It was still dark when Merlin woke. He moved about the tent like someone in a dream, his eyelids heavy and shirt pulled tightly around his shivering arms. It was far too early to be awake. Not even the birds had stirred. Yet, as he felt the strap of the messager bag — a gift, from the Druids — he was almost glad to have one final, private moment in the camp. He stood there, holding the bag in the darkness, and let the silence stretch on.
Then he began to pack.
As quietly as he could, he reached for the flask, and the food, and the blanket. There wasn't enough room for a book. Even if there was, he reflected, the books belonged where they were, right in the heart of magical activity; but perhaps, one day, he'd be able to start a book collection of his own. A proper one. Full of spell and myths and potions.
Then, somewhere in the darkness, Merlin heard a rather husky voice whisper his name.
"Did I wake you?"
Arthur merely yawned. "Come back to bed, love."
Come back to bed. That wasn't what he meant. The bed hadn't been big enough for them both. Instead, they'd created a nest of blankets and pillows on the floor. It wasn't as comfortable, but it was cozy, and it was theirs, so it was enough.
Come back to me, was what he meant.
"I can't," Merlin sighed, "we have to leave soon. I'll wake you went it's time." There was a rustling of sheets, and Merlin was dimly aware that Arthur was getting up. "Don't," he warned, "it's freezing."
"I know," he pulled Merlin close, snuggling against him and wrapping them both in the folds of his blanket. "I thought you'd need this."
"Thank you."
"I could fall asleep like this."
"What, standing up?"
"No, with you."
"You've already done that," Merlin laughed.
Yes, Arthur thought, but I could do it again. Again and again and again for the rest of my life. I'd fall asleep next to you forever. And he almost said it, too. He almost reached for Merlin's hand, held it tightly and whispered those words in the hope that he'd understand. He almost said it, but then Merlin moved away — to finish packing or tidying their things — and the moment had gone, fading like snow that had been too much loved by the sun.
~~~
Only Aglain had woken to see them off. And, as strangely empty as the place felt — with just the three of them, stood beyond the last line of tents — Arthur was relieved at the quiet farewell. It made leaving easier.
"I wish you both well," Aglain fixed them with a strange sort of stare, "and a safe return."
Arthur smiled. "Thank you. And your hospitality won't be forgotten, I promise you. I hope that in the future our people can once again be friends."
"I have every faith in you, Arthur Pendragon."
The Prince was oddly touched, and turned to Merlin in the half-light as if to smile — but his eyes stopped short of the brunet, and fell instead on an approaching figure, weaving its way through the tents towards them. Arthur blinked in surprise. "Mordred?"
The Druid was dressed in a travelling cloak with a bag slung over his shoulder, dagger tucked into his boot, and sword sheathed at his hip.
Arthur hadn't seen him in days. Not since he announced that they were leaving. He'd tried — and failed — to find him on several occasions, and had reluctantly accepted the possibility that the boy was simply avoiding him. Perhaps, Arthur had thought, he just didn't like goodbyes.
"Sorry I'm late."
"It's alright, we were just setting off."
"Perfect."
Arthur laughed. "That's an odd way to say goodbye."
"Actually," he glanced from Arthur to Merlin and back again, "I want to join you."
"I— what?"
"I want to help you retake Camelot."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes. That is, if you'll have me."
"Of course," Arthur smiled, "I'd be honoured."
And, though Merlin declined to say anything on the matter, Mordred briefly caught his eye and was surprised to find the warlock smiling, genuinely, right back at him.
~~~
They found the meeting point just before nightfall. It was a strange place; the entrance gaped like the unhinged mouth of a cave, and its walls twisted away into blackened depths. It could have been a labyrinth. Instead, beneath the cobwebs and derelict decor — and old torch here, a rusted piece of armour there — it became no more than a building. A series of ancient, long-forgotten passages that all led to one room.
At its centre was a single, round table.
"Whose idea was this?" Arthur's words echoed slightly, as if the place was so used to silence that the presence of a voice was alarming.
Leon spoke first. "Mine, Sire. I thought it would be convenient. It's right at the end of the forest. Camelot isn't far from here."
"Yes, it's fitting, isn't it?"
"Sire?"
"This table belonged to the ancient kings of Camelot."
"I think," Elyan smiled, "that we're content with just one king. And all of us who stand round this table want to get him back where he belongs."
There was a murmur of agreement, and Arthur felt a little less alone. His hands had been shaking since they arrived. No one noticed in the half-light. Even if they had, he could have pretended it was the cold or the fatigue or anything other than the sick feeling that was growing in his stomach. His friends were all willing to risk their lives for him. That was a heavy burden to bare.
"Right, not to sound rude—"
Percival groaned as Gwaine suddenly stood up and pointed across the table.
"—but who the hell is that? I know everyone else here, plus Morgana and Gwen, who're waiting for us in the city — just in case everyone else failed to mention, I don't know, I zoned out for a second there — but who's that?"
"This," Arthur smiled, "is Mordred. He's decided to join us."
A look of realisation flickered over Lancelot's face. "He's the reason you had us bring two spare sets of chainmail."
"Precisely."
"I have them here, by the way." He turned and scooped something off the floor and then proceeded to drop it, rather unceremoniously, onto the table.
Arthur didn't seem to notice. He simply pulled the chainmail towards him, the metal cold against his hand, and then passed one to Mordred, who was on his left, and the other to Merlin, who was stood slightly back form the table, almost as if he was scared to appear too close to the Prince's side.
Mordred frowned. "I don't understand."
"It's a disguise," Arthur explained, "you put it on and you'll look like one of the guards. That way we won't look as suspicious when we enter the city."
"I see."
"It gets better. You see, you'll look like a guard, but you won't be a guard. What you'll be," he said, drawing his sword, "is a knight."
Mordred stared at him.
"You passed all the training. You've become an excellent fighter and a loyal friend. I trust you completely. It would be an honour to have you as a Knight of Camelot."
And so Mordred knelt — the stone floor numbing his knees — as the blade of Arthur's sword passed over his head, coming to rest on each of his shoulders the way a bird flitters between branches. And then Arthur was taking his arm and pulling him back to his feet and several people were clapping him on the back as Arthur's words kept ringing in his ears.
Arise, Sir Mordred, Knight of Camelot.
The Druid felt himself smile.
But the celebration was short lived. As soon as everyone had calmed down, Arthur gave the order to head out; he turned, ready to leave, and very briefly caught Merlin's eye. He felt his heart jolt. For one thing, the warlock looked good in chainmail. For another, he'd clearly been caught off guard, because as soon as Arthur looked at him his expression changed: it was as if the sadness had melted from his eyes.
Arthur wanted nothing more than to hold him.
He wanted to sink into the warlock's arms and breathe him in, to feel his steady heartbeat and tell him, finally, that he understood. Two sides of the same coin. After weeks of those words living inside his head, he finally understood.
But there was no time to stop, and no time to explain. Arthur walked right passed without saying a word.
The sun had set and their mission had only just begun.
~~~
They'd made it through the city gates without trouble. They'd walked in pairs, heads held high, stepping in sync and trying their best to tread softly on the cobblestone. They'd half expected to meet someone — a drunk falling about outside the Tavern, a couple taking a midnight stroll — but the streets had been deserted.
The place was eerie.
Arthur's apprehension only grew when they entered the courtyard. All he could see was darkness. No guards stood with torches or patrolled the shadowy square. Even when he led the procession up the palace steps, no one emerged to stop them. Arthur's hand hovered over the door.
"What is it?" Merlin whispered, half-expecting the door to be locked. At least magic could solve that problem.
"It's too easy," Arthur whispered back, "something's not right."
"Should we try a different way?"
"No. If we turn back now they'll know we suspect something. We have to keep moving." He pushed back the door which creaked, painfully loudly, as it swung open to reveal an empty corridor. None of the torches were lit. And then Arthur knew, with absolute certainty, that they were being watched. He took a deep breath and made a left.
"Psstt," Gwaine hissed, "wrong way."
Arthur shook his head.
"Agravaine's chambers are the other way—"
Leon hit him in the arm.
"The hell was that for?"
"Will you shut up?"
"Alright, alright, but it's not like there's anyone about to hear me—" he faltered. "Ah. I see what's happening."
Arthur ignored him, instead staring intently at the walls — scanning them — as though he were searching for something. He stopped abruptly. "New plan," he breathed, turning to face the others. "Agravaine won't use himself as bait; his chambers will be empty. Percival and Lancelot, take the long way to the throne room. Leon and Elyan, lower the courtyard gate — no one is to leave, do you understand? Everyone else," he pulled a tapestry aside to reveal a narrow passage, "with me."
They piled into the passage, Merlin taking the lead, Mordred and Gwaine in the middle, and Arthur brining up the rear. It was pitch-black. They had to feel their way along the walls and twice, as he tripped over something in the dark, Merlin had been tempted to light a torch. But the light would be too dangerous. The passage was important for two things: speed and surprise.
They emerged into a corridor less than a minute later.
"Where are we?"
"By the throne room," Arthur whispered, brushing a cobweb from Merlin's hair, "everyone stay close, we—"
It was too late.
Guards surged through the corridor like a wave, charging at them from both ends and penning them in. Swords were drawn in seconds, and then they were colliding.
Gwaine took the first hit. He met the guard's sword just as it was nearing his throat; he pushed back, but the guard wasn't budging, so he changed strategy and ducked, tipping the guard off balance and slamming him into the floor.
"Try not to kill anyone!" Arthur yelled.
"He's fine," Gwaine insisted, kicking another guard in the shin, "he's just sleeping!"
Mordred glanced down at the man on the floor. Somehow, he highly doubted he was fine.
"Oferswing!"
Mordred's eyes snapped back up as Merlin sent a guard hurtling into the wall.
"Focus," he warned, "he'd have stabbed you."
There was no time to respond. Another guard was already lashing out, but this time Mordred was ready for him. He blocked his strike with ease and then, pulling the man towards him, whispered "swefe nu", and then released him, letting the man drop to the floor. At least this one really was asleep. But, no sooner than the man had dropped, Mordred was already tripping over him, trying to back away from his next attacker only to find there was no more space.
They were being suffocated.
And then, over the sea of faces, he saw four people skid into the end of the corridor. Two he recognised instantly: Percival and Lancelot. The other two seemed to hover just at the edge of his memory. They were both dressed in chainmail and gripping swords, their hair kept neatly aside — one with it tied back, the other with it twisted into a braid — as they stared at the scene before them.
Morgana held up a hand as the others attempted to race forward. "Cover you ears!"
Gwen didn't need telling twice.
The knights, however, did.
"Cover you ears!" Morgana yelled.
"I'm a bit busy," Arthur hissed, batting yet another guard away. They just seemed to keep coming. Whenever one fell, there was another to take his place.
"Just do it!"
The yell came with such ferocity that, against his better judgement, Arthur sheathed his sword and clapped his hands over his ears, only dimly aware that the others were doing the same.
And then it happened.
The corridor was filled with a noise straight from the depths of hell. It was like a long, piercing scream with a pitch high enough to shatter glass: and ear-drums. Around them, guards were dropping like flies, falling to their knees and clutching at their heads.
Arthur didn't waste a second.
Keeping his hands glued to his ears, he jumped over the nearest guard and began wading his way towards Morgana. The others followed suit, Gwaine briefly pausing to stare at the first guard he'd dropped — who'd just jolted awake — before Merlin elbowed him forward.
The noise stopped just as they reached the others.
The gold faded from Morgana's eyes as she heaved in a breath, looking both drained and immensely pleased with herself. The ensuing silence was dizzying.
"You've been practicing," Merlin laughed.
"I found your book."
"I knew it would turn up somewhere. And, well, that would certainly explain the," he gestured vaguely towards the guards, who were only just regaining their footing, "the, uh—"
Arthur was at a loss for words. He was both shocked and thoroughly impressed. He opened his mouth to say something at the exact same instant as someone hurtled along the other end of the corridor: Agravaine.
And then they were running.
All at once, and without instruction, they were racing back towards the courtyard with a clatter of guards hot on their heels.
"Whatever you do," Arthur yelled, "do not kill Agravaine! I want him alive!"
No one argued.
They burst into the courtyard just in time to see the darkened figure of the acting king in panic: his hands gripping at the bars of the lowered gate, desperately trying to pull it free. It was futile, but it wasn't over yet. He couldn't run, but he absolutely could hide. And that's exactly what he did.
Arthur swore as Agravaine disappeared into the shadows.
"What do you need?"
"Light."
"Leohtbora." The gold jumped from Merlin's eyes and into the torch brackets that lined the walls, their flames leaping into life.
"Holy shit," Gwaine breathed.
At this point, Merlin highly doubted that the knight was shocked by the magic. It seemed far more likely that his concern was for something else — like the onrush of guards spilling out of the palace from one direction, and Elyan and Leon tearing towards them from the other.
The knights were lucky.
They made it to the others just before the guards cut them off completely, surrounding the group like a wake of vultures.
"You'd think," Lancelot sighed, "that they'd be on our side by now."
Percival pulled a face. "Perhaps Agravaine's hold on them is stronger than we thought."
Arthur was only half paying attention. He had a far more pressing question on his mind: why haven't they attacked yet? For, despite having them utterly surrounded, the guards just seemed to be standing there, staring blankly ahead. They looked more like empty shells than people.
Arthur shuddered.
And then, in the distance, the Prince caught sight of his uncle. He was standing with a hand draped lazily over the hilt of his sword and watching the scene with a look of mild amusement. He was not alone. Beside him was a woman Arthur had never seen before. She was in full armour, with long blonde hair that cascaded past her shoulders and framed her steely face.
She knew she was being watched.
In an instant, her hand flew up, her lips tracing words that Arthur couldn't hear, and then, before he knew what was happening, the guards had come to life: surging forward and blocking her from view.
"Disarm—"
"We know." Gwaine twisted out the way of a guard who'd lost his sword and resorted to punching instead. "But how the hell are we supposed to win like this?"
No one seemed to have an answer.
Merlin was firing off one stunning spell after another and trying his best not to get in the way of Mordred and Morgana, who were somehow combining spells with swords. Still it wasn't enough. It was as if they were fighting the entire host of place guards, none of whom seemed to be pausing for rest: their every move was focused on attack. Merlin was growing more frustrated by the second. There had to be another way around this, something that didn't involve—
There was a sickening crack.
A particular powerful stunning spell had sent a guard flying backwards with such force that he'd collided with several others, clearing a sort of path through their ranks, and then smashed into the cobblestone. Merlin stared at his hands in horror.
No, he thought. No, I—
Arthur shot forward, disappearing through the opening at such incredible speed that Merlin barely had a moment to process it before he was being yanked sideways, a sharp pain shooting through his cheek. He struggled to regain balance. There was a sick feeling growing in the pit of his stomach. He'd just killed someone. He'd done that before — he'd never meant to, never wanted to — but this time it was different. This wasn't just some stranger or unnamed hostile, this was a Camelot guard. This was someone he probably knew.
"Merlin, come on!"
The voice seemed distant. Vaguely, he touched his finger tips to his face: they came away bloody.
"Merlin!"
His eyes snapped up to see Morgana and Gwen trying desperately to keep the gap in the guards open. It was only then, and somewhat distantly, that he realised they'd just saved his life. He'd very nearly ended up with a sword through the skull.
"Are you okay?"
He almost laughed: a harsh, strangled sound that died in his throat. They were fighting for their lives and Gwen had time to worry about a scratch on his cheek. "I'm fine." And he was, physically. He was well enough to slot himself back into the action, which was all the mattered.
And then, slowly, as they managed to widen the gap between the guards, Merlin finally laid eyes on Arthur. The Prince hovered at the edge of his vision, the torch-light reflecting off his sword as it clashed against Agravaine's: neither of them seemed to be winning.
But Merlin wasn't the only one watching.
Morgana glanced from Arthur back to the guard in front of her. "This is getting ridiculous," she muttered, struggling to put some strength into her stunning spell. She felt drained. The magic seemed to be seeping from her veins and into the night air.
"Cheer up."
Morgana jumped. A woman had appeared beside her.
"What do you think of my puppets? In fact, here—" with a wave of the woman's hand, the guard Morgana was fighting simply dropped its sword and turned away "—much better."
"How did you do that?"
"Magic. How else?"
"Alright, why?" Morgana's voice was shaking, "if you can stop them, do it. People could die! Innocent people, you—"
"No one is innocent," she snapped, "you of all people should understand that."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"We all have a little darkness in our hearts, but not all of us are brave enough to answer its calling."
Morgana quietened. "Who are you?"
"My name is Morgause. Do you recognise me?"
"No."
"Shame. Thought you might see the resemblance."
"I don't— look, whoever you are, just stop this. Just— please. Stop this right now, all of it—"
"I think you might be right," she sighed, looking up to see Agravaine falling to his knees, his sword cast aside by his nephew's hand. "The fun's over."
And then several things happened at once.
Wordlessly, Morgause raised her hand, directing it towards Arthur, and flashed her glassy eyes; a spell of livid purple ripped from her palm, and then time seemed to slow. The spell hung, suspended in midair as it drifted towards its mark. It could almost be mistaken for something beautiful. And yet it was too harsh, too jagged, as it tore across the open space, getting faster and faster and faster as reality came crashing back down — and time with it — propelling it towards its resting place: Merlin's chest. The warlock went rigid. He'd blocked its path, not with a spell, but with his body. There hadn't been time to do anything else. There hadn't even been time to scream. All he could do was stand there, in agony, as his body felt like it was catching fire from the inside out.
In the same instant, Morgana plunged her sword into Morgause's stomach, twisting it into the flesh until she cried out, and crimson began to pour from the wound. A bitter smiled touched her dying lips. "If only I'd gotten to you sooner," she rasped, "things could have been different. I never meant to fail you, sister."
Morgana's expression went blank. Then, shaking, she yanked the sword free, leaving Morgause's motionless body in a dark pool of its own blood. It was at that moment that guards ceased their attack.
It was also the moment that Merlin collapsed.
Arthur turned just as he hit the floor. "No," he whispered. "No, no—" he abandoned all thoughts of Agravaine as he ran, and then dropped, to Merlin's side.
The warlock was barely moving. His eyes were screwed shut, his breathing laboured, and he let out a whimper of pain as Arthur tried to take his hand.
"Tell me what's happening," his voice was shaking, "I can't— I can't see where you're hurt."
No response.
"Merlin? Come on, open your eyes, just— just look at me, Merlin, please—"
Slowly, he managed to force his eyes open. He saw the stars first, so far out of reach, suspended in the sky above him. They were beautiful. And then, lowering his gaze slightly, he saw Arthur. The blond was knelt beside him, his smile wavering and his eyes glistening in a way that pulled at Merlin's heart. "Don't cry," he whispered.
"Tell me how I can help."
Merlin tried to shake his head. It hurt to move. It hurt to speak. It hurt to breathe. Whatever Morgause had hit him with was powerful. It felt like his blood was slowly boiling.
"Merlin—"
"I don't know. I'm sorry. I don't— I don't know the spell, I—"
"Shhhhh, it's okay," Arthur soothed, "you're going to be okay." He was crying now. Tears blurred his vision and streamed down his face, and there was a horrible sinking feeling in his chest where hope should be. He felt like he was being crushed.
Merlin couldn't bare to see Arthur like this. The pain in his voice was killing him. And yet, at the same time, Arthur had never looked so beautiful. It was as though he could outshine the stars. Then, before he could stop himself: "I think I'm falling in love with you."
Arthur hiccuped a laugh. "Don't you dare."
"What?"
"Don't you dare say that like you're dying."
"Aren't you going to say it back?" Merlin whispered, his brain too foggy to register that he might be crossing some sort of line.
Arthur shook his head. "I'm not falling in love with you, Merlin—"
He thought his heart was going to break: to turn to glass and shatter, the pieces ripping him apart from the inside, where no one would ever see the damage—
"—I've already fallen. I don't know when it happened, I don't— there was never a moment when I suddenly knew. But that's— it's the truth. You're everything to me. Everything. I'd be lost without you," he was crying harder now, "Merlin Emrys, I am in love with you. Utterly, and desperately, in love."
The faintest of smiles touched Merlin's lips as his vision began to fade into blackness. His eyes were refusing to stay open.
"No, no, no, no, Merlin stay with me."
He tried to focus: on Arthur's face, on his voice, on his hand that was hovering above Merlin's own, almost afraid to touch him. He tried to stay awake. He was aware that he was failing.
Arthur was trying to hold back sobs. Terror was gripping him in its icy claws, and he was doing everything he could not to make things worse or to panic Merlin further. He was aware that he was failing. And then: "marry me," he whispered, leaning down to brush the hair from the warlock's face, his touch as delicate as the moonlight. "Merlin, marry me."
The silence was deafening.
"Merlin," Arthur's voice broke. "Will you marry me? Will you— Merlin, I—"
"Yes," he whispered. And then the last of the strength faded from his body, and everything went black.