin really are one and the same...
It’s all too confusing, and Arthur cannot make the pieces of this maddening puzzle fit together.
“If you are to stand any chance of survival, you’ll need Merlin to help you. Not me,” Gaius insists.
Arthur says nothing.
___________________
Lying near the fading warmth of the dying fire, Arthur slowly realizes that the searing pain in his side is easing, only to be replaced by a spreading numbness; cold is defeating heat in the war for his body and his soul. Though perhaps, he thinks, this inability to feel, to be moved or to care about his own fate, is not entirely the injury’s fault. He has been trying to sort this Merlin business out, to look at it with clarity, evaluate the threat, define the treachery, determine how to proceed. But when he tries to focus his mind on these questions, they slip away like vapors over a misty marsh, and he is left only with a sense of emptiness, as though he has been drained not just of blood and of strength, but of everything he ever thought he knew, everything he trusted, everything he believed. His thoughts wander like echoes bouncing back and forth inside his head and growing ever more faint, until they are the merest whispers of distant memories.
“Arthur,” says Merlin, approaching for the first time since being sent away. Arthur turns his head only enough to see Merlin out of the corner of his eye. “We need to leave at first light."
Leave? Oh yes. Arthur vaguely recalls hearing Merlin and Gaius speak of a sword that was forged in a dragon’s breath; of a place called Avalon where they might find a magical cure for his injury.
“I’ll decide,” he replies.
“I can’t let you die.”
At this, Arthur looks Merlin in the eye for the first time since his confession, wondering what it is this stranger, this mighty sorcerer, wants. “It doesn’t change anything,” he says, and turns away again.
Gaius calls Merlin away and tells him to let Arthur sleep. “You were right to tell him,” Gaius says.
No, thinks Arthur. You were wrong not to have told me before.
At last, Arthur realizes, he feels something behind the cold, creeping numbness. It is anger, and he welcomes it.
____________________
A new morning dawns. Arthur has managed to get a few hours of relatively undisturbed sleep and is strong enough to move. Much as he would prefer to rest and think, he knows he does not have that luxury. He heard Merlin and Gaius speak of rogue Saxons roaming the woods and realizes they will be all the more dangerous in their thirst to avenge their losses and the lives of their fallen comrades. It is not safe to stay in one place too long. He said it would be his choice whether to go with Merlin, but in the end he has no alternative. Whether Arthur needs a physician or a sorcerer, Gaius is simply too old and frail to travel with a badly wounded man who cannot even mount his horse unassisted.
That’s how Arthur comes to find himself being boosted into the saddle by Merlin, from whom he had been desperate to get away a few scant hours earlier. Arthur is still very weak, and his side has grown stiff with cold and disuse. He sits slumped and awkward, a far cry from the graceful horseman he had been - was it only two days ago? - when he first arrived at Camlann. Yes. Two days that feel like a lifetime.
He fumbles to remove the royal seal he wears hanging from a leather thong around his neck. Ignoring Merlin, he calls for Gaius.
“Give this to Guinevere,” he says, handing him the seal. “If I am to die, I can think of no one who I would rather succeed me.” Of Guinevere’s heart, at least, Arthur is certain. He has been wrong about everyone else, but not her. Morgana sought to usurp him; Mordred, to murder him; and Merlin...
What had Merlin sought? Arthur closes his eyes, trying again to make the pieces fit. He still cannot reconcile the powerful sorcerer of Camlann with the servant who has remained by him, tending the fire and standing guard, serving him as faithfully as ever. He suspects Merlin has not closed his eyes once since yesterday.
Gaius takes the seal and grasps Arthur’s hand in both of his. Arthur takes some small comfort in the gesture, though he knows that Gaius, too, has lied to him for years.
The old man turns back to Merlin. “How long does he have?” Merlin asks.
“At best, two days.”
Arthur is fairly sure he wasn’t meant to hear that--as though he doesn’t already know. He can feel it in his marrow; the life inexorably ebbing from his body, being sucked into the hungry wound that gapes in his side. Two days. He’ll be lucky to have that.
“I’ll have your favorite meal waiting for you,” Gaius tells Merlin, embracing him as though he expects never to see him again. “Now go. Look after him.”
Whatever Merlin is, Arthur realizes, Gaius loves him and believes in him with all his heart. Strange.
_____________________
Arthur has been riding behind Merlin for what could be hours or days; he quickly loses track. His broken body bumps along, hunched awkwardly over the back of his horse, but his thoughts float untethered, his mind aware but unfeeling. Disconnected images and sensations come and go: sunrise over Camelot; the smell of baking bread wafting from the castle kitchens; his mother’s face as she appeared to him by Morgause’s spell; his father on his deathbed. Arthur is helpless to control his thoughts but manages to remember to do one thing: follow Merlin. For long stretches, he doesn’t even remember why. Now and then the parade of random thoughts is interrupted by the vague idea that he must work something out, solve some riddle, but try as he might, it’s no use. The face of a childhood friend or a fallen knight floats up and absconds with his thoughts, leaving him bumping along, staring at the horse’s mane just inches before his eyes, unable to remember from whence he came or where he is going. Just follow Merlin, he thinks. It’s all he can do.
The sound of galloping hoofbeats brings Arthur back to himself enough to feel a stab of fear. Someone is after them, he remembers. Someone...
“Saxons. I’ll deal with them,” says Merlin, his voice low and tight as he draws his horse up. Arthur’s mount, grown accustomed to following, stops as well. Merlin dismounts, grabs a blanket from his saddle and throws it over Arthur to hide the battle armor he still wears. “Keep your head down. Don’t speak.”
Arthur huddles beneath the blanket as Merlin hails the Saxons, calling for help and telling them a story about having been ambushed by knights of Camelot. Arthur has regained enough sense to know that their situation is perilous. These men would gladly kill him and Merlin where they stand - or worse yet, turn them over to Morgana, if she yet lives. Merlin’s hastily fabricated tale of knights attacking their camp is unconvincing, Arthur knows. This doesn’t look good.
Sure enough, the Saxons are skeptical. Arthur considers drawing his sword as one of the men approaches, but his strength fails him and he just sits there, helpless. The man tugs the blanket from Arthur’s shoulders, revealing the armor of a knight, the sword of a king. Arthur is powerless to prevent whatever is about to happen and braces himself as the two strangers draw their swords.
A moment later, Arthur is reminded of the thing he has forgotten. Merlin raises his hands as if shoving the empty air before him, and in a heartbeat, the two men are hurtling backward like puppets yanked by an invisible string.
Arthur stares, dumbfounded, the truth about Merlin rushing back to him. “You’ve lied to me all this time,” he says, staring in disbelief. The thought plagues him. Merlin is a sorcerer, but more than that: Merlin is a liar. Arthur had trusted him, and he had lied. Arthur does not yet fully understand the nature of the betrayal; right now, it is enough to recognize it as one.
_________________________
They ride on, more hours spent hunched in the saddle, but now Arthur’s mind is strangely focused. Merlin has magic. Merlin lied. And a new thought demands his attention: Why?
As the light begins to fail, they stop to make camp. Merlin carefully eases Arthur from his horse and lowers him to the ground, placing his head gently on a soft saddlebag before going about the mundane business of laying out provisions and gathering firewood. By nightfall, he has a good-size pile of kindling and is attempting to light it with flint and steel. Arthur watches as Merlin strikes the flint futilely, over and over.
“Why don’t you use magic?” Arthur asks at last.
“Habit, I suppose,” replies Merlin, so quietly Arthur can barely hear him. Merlin turns to look at Arthur quizzically. With the barest nod, Arthur gestures toward the pile of unlit wood. Merlin holds his gaze a moment longer, then turns back to the kindling, and a cheerful blaze bursts forth.
“Feels strange,” Merlin says, gazing into the flames.
“Yeah,” Arthur agrees, not sure whether he is referring to Merlin’s magic or his own willingness to let him use it. But they have to have a fire, and it seems pointless to waste time and energy doing it the usual way. Merlin rises to set out their blankets.
“Thought I knew you,” Arthur ventures, not sure why he’s pursuing this now. But the question will not rest: Why?
“I’m still the same person,” says Merlin--rather absurdly, Arthur thinks. The same person? The Merlin of his acquaintance is not the greatest sorcerer ever to walk the Earth. He has his good qualities, yes, but they do not extend to the supernatural or the superhuman. He’s barely mastered stable-mucking and armor-polishing.
“I trusted you.” That’s the truth of it. He had trusted Merlin. It isn’t so much the fact of the magic eating away at Arthur; it’s the betrayal - the latest in a long line of them. Arthur didn’t know how deeply he had trusted Merlin until that trust was broken. Not even Morgana’s treachery had shaken Arthur as profoundly as this. Why?
Merlin pokes at the fire sadly. “I’m sorry.” He sounds sincere.
“I’m sorry too,” says Arthur, but he’s not sure exactly what he’s sorry for. The awkwardness between them is terrible. Arthur almost wishes Merlin had never told him, had kept him in blissful ignorance. Almost.
Merlin turns from the fire and eases Arthur’s boots from his feet.
“What are you doing?” asks Arthur, exasperated at the small familiarity of the gesture when so much of importance is still left unsaid.
“They need drying,” replies Merlin in a tone that dares Arthur to protest.
Why? thinks Arthur. Why is a powerful sorcerer concerning himself with the state of my boots?
Merlin ignores the unasked question hanging in the air and sets the boots to dry by the fire. Arthur watches him in silence as night closes in around them, blotting out the world, leaving him alone, puzzled, and drowsy, in a small circle of firelight with the greatest sorcerer ever to walk the Earth. He quickly drifts off to sleep.
____________________
Arthur, heart pumping, lungs heaving, muscles aching in protest, cannot rest or forsake the blind fury that drives him. He is on a bare hill in moonlight, alone, surrounded by a vast army of enemies who rush up and crash over the crest of the hill like waves on a rocky shore. Sharp steel like salty spray rains down on him from every side. He whirls and swings and dives desperately, but they are too many, and he is but one. For every man he cuts down in his frenzy, two more come, or three, or ten. This battle is lost. It was lost before it began.
Arthur searches the horizon for any sign of his own men, knights who will stand by his side and give him their allegiance, their swords, the sweat on their brows and the blood in their veins; who will gladly throw their bodies before him to catch the blows and stop the blades. Who will break and bleed and die for him.
But they do not come. Only the enemy in wave after wave, as far as the eye can see.
Arthur feels the hot ooze of his blood beneath his armor where their blades have pierced him. It burns like fire where it trails across his skin.
“For the love of Camelot!” he cries, but the words refuse to take form, instead dying on the wind, barely a whisper. His sword swings no longer; he has fallen to his knees, holding his weapon over his head in a futile attempt to shield himself from the blows that rain down mercilessly. He gasps for breath as though he’s drowning.
“I am Arthur Pendragon,” he tries to tell them. “I am the king. I command you to stop.” But they will not listen, or they do not care. It’s like asking waves to stop crashing on the shore. The next blow will kill me, he thinks.
But the next blow does not come.
There is a deafening crash, and a bright white light banishes the night. He looks up and sees the faces of his enemies, surprised and frightened, twisted in terror as they fall lifeless to the ground. He rises to his feet and looks around him. Every last man lies on the battlefield with the same expression of horror frozen on his face like a gruesome death mask.
Silence now. No voice, no gust of wind disturbs the scene. As Arthur gazes at the horizon, a form takes shape in the distance--a lone figure moving slowly toward him, painstakingly picking its way across the blood-soaked field, over the bodies of the dead. It fills him with dread, but he cannot turn, cannot run. Held in place as though by an unseen hand, he prays for the figure to be gone, a figment of his imagination or a trick of the light. But it isn’t; it grows inexorably closer.
After what seems an eternity, he recognizes the shape of a woman, her dress in tatters, her hair hanging in tangled clumps, only the whites of her eyes, wide and unblinking, visible in a face shrouded in shadow. Step by step she approaches; he struggles to make out her features, but he cannot.
She reaches the little hill on which he stands and begins to climb, painfully slowly, moving as though the weight of her own body is more than she can bear. At long last, she arrives before him and stops.
“Arthur Pendragon,” she says in a voice too hollow to be human, yet unsettlingly familiar.
“Who are you?” he asks, raising his sword and pointing it toward her.
“Arthur Pendragon,” she says. “I will not rest until you are dead and your kingdom is no more.”
As if at her command, a sudden gust of wind arises, and dark clouds that had been obscuring a bright moon swirl and disappear. A beam of pure white moonlight falls full upon her face.
Kara. The Druid girl. Mordred’s true love.
She is not as she was when he saw her last: proud, defiant, standing erect and fearless upon the gallows before he nodded his command to the executioner. Now her hair is matted and soaked with blood; her arms are covered in gore to the shoulders, and she carries a sword dripping as though she has slain an army; her face is blotched and bloated as it was when they cut her down.
Arthur is choked by the foul stench of her. “You could have repented,” he says.
“I could not repent a crime I did not commit. It is not a crime to fight for your freedom. It is not a crime to fight for the right to be who you are. You deserve everything that’s coming to you, Arthur Pendragon.” He remembers those words; he has heard them in his head a thousand times since her execution.
“It’s not too late...” he pleads, desperate to make her see, to make her understand--to make her whole.
Kara raises a hand; Arthur’s sword flies from his grasp and clatters down the hill. She raises her own blade and prepares to strike him.
From the surrounding gloom comes another voice: “I have magic, and I use it for you, Arthur. Only for you.”
The old sorcerer appears beside him, staff raised, and a bolt of lightning leaps toward the girl.
“NO!” Arthur cries, but he is too late. Kara falls lifeless before him, her face twisted into a mask of terror like all the others.
The sorcerer has saved his life, but it does not feel like salvation.
_______________________
Arthur wakes from his fitful sleep feeling exhausted and weaker, but oddly more himself than he has been in days. Merlin is already up and busying himself over the fire. Arthur watches him for several minutes before Merlin notices he is awake. When he does, Merlin ladles steaming broth from the pot into a bowl and carries it over.
“This will be good for you,” says Merlin, sitting beside Arthur and raising a spoon to his mouth. Arthur stubbornly ignores it. “You need to eat.”
“Why are you doing this?” Arthur asks peevishly. “Why are you still behaving like a servant?” He regrets it the moment he says it, cringing at the whine in his voice. He fears he sounds less like a wounded monarch than a tetchy child. He hadn’t really meant to give Merlin a peek at his inner demons, his insecure suspicion that he has played the fool in Merlin’s grand charade.
The truth is, Arthur is beginning to realize that, for years, he has behaved like a small child pompously ordering his nanny about, never realizing that she is fondly indulging his whims when all the while she could, if she chose, take him over her knee and give him a sound spanking. If he were inclined to be entirely honest, Arthur might even admit that what bothers him more than Merlin’s flouting of the law and the truth is the damage Merlin has done to his pride.
Merlin lowers the spoon and stares thoughtfully into the bowl a moment, then sets it on the ground and looks at Arthur, a knowing smile playing at the corners of his lips. Arthur wonders if Merlin the Sorcerer reads minds, too.
“It’s my destiny,” Merlin says, “as it has been since the day we met.”
Not an entirely satisfactory answer, but a diplomatic one, Arthur realizes. You can’t control destiny. Or be embarrassed about it.
Arthur offers a small smile in return. “I tried to take your head off with a mace.”
“And I stopped you...using magic.”
“You cheated.” Destiny is all well and good, but it’s nevertheless humbling to realize one has not always had the upper hand one thought one had. The warmth with which Merlin looks at him now soothes the sting of humiliation, but doesn’t erase it.
“You were going to kill me,” Merlin says, laughing.
“Should have.”
Merlin’s face falls; he can’t tell how Arthur means it. “Glad you didn’t.”
Arthur turns away, suddenly awkward again.
Merlin leans close, forcing Arthur to look at him. “I do this because of who you are. Without you, Camelot’s nothing.”
Can Arthur doubt him? Not really. When has Merlin ever done anything to promote his own interest? Merlin’s deception was never personal, never designed to advance himself or to diminish others. Never, Arthur is starting to believe, to diminish him. Quite the opposite.
“There was a time when that was true...but not now,” Arthur replies with newfound humility, but he can’t keep the regret from his voice. “There are many who can fill the crown.”
“There will never be another like you, Arthur.” Merlin’s tone is low and reverent. The words settle over Arthur like a comforting benediction. An unspoken doubt is settled in his mind. Merlin is a true believer in him. And he always has been.
Merlin picks up the spoon in one hand and gently cradles Arthur’s head in the other. “And I also do this because you’re my friend, and I don’t want to lose you,” he says, raising the food to Arthur’s lips. The king opens his mouth and allows himself to be fed, wondering if Merlin has entirely made his peace with destiny.
___________
The energy Arthur gains from what little he can swallow for breakfast does not last. The sun has climbed only a little higher when Merlin helps him to a seat on a fallen tree and busies himself breaking camp and readying the horses. Arthur slips from alertness to semi-consciousness and back again. If there had been any doubt that Mordred’s sword was imbued with some kind of magic, there could be none now. The wound in Arthur’s side is sapping his strength, and not in the usual manner, where infection and fever set in. The icy numbness of this injury makes him feel as though he is partly dead already. It’s like a presence whispering to him of an early grave. Arthur fights it with all the strength he has left, but he knows he is losing. When he can no longer hold himself upright, Merlin rushes to his side and catches him before he falls to the ground.
“Arthur...you need to hold on. One more day...one more day...” With gentle hands--Merlin could be so gentle--he wipes the sweat from Arthur’s brow and brings a waterskin to his lips.
“Why did you never tell me?” Arthur asks, as if in a dream.
“I wanted to, but...”
“What?” Arthur frowns in concentration. This is important.
“You’d have chopped my head off,” Merlin finishes.
“I’m not sure what I’d have done.”
“And I didn’t want to put you in that position.”
“That’s what worried you?” Arthur feels he is getting at the heart of the thing now, this knotty problem that weighs on his mind. This puzzle. This sorcerer-servant. This Merlin.
“Some men are born to plow fields. Some live to be great physicians. Others...to be great kings. Me...I was born to serve you, Arthur. And I’m proud of that. And I wouldn’t change a thing.”
And the thing of it is--the thought shines clear in Arthur’s muddled mind like the North Star on a hazy night--I believe him. His heart swells--the part of it where love and loyalty live, the part that no wound, even a magical one, can touch.
“Ready?”
Arthur nods feebly and Merlin takes his arm, raises him up, and somehow manages to get him onto his horse. Arthur is weak as a lamb now. He can see the fear growing in Merlin’s eyes, but strangely, his own fear is receding. He will follow Merlin, but he begins to think the quest for Avalon is more Merlin’s than his. His own quest, Arthur suspects, is very nearly complete.
________________________
The ride seems interminable, the passage of time, a blur. The struggle to stay in the saddle takes all Arthur’s attention; he hasn’t so much lost track of time as drowned in a flood of it, each moment lasting an eternity. But at least his mind is quieter and less troubled now; he has resigned himself to this endless quest, and he will follow Merlin until he can do so no longer, or until they reach their destination, whichever comes first.
The sun is high when Merlin reins his horse and holds up a warning hand. “Saxons,” he says. Arthur scans the silent woods and spots telltale wisps of smoke through the trees--a campfire. He groans inwardly, knowing he is of no use in a fight. Merlin stares intently toward the smoke, as though reading a message in its swirls. “They’re long gone,” he says at last, relieved.
“How do you know?” Arthur is more curious than suspicious now.
“I can see the path ahead,” Merlin replies, almost sheepishly.
“So you’re not an idiot. That was another lie.” That’s obvious now, but Arthur feels compelled to say it aloud.
“No. Just another part of my charm.” Merlin turns and flashes Arthur an unexpected smile, so warm that it cuts straight through his unnatural chill. Whatever cynical comment he was about to make dies on his lips. They ride on.
The next time Merlin stops, it is no false alarm; they turn their horses into a nearby coppice and dismount as three riders approach. With a whispered word from Merlin, the stillness of the day is broken by a gentle gust of wind that blows leaves across the trail, covering their tracks. The men draw dangerously near, but a mysterious rustling of trees in the other direction draws their attention, and they ride off, leaving Arthur and Merlin breathing sighs of relief.
Arthur can’t help but admire the subtlety with which it was done; the men will never suspect they were misled, never be able to look back and identify the moment they went wrong. After all, who would notice a breeze whispering in the trees?
“You’ve done this before,” Arthur says as they watch the men disappear in the distance. “All these years, Merlin, you never once sought any credit.”
“That’s not why I do it. Come on.” Merlin draws Arthur’s arm across his shoulders and takes his weight, offering no further explanation. Arthur is left to guess why Merlin does it--though now he thinks he knows.
____________________
As afternoon creeps toward evening, Arthur feels the last of his strength slipping away. It is nearly dark when Merlin sees him tilt precariously, nearly falling from the saddle. “Arthur!” Merlin is on the ground and at his side in a moment.
“I can’t go on.”
“There’s not far to go! We need to reach the lake before dawn.” Merlin is pleading, desperate.
“No, Merlin. No...” He’s not sure Merlin understands, but it’s all he can manage. He knows what Merlin does not: that by now, he is more not here than here. The cold, looming emptiness is winning. The world is growing dim and insubstantial around him; even his own voice sounds in his ears like it’s coming from a great distance. He is fading away with the day.
“All right then,” Merlin says through clenched teeth, resisting the urge to beg. “We rest for an hour.”
In a blessedly short while, Arthur is propped near a warm fire, drinking from Merlin’s waterskin. It is easier not to move; to let the stillness outside match the growing stillness within. But he can’t rest. Not yet. There is something more to say.
“Merlin.” His words are slurred now. He hopes he can make himself understood. Merlin leans close to hear. “Whatever happens....”
“Shhh...” Merlin interrupts. “Don’t talk.”
“I’m the king, Merlin. You can’t tell me what to do.”
Merlin snorts. “I always have. I’m not going to change now.”
You must, Arthur thinks. There isn’t much time.
“I don’t want you to change. I want you...to always...be you....I’m sorry about how I treated you...” Arthur begins to nod and struggles to hold onto his thoughts.
Merlin is looking at him with his heart in his eyes. “Hey...does that mean you’re going to give me a day off?” Arthur hears the false lightness; loves him for it.
“Two.”
“That’s generous.”
Arthur tries to smile, but he can’t hold up his head; he barely hears Merlin tell him to sleep, barely feels Merlin’s hand on his cheek, does not see the tears in his friend’s eyes; just slips into unconsciousness.
______________________
The time that crawls so slowly while he is awake disappears in a blink while he sleeps; it’s only a moment before Merlin is waking him, telling him they must get moving. It occurs to Arthur that he has no idea how. His body no longer feels like his own, and he doubts he can sit, let alone ride. But Merlin, ever the optimist, hoists him to his feet and somehow wrestles him onto his horse.
Some time later they stop and dismount; Arthur, barely awake, does not know the reason until he hears Merlin say, “Avalon.” The name should mean something to him, he thinks. It’s so important to Merlin....
But before he can remember, Merlin is leaping to his feet, calling out to the horses that are rearing and whinnying. But it’s no use, and the animals run off. That’s not right, Arthur thinks. They’re not supposed to do that...
A moment later, the reason for the horses’ terror appears. “Hello, Emrys.” It is Morgana, and the sound of her sets Arthur’s teeth on edge. With the slightest flick of her head, Merlin is sent flying. Arthur feels her cold hatred as she turns on him. He reaches for his sword, but it is not at his side.
“What a joy it is to see you, Arthur,” she says in a voice dripping with sarcasm. She looms over him where he lies on the ground. “Look at you. Not so tall and mighty now. You may have won the battle, but you’ve lost the war. You’re going to die by Mordred’s hand. Don’t worry, dear brother. I won’t let you die alone. I’ll stay and watch over you--till the wolves gorge on your carcass and bathe in your blood.”
Her hatred is palpable, a poison so foul he barely recognizes behind it the woman he once loved as a sister. Not like this, he thinks. This cannot be how it ends. Even now, after the terrible battle and bloodshed of Camlann, with her army in ruinous flight, she is not finished. Morgana will have her way--even if she stands to gain nothing but the hollow satisfaction of revenge.
Her attention is wholly focused on him, the target of her bitterness, so she fails to see what he sees: Merlin creeping up behind her, drawing Excalibur from its scabbard.
“No. The time for all this bloodshed is over,” Merlin says with quiet confidence. “I blame myself for what you’ve become. But this has to end.” Arthur cannot understand. Merlin blames himself? Merlin? What has Merlin to do with the vile thing Morgana has become? Another mystery he can’t fathom.
“I am a high priestess. No mortal blade can kill me.”
Merlin drives the sword home unhesitatingly, running her through in a single stroke. Morgana and Arthur gasp in unison.
“This is no mortal blade,” says Merlin, calm and low. “Like yours, it was forged in a dragon’s breath.” He cuts up through the viscera, making sure of the kill like the most battle-hardened warrior, lowering her to the ground before drawing the blade out. “Goodbye, Morgana.”
He’s done it...what an army could not...what my knights could not...what I could not. It’s over.
And, Arthur realizes, no one will ever know. The ultimate victory is Merlin’s, but for this, too, he will receive no credit. None but the gratitude of his king.
Merlin rushes to his side and hoists him up, determined to make for Avalon without delay. But Arthur will not let this moment pass unremarked. “You brought peace at last,” he says.
“Come on,” urges Merlin, chafing at the delay.
They must continue on foot, and it’s excruciatingly slow going. Merlin is bearing most of Arthur’s weight, half dragging him through dense underbrush and across brambled meadows, with Arthur contributing only the occasional stumbling step, more falling than walking. As the sun rises, the last of his strength is gone. Only Merlin’s urgent pleas to keep going prevent Arthur from dropping to the ground, utterly exhausted. But finally he can do no more; his legs will not carry him one more step, and he pitches backward, landing on top of Merlin.
“We have to make it to the lake,” Merlin begs.
“Not without the horses.” Arthur can barely speak. “We can’t...it’s too late...it’s too late...” Merlin is breathing hard, pinned beneath the larger man, struggling to raise him. Arthur is all but dead weight. “All your magic, Merlin...you can’t save my life.”
“I can. I’m not going to lose you.”
“Just...just...just hold me,” Arthur gasps, patting Merlin’s hand gently. “Please...” Merlin stops struggling and lies still, panting from exertion, desperation, and sheer frustration. Arthur leans back, head cradled on Merlin’s shoulder, their hands clasped together against Arthur’s chest. The dawn light spilling across the grass where they lie is powerless to lift the shadows before Arthur’s eyes. He turns his head and gazes, half unseeing, at Merlin. “There’s something I want to say.”
“You’re not going to say goodbye.”
“No...Merlin...Everything you’ve done...I know now...for me...for Camelot...for the kingdom you helped me build...” The words are halting and his voice cracks with the effort to say them, but Arthur has never spoken a greater truth. He feels his heart lighten with every word; this truth will free him.
“You’d have done it without me,” Merlin insists.
“Maybe.” Arthur manages a grin that is half grimace, as if to say, Idiot. Never. “I want to say something I’ve never said to you before.” He feels his throat closing around the words, but he will not be prevented. “Thank you.”
Arthur reaches up and strokes Merlin’s hair; his hand falls back and his eyes slip closed.
“Arthur! Arthur!” He hears Merlin’s broken voice calling him from very, very far away and opens his eyes. “Stay with me,” Merlin pleads, tearfully.
He wants to, but he cannot stay. He has made his peace with destiny.
Arthur closes his eyes and breathes his last, leaving Merlin to finish the journey without him.
--END--