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Lancelot was first into the room, bursting through the door despite the piercing scream coming from inside. An eerie chill washed over him as the Dorocha hurtled through the air in their direction, the faceless phantom shrieking for his death.
The torch in his hand still burned bright and he waved it desperately back and forth, watching as the Dorocha dispersed into dust, leaving Prince Arthur’s to be the only face staring back at him.
“What happened?” He asked, because it didn’t take a genius to work out that if Merlin was no longer at the prince’s side, something had gone wrong.
Arthur didn’t say a word, instead his head whipped round to face the back of the room and Lancelot felt his blood run cold. Not because of the Dorocha this time, but because of the unmoving body lying next to the wall. He passed the torch behind him, barely taking note of which of the knights took it from his grasp, and rushed over to his friend.
His hands felt numb as he turned Merlin to face them and any breath remaining in his body left him in an instant as unseeing eyes met his own. Specs of frost coated Merlin’s cheeks, his hair, his jacket; even softly rested along his eyelashes.
Lancelot couldn’t look away.
Arthur, on the other hand, couldn’t look for a second longer. With a nearly stifled gasp, he pushed himself to his feet, hand wiping across his face as he began to pace awkwardly, his feet clearly needing to move but not knowing where to take him.
They both knew what this meant.
And neither wanted to believe it.
But the proof was staring straight, unblinkingly, back at him. No one survived the Dorocha’s touch. Not even Merlin.
An ache slammed into Lancelot’s chest as his heart began hammering out a frenzied rhythm against his ribcage. He should have sent Merlin home earlier. He should have trusted his instincts and insisted that Merlin listen to him.
“You have no powers”; he had felt the need to remind the boy earlier that day because witnessing Merlin’s magic fail when face-to-face with the Dorocha in the village had genuinely terrified him. In all of their friendship, he had never seen Merlin so defenceless, so powerless. Even dragged along for patrol or on a hunt, he never needed a sword or shield because he always had the skill to protect himself, right at his fingertips.
“You’re not a warrior Merlin; I don’t want to see you hurt.”
Lancelot’s eyes began to burn as unshed tears blurred the scene before him. He should have insisted.
Footsteps shuffled across the floor and Lancelot noticed his shadow grow against the wall as his fellow knights drew nearer, before the silhouette changed shape again as the torch bearer’s arm lowered in grief.
“No.” He heard Gwaine mutter in disbelief, but he dared not turn and witness the sorrow washing over his friend. In fact, he found he couldn’t draw his gaze away at all, no matter how much Merlin’s dead stare made his feel sick.
“What happened?” Gwaine asked, repeating Lancelot’s earlier question with the hope of receiving an answer and Lancelot wasn’t sure if he wanted to know anymore. They could all see what had happened, he didn’t need it said aloud.
Allowing a final act of respect, Lancelot’s hand reached forward and carefully closed Merlin’s eyes, stomach twisting at the frozen nature of Merlin’s skin. This was never supposed to happen. Merlin was supposed to die many, many years after Lancelot’s own heroic demise in some battle or other. Lancelot was never supposed to witness this.
Arthur, deaf to Lancelot’s unspoken wishes, replied anyway. “The Dorocha—” He said, his voice quiet and unsure. “There was no stopping it. He saved my life.”
As Lancelot moved his hand away, he felt something against his palm. A tiny puff of air. A breath.
Impossible.
But he swore he felt something! So, he checked again, holding his hand above Merlin’s mouth and hating how much it would kill him all over again if he was wrong.
And then…
There it was again.
And again.
And again.
Small, shallow breaths from a boy who had somehow defied death.
“He’s alive.” Lancelot choked out, the words catching in his throat and tripping on his tongue. He was surprised his chainmail hadn’t started rattling against his arms as his whole body began to tremble. He coughed and tried again, stronger this time. “He’s still alive!”
He turned to face the knights, eyes wide and frantic and desperately needing someone to confirm that he wasn’t dreaming. Arthur rushed over without hesitation and checked for himself, muttering how and that’s not possible and grinning so unbelievably widely when he too felt what Lancelot felt.
Merlin, with his insane power and unbelievable luck, had cheated death itself.
Another scream echoed on the wind outside, startling them all into high alert, backs straightening as their eyes darted to every corner of the room. Gwaine pulled his sword free from his belt, not that it would be of any use. Collectively, they held their breath, ready to strike at a moment’s notice, only exhaling once they were certain the threat had passed.
Percival kept the torch raised, just in case, but with no sign of the Dorocha the orange glow did little more than highlight just how exposed they were in that room.
They needed to be smart, or none of them would make it through the night.
“We can’t stay here. Not without a fire.”
Merlin was cold in his arms as Percival carried him back to the firepit, limbs stiff with an unnatural iciness and breath barely registering in his chest. Only once had Percival felt someone so cold before, and he dreaded the thought that Merlin could go the same way as his childhood friend.
He liked Arthur’s servant. He hadn’t known him as long as his fellow knights, but Percival had quickly grown accustomed to having Merlin around. He was on every patrol, at every banquet, on every hunt. He was practically an honorary knight with how much his job overlapped with theirs. He was also the only one who could get under Arthur’s skin without being thrown in the dungeons; something that provided endless entertainment for the rest of them.
Arthur would never be the first to admit it, but Percival knew how much this would kill him if Merlin didn’t make it through the night.
The brisk walk to the courtyard had been free from Dorocha, but the knights still had their guard up. It had been a tough choice, leaving the concealment that the room had offered, but the open, exposed space of the courtyard had what they needed— a bigger fire, a better vantage point, not to mention all their supplies that were still strewn across the floor: food, water, blankets.
Percival’s arms were growing tired, both from the weight and from the chill that was seeping into his own skin, but he waited patiently for Lancelot to finish laying a blanket across the floor before lowering Merlin onto it. He grabbed his own blanket next, arranging it over Merlin’s chest and legs and tucking it in tight.
The boy didn’t stir, instead electing to remain stubbornly unconscious throughout all the manhandling and manoeuvring and if Lancelot hadn’t confirmed otherwise, Percival would still believe him to be dead. He shuddered at the thought.
Leon and Elyan had collected enough kindling on the way back to get a fire started in the pit and despite being small, the warmth of the flames hit them instantly. It would do for now, but it wouldn’t be enough.
Merlin was laying as close to the fire as possible but it would be a while before it made any real impact, so Percival found another blanket to lay over him. Lancelot followed suit, folding his own blanket up to place carefully under Merlin’s head.
This wasn’t how they expected the night to go and Percival could tell that Lancelot was still shaken by his friend’s brush with death. He needed to ask though. He needed someone to acknowledge how impossible all this was.
“How is he still alive?” He spoke quietly, his voice not travelling further than the man kneeling next to him, but Lancelot had no real answer.
“I’m just glad that he is.”
And well, Percival couldn’t argue with that. He lifted the edge of the blanket and used the corner to wipe the frost from Merlin’s cheeks and the tips of his hair. It wouldn’t do him any good to still be covered in the stuff, not when they were trying to get him warm.
He couldn’t help but notice though that Merlin wasn’t shivering. His skin was freezing, like the ice had a hold of his very bones, yet he remained perfectly still.
And that was never a good sign.
Percival had seen it before, when he was a child. It had been his twelfth winter and his friend had fallen into the river that ran past their village. It had been funny at first, seeing him sopping wet and shaking from the cold, but very quickly his laughter had turned to tears when no amount of fire or blankets could leech the ice from his skin or the agony from his cries.
And eventually, the shivering turned to stillness and he hadn’t lasted much longer, eyes remaining closed and paleness never waning.
Percival prayed he wasn’t about to witness that again. A friend in pain, body clinging on despite the inevitable.
Another disembodied shriek in the night’s sky had them jumping up and at the ready, feet moving as they watched every entrance for the sudden appearance of a wailing spirit. They stayed that way for a moment, shoulders raised and eyes sharp, but when none came, they all relaxed once more. All except one.
Arthur was standing to the side with their last remaining torch in hand, watching them all uneasily as they worked, his eyes darting between his men and any unseen threats heading their way. Percival had never seen their leader so cautious before, so unsure of himself, his usual confidence diminished as he hesitated to leave; not for his own safety but for theirs.
Percival had offered to be the one to fetch more firewood, but Arthur had insisted on taking that burden himself. Even in their silence, he could sense that none of the knights liked the idea of the prince going alone, the Dorocha could be anywhere and they were already one man down.
“Come on. I’ll go with you.” Elyan nodded, patting Arthur’s shoulder and leading the way before he could be stopped.
Elyan kept close to Arthur as they scoured the outer edges of the castle ruins in search of more firewood. There were bare trees dotted all around with offerings of kindling and scraps of bark coating the floor and anything they could scavenge would come in handy during the night. Arthur kept the torch raised as Elyan bent down to add another piece to the growing pile enclosed in his arms.
Every sound had the hair on the back of his neck standing on end, every twig snap underfoot, every whistle on the wind. He had never seen a monster before quite like the Dorocha and he wasn’t ashamed to admit that it had him frightened.
Barely a year past his knighthood and Elyan had faced all manner of creatures, magical or otherwise, but what they all had in common was that they could be slain. This was something new, an unkillable enemy. And though Arthur may have a plan to rid them of the Dorocha, they had to make it to the Isle of the Blessed alive first.
And one of them may be lost already.
He and Arthur were silent as they worked, but not for fear of attracting the Dorocha.
His thoughts drifted to Guinevere, tending to the wounded back in Camelot with no concern for her own wellbeing. Though Elyan was endlessly proud of her bravery, he was all too aware of how quickly the Dorocha could strike and that not even the depths of the castle could keep her safe. He just hoped she was looking after herself. If they made it back from this quest, he still wanted to have a sister to make it back to.
Similarly, he knew exactly what was occupying Arthur’s mind. Ever since they had found Merlin frozen on the ground, Arthur had had an air of restraint about him, hesitant to give another order that would put someone else in danger. Especially since asking for help with firewood the first time was the reason that Merlin was now sick.
It was why Elyan had insisted on accompanying him. It wasn’t as if Arthur could carry the torch and kindling and fend off any attacks all at the same time.
“This wasn’t your fault, you know?” Elyan spoke up as he added a few extra sticks to his pile. It was probably worth heading back soon, he wasn’t sure he had the arm space to carry much more. “It could have happened to any of us.”
Arthur hummed in reply, so Elyan tried again.
“Merlin will be okay.”
Arthur looked even less convinced at this and Elyan couldn’t blame him. Merlin was surprisingly resilient for a servant, but it was a miracle the boy had survived the Dorocha’s touch in the first place. There was no telling if he would last the night.
A sudden scream cut through the crisp night air and Elyan found himself forced to the ground, firewood spilling across the stone as he reached out to protect his fall. A ghastly chill prickled on his skin and his eyes squeezed shut, body tense at his incoming death. Would it be quick? He allowed half a second to wonder. Would it be over in an instant or would he feel the cold freeze him from the inside out? Would he be lucky enough to survive, like Merlin? Or would someone have to inform his sister that he wouldn’t be returning home to her?
But then, the cold never came. Firelight burned bright as it swung back and forth through the darkness and the cry instantly scattered into the breeze. Elyan took a breath as he slowly sat up, mindful that the Dorocha could return at any moment.
“Are you alright?” Arthur asked, eyes wide as he helped Elyan to his feet. “Are you hurt?”
That was too close. Elyan didn’t quite have the words to reassure him so found himself nodding instead. “Thanks.”
Fear still lined Arthur’s face and he took another look around, grip tightening on the torch should it be needed again. Elyan, trusting he was in safe hands, quickly re-collected the wood that lay strewn across the floor, ensuring not to miss a single piece. They were going to need all of this if they had any hope of lasting the night.
Fleet footed and vigilant, they made it back to the courtyard in good time and without any more sightings, yet a nervousness still clung to Elyan that he couldn’t quite shake. That had almost been the end. A second later and he and Arthur would have been a block of ice with no hope of defrosting, and he never would have seen his sister again.
After topping up the fire, he offered to take the first watch of the night, doubting he could sleep right now even if he tried. The knights were hesitant to accept, gazes wandering between the boy wrapped tightly in the blankets and the exposed sky above, but they all recognised the need for sleep. They still had a quest ahead of them and they needed whatever rest they could get.
Leon was graced with a respectable few hours of rest before a hand on his shoulder brought him back to awareness. It had been quiet so far, Percival had informed him as he handed over the watch, and he just had to hope it remained that way.
The fire was still burning bright, yet he added another small log anyway, watching as the flames shifted and sent orange specks dancing up into the night sky. For all the good it would do them if they were hit with an onslaught of Dorocha. They had been lucky so far, facing only one at a time, but if the spirits decided to form a pack, they were done for.
Noticing the blanket that Percival had left warming by the fire, Leon corrected himself. Okay, so they hadn’t all been so lucky. He ran his hand across the material, feeling satisfied with the warmth it had collected, and went to add it to the two already draped across Merlin, only to pause when he noticed a pair of dark, bleary eyes staring back at him.
“Merlin?” He whispered, noting how the boy wasn’t quite tracking his movements. He placed the blanket down, ensuring it was tucked in tight around Merlin’s shoulders and tried calling his name again. He wasn’t used to taking care of sick or injured people, ordinarily it was the other way around with Gaius, or Merlin himself, helping to tend to his wounds or ailments. And away from the castle, one of the other knights usually took on that duty.
Merlin was shivering now, teeth chattering as he slowly blinked up at the sky, and Leon supposed that awake was at least a step up from the state he was in before. He watched as Merlin’s lips parted and thought that he might be trying to speak. Or maybe he needed something.
“Merlin, do you want some water?” He asked, already grabbing his waterskin and kneeling by the boy’s head. Merlin looked at him now, eyes still glassy but with a hint of recognition and Leon took that as a yes. He gently placed a hand behind Merlin’s head and lifted it slightly, just enough to help him drink without choking on it.
Merlin had no strength left in him, Leon could tell by the way he was having to hold all of the boy’s weight, and it made him feel rather uncomfortable seeing the condition he was in; alive but suffering, barely hanging on. And the fact that this could have happened – and could still happen – to any one of them was a troubling thought. The Dorocha had really hurt him, and Leon couldn’t imagine what it would feel like to be faced with the same fate.
The knight carefully lowered him back down onto the makeshift pillow, noticing with a frown that Merlin had already returned to sleep after just a few sips.
“Everything okay?” Another voice broke through the quiet and Leon was wholly unsurprised to see Arthur watching them from his chosen resting spot nearby. Even in the low light, Leon could see the exhaustion clinging to him and he doubted Arthur had managed to catch a wink of sleep yet.
“Everything’s fine.” Leon tried to reassure him, but the prince seemed almost unsatisfied with his answer and looked ready to get up and check for himself. Not that Leon was at all surprised.
He had been at Arthur’s side since they were both boys, long enough for him to know how Arthur thought, how he operated. He also knew that no matter how much Arthur respected the voices of the other knights, Leon was the only one who could get away with giving Arthur orders under the guise of advice.
“No more Dorocha sightings and Merlin’s asleep. There’s nothing more we can do until dawn. Best to get some more rest while you can.”
The hoot of an owl sounded in the distance but neither of them flinched, entirely unaffected by the harmless sounds of nature around them, much more concerned with the unnatural kind. Arthur glanced at Merlin once more before conceding, nodding at Leon’s suggestion and turning over. Whether he actually slept or not would be an issue for the morning, but at least he was trying.
Leon moved back to the fire. He grabbed the torch that was resting next to the flames and stood on guard, surveying their surroundings for any threats. The night was quiet and the darkness of the sky stretched on for miles with no sign of dawn just yet. They still had a few hours to go before they were granted the safety of the daylight where the Dorocha would be the least of their worries.
The longer the veil between the worlds remained torn, the longer their people were at risk. So many had already perished, and who knows how many had followed in the days since their departure. They had to succeed. With the entirety of Camelot relying on them for survival, failure was absolutely not an option.
But how did they plan on succeeding with an injured member of their group slowing them down and their leader’s attention undoubtably divided.
That is, if Merlin even survived the night.
When Gwaine had agreed to go on this quest, he hadn’t quite imagined it turning out this way, jumping at shadows and one of his best friends on the brink of death. He had always said that Merlin was stronger than he looked. But to endure something that not a single person had managed to survive so far? That definitely made Merlin the strongest person he knew. Now his friend just needed to hang on until morning.
Dawn would be approaching soon. Gwaine could tell from the light blue hue that was beginning to paint the edges of the sky. Just a little longer and the sun would finally pop up from behind the ruins and keep them free from the Dorocha for another day. All they had to worry about then was the perilous cross-country continuation of their journey to the Isle of the Blessed. He couldn’t wait.
Until then, he would take his turn on watch, keep an eye out for Dorocha and continue to warm his chilled fingertips by the fire. He rubbed his hands together and held them over the flames, enjoying the heat while it lasted. Soon the others would be awake, and they would be dousing the fire and on the move quicker than they could say ‘Gwaine, hurry up!’.
A sudden gasp cut through the silence and had him fumbling to grab the torch for protection before realising that there were no threats nearby. Instead, Leon had informed him of how Merlin had woken briefly during his watch and Gwaine was pleased to see the boy had roused once again.
He was less thrilled, however, when the gasp turned to wheezing and the wheezing turned to coughing and Merlin was left pawing feebly at his chest like he couldn’t breathe.
Gwaine moved without thinking, leaving the torch by the fire and prioritising his friend. Lying flat always made his cough much worse whenever he was faced with a cold, so he grabbed Merlin under his arms and hoisted him upright until the boy’s back was resting against his chest.
It didn’t ease right away and Merlin trembled against him as each wet hack filled the air with no sign of stopping. His friend looked terrible; face pale and skin still cold to the touch, desperate for breath that refused to fill his lungs. But then, as his head tipped back against Gwaine’s shoulder, he took a deep shuddery inhale and the coughing slowly sputtered to a stop.
Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale.
“That’s it.” Gwaine beamed encouragingly and was tempted to make a joke about how Merlin had finally mastered something that even babies knew how to do, but his smile quickly dimmed when no reply came.
Merlin was staring blankly at the sky above, the slow blinking of his eyelids every few seconds the only sign that there was still life left in him. Gwaine ran a hand through his hair and swallowed back his fear. It was naïve, he supposed, believing that simply surviving the Dorocha would be the end of the battle. For assuming that, come morning, Merlin would be ready and raring to continue the quest. For thinking that a good night’s sleep would at least do something to improve Merlin’s condition.
Maybe it had been wishful thinking. Or maybe he hadn’t wanted to consider the alternative. But now, faced with the reality, he could see how foolish that hope was. His friend looked like death and Gwaine had no idea if he could last much longer in this state.
Give him a stab wound or a blow to the head to deal with and, as grim as it was, Gwaine knew what to do. But a magically inflicted, ordinarily fatal sickness? Was there even a cure for something like this? It had been hours since the attack and it was as if the fire and blankets had only made Merlin colder.
Something wailed in the distance and Gwaine’s fingers curled tighter on instinct, as if pulling Merlin closer would protect them both from another encounter with the Dorocha. Head turning, he scanned every crumbling entryway to the courtyard for potential threats when the cry sounded again. This time Gwaine laughed it off, recognising it as some kind of wild animal in the surrounding moorland.
He looked over to the torch still lying next to the fire, just out of his reach and entirely useless to them if the Dorocha were to appear.
Do you remember Sir Gwaine? The knight that froze to death because he didn’t know how to keep watch.
He would never live it down.
Before he could consider waking someone else so that he could continue playing nursemaid, another scream pierced the air, closer this time. And Gwaine could do nothing but stare as a ghostly face soared towards them.
Arthur had spent most of the night not sleeping. Something he would no doubt regret in the morning.
They still had about a third of their journey to the Isle of Blessed left to cover and he would be no use to his men if he spent the crossing encumbered with exhaustion. So, he had tried to sleep. His knights had even been gracious enough to schedule the night’s watch between the five of them, no matter his protests. But the uneven ground had dug into his back, the cold air had burrowed deep into his bones and every time he closed his eyes, the memory of a face frozen in death had him jolting awake with fright.
Eyes fixed, face unmoving, limbs locked in place; Arthur would never admit it aloud, but the haunting sight of his servant had shaken him.
This was all his fault. And it never should have happened.
He never should have brought Merlin along on such a dangerous quest. He never should have allowed Merlin to leave the safety of the fire to help him collect firewood. And he never should have let Merlin sacrifice himself in Arthur’s place.
Because that was what his servant had done. Arthur had played it over and over in his head in horrific detail and there was no doubt about it. The Dorocha, with its eerie death whistle, had been coming straight for them and Merlin had ensured that he took the hit.
“You’re a brave man, Merlin… Between battles.” Arthur had joked just moments before and Merlin had chuckled in reply, just as Arthur had intended. Because that was how they worked. Merlin does something somewhat impressive and Arthur dismisses it with a jest.
He should have admitted that Merlin’s courage was the one thing that consistently surprised him. His scrawny little servant who had no training, was terrible with a sword and could barely land a punch if his life depended on it, constantly followed him through danger and out the other side with barely an ounce of fear.
He should have been honest for once. Who knew if he would ever get another chance.
Facing down a Dorocha was certainly the bravest thing Merlin had ever done— if not the most stupid.
Until Lancelot had confirmed otherwise, Arthur’s heart had nearly stopped right there in his chest at the sight of Merlin lying dead on the floor. Seeing him remain so frail throughout the night hadn’t made him feel much better. And now, as he silently watched Gwaine hold Merlin upright to help ease that painful cough, his stomach was in knots about the whole situation.
Arthur had made peace with the fact that he wasn’t making it through this quest alive. But he had never imagined that his servant might share in his fate.
The stillness of the courtyard was suddenly sliced open by a shriek and Arthur was vertical before he could even register what was happening. His mind raced with possibilities as he watched the scene before him play out in slow motion. Gwaine couldn’t move from where he was sitting, his options limited with Merlin still clasped in his arms and the torch too far out of reach. Arthur watched as his eyes widened in horror and his grip around Merlin tightened as he acknowledged the cruel fate heading their way. Gwaine probably wouldn’t survive the hit. Merlin definitely wouldn’t.
Arthur’s attention darted to the torch, still resting nearby. Option one, he could try and grab it; waft away the Dorocha before it could strike. Or option two, take the pair out of the Dorocha’s line of sight instead and risk taking the hit himself. With barely four seconds left to decide, Arthur knew he would never reach the torch in time.
One.
His palms burned with how forcefully he slammed them to the ground as he pushed himself to his feet.
Two.
His usually precise footwork nearly faltered as his boots pressed into the stone floor in quick succession to close the gap between them.
Three.
A sharp ray of morning sun peeked through the ruins and Arthur squinted against it as his arm stretched out in preparation to shove Gwaine to the ground.
Four.
Before it could inflict any pain, the Dorocha turned to smoke and drifted away, remnants of its scream echoing against the walls as it faded to nothingness.
Arthur had never been so glad to see the dawn.
Stopping himself before he could crash into Gwaine, his hands found his knees as he bent over, too stunned to do much more than heave a sigh of relief. His chest burned with adrenaline and if he wasn’t careful, he was going to lose last night’s dinner. That was too close.
“Well, that could have gotten cold.” Gwaine admitted and Arthur was filled with so many conflicting emotions that he could have punched the grin right off Gwaine’s face, just for something to do with his hands. Trust him to make a joke after all that.
“Is everyone okay?” Lancelot asked, head popping up from the other side of the firepit. Leon, Elyan and Percival followed suit, all having been alerted to their uninvited guest and looking ready to jump up at a moment’s notice.
Arthur looked over at Gwaine, who looked down at Merlin, who still had his eyes to the sky with no sign of awareness that he had seen what just happened. Gwaine’s shoulders dropped slightly with an air of disappointment, answering for the two of them. “Still thawed over here.”
Arthur heard a quiet titter from his knights, but his attention was fixed on the boy in front of him. Now that the sun had begun its ascent, he could see Merlin clearly for the first time since the attack.
He looked dreadful. Pallid and weak. Alive but not quite there.
He needed a warm bed and a skilled physician, not a quest. Looking at him now, still leaning heavily against Gwaine and scarcely responsive, he barely had the strength to hold up his own weight; there was no way he was making it to the Isle of the Blessed.
“We should get moving.” He ordered his knights without his usual assertiveness, finding it difficult to draw his eyes away from his servant. It was earlier than any of them had planned to start the day, but now they were awake and had the light, there was no point wasting a single second of it.
The knights got to work with their usual efficiency, slowed only by the grogginess of the morning, and by the time they had smothered the fire and readied the horses, Arthur had made up his mind.
His duty laid with Camelot and its people.
But his gut told him what would happen to his servant if he didn’t get help.
He met Leon in the middle of the courtyard, instinctively going to his oldest friend first with his plan. His mouth was dry as his attention was drawn to Merlin once again. Gwaine had moved him to rest against the stone circle encasing the firepit and Lancelot was with him now, trying to keep him warm and elicit any sort of responsiveness. Arthur wasn’t sure he was having much success with either task.
“We have to get him back to Gaius.” He declared, wholly unsurprised by Leon’s confusion.
“And abandon the quest?”
“He saved my life. I won’t let him die.” Arthur stood firm. He had caused this. It was his responsibility to fix it.
Lancelot joined them then and offered up a noble suggestion of riding alone with Merlin to Camelot, but Arthur couldn’t allow it. In part because he wasn’t fond of the idea of them splitting up, not when the Dorocha was still a risk come nightfall. But mostly because making that kind of journey alone could take days. Days that Merlin likely didn’t have.
But when Lancelot suggested a different route through the Valley of the Fallen Kings instead of the safer yet slower path across the moors, Arthur couldn’t deny that it was a fair solution, one that would allow both Camelot and his servant to be saved.
And with that, their fates were decided and off on their separate paths they went.
He couldn’t look at Merlin, limp in Percival’s arms as he was carried to his horse. Couldn’t shift the lump in his throat as he scolded the boy’s stupidity for the final time. And he couldn’t hold back his honesty as they sent Merlin and Lancelot on their way.
“This is my fault and I’m sorry.”
He wasn’t surviving this quest. But he could make certain that Merlin would.