Afraid [Morgwen]

The Knight

(Depictions of injury, blood, and death)

-Arthur-

      The mornings in which a witch was to be executed always began the same as any common morning. There was a breeze, in the early dawn then the sky would take on a soft blue tint, grasshoppers and cicadas would hum at a slow beat.

     But when his father gives the order, and the people huddle by, and the stake is lit- when it burns, Arthur feels like he's out of breath. The air is heavy, his head spins, and he's got to excuse himself. All the smoke, the rusted scent of iron- fresh, hot blood- it would stay on his clothes. He would smell it for the rest of the day.

     He wondered how his father managed it.

     Before it all though, before there was anyone to burn at all, Uther would send his son out in searches to find the supposed magic users. Arthur would always follow orders, but he couldn't help the tension leaving his shoulders as his horse strut out from Camelot. The peace of visiting these villages- where life was much more simple- it could almost make up for the hassle of trying to find someone who was either innocent or long gone.

     Arriving to one of Camelot's towns now, Arthur knew this trip wasn't in vain.
     He could smell it before he saw it, that scent- the lack of air.
     The town was burning.

     Arthur frantically glanced back to Merlin, who nodded as they moved forward into the road, the trees dispersing and leading to the sight of the bright flames.
     He rode to the edge of the town and dismounted.

     In a haste, he began to fill buckets and drench houses. As some flames diminished there would be openings to lift up rubble and dig out townsfolk. Sometimes there were pockets, the rocks and planks would pile up in a way where there was space for someone to take refuge in. Much more often though, Arthur would fight the urge to vomit, as he pulled out corpses long burnt.

     Fighting to keep his composure, he kept on clawing and reaching, every pulse he felt kept his spirits hopeful.
     He had to turn back his attention to other straw roofs and nearby trees, commanding his men to keep searching under the buildings.

-Merlin-

     There was too much of a commotion for anyone to notice him. Merlin developed a rhythm to putting out the flames. Arthur would turn back to him from time to time, and he'd hide his hands among the casted shadows. Nobody saw him, or rather, nobody cared to.

     Amongst the chaotic noises of the village, there was a presence, and Merlin could feel it. It seemed to be kept at bay, staying far enough to where he could not reach to locate it.
     It was strong, definitely a sorcerer, their magical presence was still and light, as if dancing a waltz. While he passed through the village he kept his senses wide open, scouring for the source.

     He could feel it following them, becoming slightly stronger, and getting slightly closer. Yet not close enough, and Merlin grew rapidly frustrated at the mockery.

     He rushed closer to Arthur, who was extinguishing the last of the flames in the last of the house.

     Merlin only focused on it for a second, just to stop the fire from spreading any faster, trying to ignore the neighing horses, and the sizzling of the flames, and the yelling from the knights, and the screaming from the people. Shortly, the last house ablaze became nothing but darkened rock and smoked straw.

      He glanced back towards Arthur, face and hair smeared in black ash, hands shaking and eyes watered with smoke.

     Maybe he was distracted, he thought it may have been the lack of oxygen, the ringing of his ears. Either way he didn't hear Arthur's warning.

     He would only hear the arrow's faint whistle while it hurled rapidly- when he turned, he saw it encrust itself into his shoulder.

-Arthur-

     Merlin took only a second to glance at his wound, and back to him, before toppling sideways onto the stone path.

     Of course, as soon as he saw the arrow, he was already rushing to Merlin's side, and as he held him, he looked up into the trees to see the outline of the archer. Arthur did expect this fire to have been caused by an outside attacker, and so he drew his sword out in preparation while he attempted to make out the figures of the rest of the bandits.
     
     Instead, a knight- with a full set of armor that gleamed brightly, reflecting the rays of sun that would filter through the forest leaves- began to descend from one of the hills that surrounded the village. It looked almost angelic, as they strutted past,  right to the edge of where the town sat.

     Arthur's own knights surrounded him and Merlin, some slightly closer to the forest, ready for the imminent attack.

      "Who are you?" Arthur called out, voice steady and potent. His free hand still held onto his manservant, who was taking him by the forearm, leaving traces of dried blood on his armor.

     The mysterious knight did not reach for their sword, though their reactions did seem rather sluggish,- calm.
     With the same elegant manner, they extended their arms just as a priest in prayer. They spoke loudly in a language that Arthur couldn't understand.

      At first, he mistook it as an offer of surrender, but then the booming voice kept getting louder, and the trees began to shake, the rocks formed a circle that surrounded them- and it ignited, creating a barrier of flames almost as tall as a man, that enclosed them. Arthur could barely see above them.

     He grabbed at Merlin's sprawled limbs that were dangerously close to the ring of fire. Arthur cleared his throat, gasping for air slightly, and cried out again,
     "Who are you?!" He could feel the words scrape against his throat.

     The knight did not respond. Instead, they simply signaled with their hand, and their men seemed to disappear back into the shadows amongst the trees. The knight left in the same way they arrived, without another word.

     Slowly, the flames subsided, allowing for the prince and his knights  to get back to their horses.
     Arthur scrambled to give out orders, the shock of the whole ordeal still weighing on him.
     "Leon, I'm going back to Camelot, I'm taking the survivors in the worst conditions. Make me a list of their losses and reparations for when I get back, I'll send men and supplies for the people out here."
     Arthur could not take the strain out of his voice, and it faltered.
"Yes sire."

     As some of the knights started to pack, Arthur gently placed Merlin on his horse, mounting right after.
     His father was to be alerted as soon as they arrived.
     He held onto Merlin, whose head slumped against his arm, and whose shoulder was running a steady stream which the prince struggled to keep compressed.

     Raising his head high, he commanded the caravan to follow. While they set forth to Camelot, the groaning and wailing of the injured left a trail of echoes through the forest.