Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It was not so much a thought as it was a general feeling that all was right in the world as Arthur rode down the forest path. He was surrounded by his loyal knights, men who would follow him to the ends of the Earth if he asked it of them, and would likely come anyway even if he didn’t. His manservant followed closely behind, a man who would also follow him to the ends of the Earth but who would complain about it all the while. Arthur hid a smile but was sure to face away from Merlin when he did so. It wouldn’t do to let the man see him with such an expression; he wouldn’t let it go until Arthur told him why he was happy, and if, the gods forbid, Arthur were to tell him that he was part of the reason, he would never hear the end of it. No, best hide any sign of affection, just to be safe.

When Arthur looked back to see if Merlin’s suspicions had been aroused, however, the man wasn’t even looking at him. Rather, he looked tense, staring off into the treeline.

“Alright there, Merlin? Don’t worry, the rabbits are more scared of you then you are of them,” he teased, much to the knights’ delight. Arthur and Merlin’s banter was legendary amongst the knights, after all. Arthur knew that if he were to ask the older knights about their rapt attention to his interactions with his manservant, they would say some rubbish about ensuring the man is minding his place while hiding their snickers behind ill-disguised coughs. The younger ones would claim they simply appreciated witnessing their king’s quick wit, even though it is in fact Merlin who gets the upper hand on him half the time (although Arthur will deny it to his dying day).

It is the round table knights that get the most enjoyment over their banter, given that they are on close enough terms with both men to contribute to it. Today, however, only Leon and Elyan represent the round table amongst the knights’ numbers; Gwaine and Percival were needed for a patrol on the other side of the kingdom. Arthur does try not to show blatant favoritism by constantly surrounding himself with the same people. For this particular mission, a diplomatic visit to Caerleon’s kingdom, Arthur thought Leon and Elyan would be wise choices to accompany him; both had grown up in Camelot, and would therefore have an easier time answering any questions the retinue may receive about the kingdom. Not to mention, inviting Gwaine to anything diplomatic was courting disaster, and in Arthur and Leon’s absence, Percival seemed the most likely to be able to keep Gwaine in line. Or at least, Arthur thought, given recent reports from the cook about some disappearing chickens, he could keep the chaos somewhat contained.

This particular mission was especially important, given Arthur’s recent coronation. His uncle had suggested that some kingdoms might take advantage of his youth by leading raids into the kingdom, testing his boundaries; indeed, there had been reports of Caerleon’s men raiding villages on Camelot’s side of the border. Rather than wait for Caerleon to grow bolder and venture closer to the heart of Camelot, Arthur thought it best to meet with the man and with Queen Annis to see if an effort towards peace might be made without further bloodshed. Arthur knew what kind of king he wanted to become and what kind of kingdom he wanted to build: one in which peace was the ideal.

Arthur was still waiting for a response from Merlin, who seemed to not have even heard Arthur. His gaze did not leave the trees. “Careful now Merlin, I can practically see the smoke coming out of your ears. Relax, would you? This is a diplomatic mission, not a hunt. Your little furry friends are safe for now, you needn’t worry about anything save not embarrassing yourself in front of foreign dignitaries, if you can manage it.”

Finally, Merlin’s head snapped towards his king, but the tension did not leave his shoulders. Given the worry lines around his face, Arthur suspected he knew what his manservant was going to say next before he even opened his mouth.

“I think something might be wrong, Arthur. Are you certain that no one else knows of our route?” Disappointing. Merlin hadn’t even attempted to continue their verbal spar. The few knights who were still paying attention to the two fell back to talk amongst themselves.

Arthur sighed. “Of course not, Merlin, only those that needed to know such information have access to it. What is it, one of your funny feelings again?”

Merlin continued frowning. “Something like that. I just have the sense that something terrible is going to happen soon.”

“Lighten up, will you? Nothing’s going to happen, and certainly not to you. You, Merlin, are surrounded by the best knights in the kingdom, not to mention the king himself. If trouble comes, we’ll defeat it. We always do.”

Merlin made a funny look then, almost exasperated if Arthur didn’t know any better, before saying, “You’re probably right,” and finally looking at the path ahead instead of the trees surrounding him.

Something about Merlin’s countenance must have been catching, however. Though Merlin seemed marginally more relaxed, Arthur started feeling slightly nervous himself. He could not tell why; the forest seemed normal, there were no clear signs of trouble nearby, and the only one in all of Camelot who knew of their route was his uncle; Arthur trusted no one more fully. An hour passed in which nothing happened to warrant any sort of nerves, and Arthur finally let himself forget the tension that lingered in Merlin’s shoulders. The man was constantly on edge, Arthur should know better than to rely on him to determine when there was danger nearby.

As he arrived at this conclusion, the group entered a clearing. Arthur could hear running water nearby, and decided this was as good a place as any to stop for a quick meal and give the horses a chance to rest. Arthur called for a dismount and left it to Merlin to see to the horses while each of the knights seated themselves on the grassy floor with their rolls and salted meats. Merlin would cook them a proper meal that night, when they formally stopped for the day, but for now they would make do with what the cook had sent them for the trip.

Arthur himself sat by Leon and Elyan (alright, perhaps some favoritism was permitted) in addition to his most recent recruit, an eager young man named Yvaine whom he had seen Merlin chatting with earlier. While Arthur didn’t trust Merlin to sense a bunny from a bandit, he knew Merlin was an excellent judge of character; if Merlin was on good terms with the man, he was likely worth getting to know better.

While Arthur sat with his food in the company of his men, he suddenly became aware of the quiet. His first thought was that Merlin had yet to reappear from the stream where he was refilling water skins. His second thought was that his manservant’s chatter was not the only kind of chatter that was missing from his senses; the forest was completely silent. Arthur barely got out a shout of warning before men were streaming into the clearing on all sides.

Thankfully, his men had the foresight to keep their swords with them even when resting, though they still lacked the advantage fighting on horseback would have given them. Arthur noted that the knights were outnumbered three to one, and given the skill of the man he had just stabbed, he guessed that these were likely paid mercenaries rather than simple bandits. The knights put up a good fight, but against such odds there was little they could do. Arthur barely had the presence of mind to pray that Merlin had the good sense to stay out of the clearing and away from the fight before he was disarmed and held at swordpoint in the middle of the clearing along with the rest of his men. He noted with relief that beyond some scratches and bruises, his knights appeared mostly unharmed; it was likely that they were wanted alive, then.

Arthur stifled a groan when one of the mercenaries dragged Merlin over from behind a tree to join the rest of the captive group. The idiot never had the sense to run when he should.

As the mercenaries bound himself and his men, Arthur searched out the leader, and found him: a tall man, dirty blond hair, unassuming but for the jagged scar across his chin and the almost dead expression in his eyes. Arthur met those eyes with his own.

“Who are you? I demand to know the meaning of this!” Arthur barked out, as one his captors tightened the rope binding his wrists together.

The man stood silent for a moment, sizing him up. Arthur did not break eye contact. The man smirked, though the dead expression remained. “You demand?” he said slowly, but firmly. “I don’t believe you are in much position to be making demands, little king.”

“Listen, whatever your plans for us might be, you already have the king of Camelot in your possession. Let my knights and my servant go; you don’t need them.” Arthur remained standing tall and kept his voice calm, reasonable. It was unlikely to work, as his knights would simply return later with reinforcements and both parties knew it. It was worth a shot, however, and if nothing else they might let Merlin free. Merlin would do the same but he was unintimidating enough that the mercenaries might chance it.

The man tilted his head, maintaining his eye contact with Arthur. Whatever he was looking for he seemed to find, and finally responded. “I’m quite certain I can find a use for your knights, actually. Your servant, on the other hand,” and here, his eyes finally left Arthur and settled on Merlin. “No, I don’t need another servant, and you certainly don’t need him either, where you’re going.” He nodded to one of his men, who nodded back and approached Merlin with a long knife.

Merlin looked affronted. “Absolutely not, I’m not going anywhere without the king. Anywhere you take him, I’m coming too.” He tried to take a step away from the man, but was held firmly in place by another as he stepped behind Merlin to cut his bonds. Merlin kept up a stream of protests even as the ropes hit the ground and he started rubbing his wrists. Arthur breathed a sigh of relief and silently prayed Merlin would just shut up and take the chance that had been granted him.

The sigh froze in his lungs when a second later, a knife tip stuck out of Merlin’s chest.

Arthur felt his breath leave him completely as Merlin fell to his knees. He was aware of his knights crying out, some with Merlin’s name, some with threats towards the man who stabbed him, still others with a wordless cry of distress. Arthur could make no sound at all. He simply stared at Merlin, and Merlin stared right back, equally as shocked as Arthur. A stream of blood trickled from Merlin’s mouth as the knife withdrew and he collapsed completely, raising only his head and his arm, reaching out towards Arthur.

Arthur wasn’t sure when he started moving towards Merlin, was only half aware of the men holding him back. Arthur was hyper aware of the growing puddle of red beneath Merlin, mirroring the growing panic in Merlin’s eyes. He redoubled his own efforts to escape as his guards doubled theirs, fighting to get to Merlin. He just had to reach Merlin, he had to tell Merlin he’ll be alright, because he’s Merlin, and Merlin is always alright. He had to be. Arthur can’t imagine a world where Merlin isn’t alright.

It was very important that Arthur reach Merlin to tell him this, because the light was starting to fade from Merlin’s eyes. The hand started to lower. Arthur had to reach him. He had to. Merlin deserves so much, he didn’t deserve this. He was asking for Arthur, Arthur could see his name on Merlin’s lips, though no sound was forthcoming. Arthur had to reach him. He had to.

There was practically a pile of mercenaries holding Arthur in place at this point; no matter how hard he struggled, Arthur couldn’t seem to get away. He was somewhat aware that he was screaming now, screaming for Merlin, for Merlin to hold on, screaming at the mercenaries to let him go, for the gods’ sakes to let him go, but they didn't. They didn’t let Arthur go and Merlin was fading. He was fading.

Arthur felt the exact second that Merlin was gone. He felt it the way he would feel the absence of air, of gravity, of time. Indeed, Arthur seemed to be missing all of those things; no air reached Arthur’s lungs and he felt weightless, like he had lost an anchor. He stared at the body of one of the greatest men he had ever known and it felt like an eternity. Merlin didn’t move, he didn't even twitch. Because Merlin was gone, he knew. He was gone. He was gone, but Arthur couldn't believe it.

Unfortunately, time seemed to be running just fine for everyone else, because one second Arthur was staring at Merlin’s vacant gaze, and the next he was being forced in the opposite direction.

“WAIT!” Arthur shouted, “STOP!” as he dug his feet in, thrashing against the men still holding a death grip on his arms, until the leader called for a halt. Arthur looked at him again, and hated him; hated him like he didn’t even hate Odin for the death of his father. He tried to keep the raw loathing off his face as he told the man, with as much confidence as he could muster when his world had just fallen apart, “We can’t simply leave him here for beasts to find. We have to bury him.”

The man’s expression didn’t change, but his voice held the smallest hint of amusement as he said, “For a servant? That hardly seems necessary. At any rate, he is not your concern anymore, and we have a schedule to keep. We move on.”

Arthur was prepared to scream. He was prepared to punch, to bite, to let go of all sense of decorum until they allowed Merlin a proper burial. Merlin deserved a knight’s funeral, but he definitely deserved better than to rot in the open where anyone or anything could get to him. Even if he didn’t, Merlin is, Merlin was, a superstitious man. There was no way he would ever find rest without some sort of burial, Arthur was sure.

Arthur was prepared to do all of these things, but was stopped once more by the man he hated more than anything. “Say one more thing about it and your servant will be joined in the afterlife by a knight of your choosing.”

Arthur was struck dumb, but startled when the leader nodded once more, and a man approached Yvaine, who glared and stood tall, with only the slightest tremble in his knees to betray his fear.

“Stop,” Arthur whispered, then cleared his throat. “Stop!” he called, louder. The leader held up a hand and the man stopped. “We--” Arthur’s voice broke and he cursed himself. “We move on.”

The barest hint of a smile. “Good king,” the leader called, and the procession moved forward. Arthur was only half aware of the knights staring back at his manservant, of Leon’s shaking behind him, of Elyan clenching and unclenching his muscles as if physically restraining himself from attacking the mercenaries.

Arthur couldn't think about Merlin now. Right now, Arthur needed to be a king. He needed to protect those who remained, he needed to get his men out of this. Later, when all of this was over. Later, Arthur would let himself fall apart. But he could not show any more weakness in front of these men. He had to think, he had to plan, he had to lead. Arthur would tear each and every one of his captors to pieces for what they had done, but Arthur needed to focus on attaining freedom first.

Arthur trudged forward, knowing that part of himself was left behind with the body of his manservant. With the body of his friend.

Chapter Text

Merlin woke up.

This was quite shocking for him. The last thing he remembered was getting a knife to the back. It had happened quickly and unexpectedly enough that he couldn’t even try fighting back with magic. Merlin had reached out for Arthur, who looked as shocked as Merlin felt. He had to give Arthur credit, he had truly tried to get to him in time. Apparently it hadn’t been needed; something must have worked out after all.

Merlin sat up. He felt quite odd, somewhat disconnected, but he did not feel the pain he would have expected with a hole in his middle. Merlin looked around and noticed he was alone, with the bodies of a few fallen mercenaries around him but no sign of Arthur or the knights. 

Huh. They must have assumed he was dead and left him behind. Merlin could hardly blame them, he thought for sure he was a goner. He remembered regretting more than anything as he took what he thought was his last breath that he was never able to tell Arthur the truth. 

There was so much he needed to tell Arthur. The truth about his magic, about their destiny, and all that had taken place since he first came to Camelot. Not to mention Aggravaine’s treachery. So many things needed to come to light and he had been anxious to clear the air with Arthur.

It was a good thing he hadn’t, Merlin thought to himself as he stood up, looking down the path in the direction the mercenaries must have traveled with the knights. He contemplated how he had survived his wound. His magic often protected him from the worst of his injuries, but this seemed a little excessive. Maybe he had called Kilgharrah before completely losing consciousness? Or maybe a passing druid healed him. He looked down to inspect the damage and realized a lot of things at once.

First of all, it seemed that the disconnected feeling was slightly more literal than he thought. Merlin was quite certain he was standing up, but when he looked down all he could see was his own fallen body, which still contained a hole in the middle of his back. Merlin stared for a moment, quite confused. He raised his arm, could feel himself raising his arm, and yet his arm on the ground lay quite motionless. Merlin tried to jump, and only noticed then that he could not actually feel his feet on the ground. Merlin tried to walk; he moved forward without feeling his legs move. He looked back; his body was still where he left it. Merlin focused on where he was positive his left arm actually was. He stared at it a good minute before a pale, almost glowing arm appeared for a second. In his shock, his concentration slipped and the arm faded once more. 

Realistically, there was only one one conclusion Merlin could possibly draw from these observations. But, no. No, he couldn't be. What about the prophecy? What about Arthur? He was supposed to protect him. How was he supposed to protect him, how was he supposed to change his mind about magic, how was he supposed to achieve his destiny if he was--

Merlin screamed. He screamed and the whole clearing screamed with him. Absently, he noticed the crack of several trees nearby, heard crows take flight from their feast on the nearby mercenaries. He screamed long after he ought to have run out of breath.

But breath didn’t matter to him. Not anymore. 

Because Merlin was dead.

He was dead, and he had died without achieving his destiny. What’s more, he had died while leaving Arthur in the hands of, well, deadly mercenaries. 

After everything, was this what all his sacrifice and hard work had amounted to? An unburied body, a restless spirit? A death at the hands of someone he could have killed with barely a thought, had he reacted quickly enough?

Merlin could not cry, but he wanted to. He stood there for several minutes, vaguely aware of something shaking, though he wasn’t sure if it was himself or the surrounding clearing. Somewhere in the back of his mind, a rather Gaius-sounding voice told him that he needed to calm down.

While Merlin didn’t actually need to breathe, he practiced going through the motions of it anyway. He focused on the action itself, of an inhale and an exhale. He stared at a patch of grass in front of him and observed how it moved with the wind’s motions, clearing his mind until nothing remained but the patch of grass.

Eventually, Merlin felt somewhat like himself again. Well , he reasoned, it isn’t like I have never been in danger of dying before . At least I wasn’t executed! At the slightly hysteric timbre to the thought, he stopped. Completed a few more breathing-motions. Not to mention, he continued, if I can figure out how to get to Avalon, I won’t be alone there. Will, Freya, my father, Lancelot . . .

Finally, Merlin smiled softly to himself. This wasn’t ideal, certainly, but maybe dying wouldn’t be all that bad. At least Arthur was still alright, as far as he knew. 

Merlin contemplated his next move. An unsuccessful attempt to call Kilgharrah made him remember that the dragonlord gift was passed down upon a father’s death to his son. Merlin was dead. But he had no son. Merlin swallowed the grief that bubbled up at the thought. The dragonlords had died with him.

Merlin shook his head. He couldn’t afford to focus on that right now. He couldn’t call Kilgharrah, so he would have to figure this out on his own. Merlin thought back to everything he knew about ghosts. He had talked about the subject fairly recently with Gaius (oh gods, Gaius. What would he say when he found out? Gaius, Gwen, his mother . . . No! Focus, Merlin) after stumbling into a druid burial site while herb picking. He hadn’t known that was what it was at the time, simply noting the brightly colored flags and the sense of wrongness that filled the place. Like a warning of some kind. He asked Gaius about it when he returned, the answering turning into a fairly long lecture. Unlike his lectures on anatomy and herblore, however, this was a topic that Merlin actually found interesting, albeit a bit sad and disconcerting. 

After chastising his ward for his ability to stumble into dangerous places on a whim, Gaius went on to explain the purpose of these shrines in containing restless spirits who had not yet passed on from the mortal plane.

“But Gaius, why is such a thing even necessary? How does a spirit just . . . get stuck? Why can’t they simply move on?” Merlin asked.

“Well, Merlin, it depends on the manner of death the spirit experienced. There are three elements to a death that are necessary for the spirit to ‘get stuck,’ as you say. First is the lack of a proper burial. A soul is more likely to find peace if their body has received the necessary rites and has been disposed of respectfully.” 

Merlin grimaced, glancing at his fallen body. Noting the nearby crows eyeing a potential new meal, he attempted to shoo them away. It took a few tries and careful focus, but Merlin managed to manifest a voice and an arm to spook them. Sighing, he noted that he definitely met the first requirement. 

“The second element has to do with the soul itself. A spirit that needs closure, one left with a deep regret or a task left unfinished, will likely be unable to fully rest until said task is done.”

Another grimace. Merlin had his pick of regrets, unspoken secrets and unfinished tasks.

“The final element is the presence of magic, either from the spirit itself or through another’s intervention. You recall Arthur’s uncle, Tristan?”

Merlin shivered. How could he forget? Gaius continued. “He never would have returned from the grave to duel Arthur’s men if not for Nimueh’s ritual. In the case of the shrine you found, the source of the magic would likely be from the deceased themselves. There are also rumored to be magical objects that can summon the dead. In any case, the stronger the magic used, the more powerful the spirit.”

Merlin thought. “Would it really be so bad, though? If some spirits decided to stick around?” he wondered. “Obviously not the killing ones,” he clarified at the look on Gaius’ face, “but the harmless ones. If it’s so simple, why don’t spirits just . . . stay here? On this plane?” He thought of those loved ones he wished to see again, more than anything. “They might not have a body anymore but they could still teach us, advise, support . . .” he trailed off as he noticed Gaius’ pitying gaze. 

“Oh, my boy,” he said. “Unfortunately, it isn’t so simple as that. The longer a spirit is kept from the afterlife, the more . . .  unstable it becomes. Given time, a ghost will become less and less tied to reason and more tied to emotions, particularly to whatever emotions were most present in life. Eventually, ghosts will become poltergeists. Lost to all reason, lost to all sense of self. Just dangerous, and powerful.”

Dangerous and powerful– Merlin would have shivered if he could. He took note of the fallen trees nearby from his earlier episode. Merlin was said to be the most powerful sorcerer to walk the Earth. If he lost control of himself, there was no telling the harm he could do. He needed to find Arthur, and fast.

Merlin hurried down the forest path before stopping and turning back towards his body, frowning. His body needed a proper burial, but he needed to get Arthur first. He tried to recall a spell he could use to preserve his body in the meantime, but the words felt distant for some reason. Well, it isn’t as though he necessarily needed a spell. Merlin concentrated on his body, thinking protect and preserve . No sooner had the thoughts formed than the body suddenly emitted a soft golden glow, before fading and returning to normal. The birds that had been creeping back towards the corpse stopped and immediately hopped away. That would have to suffice, Merlin reasoned. 

Once more, Merlin began following the footsteps of his friends. He noted that he was not walking so much as he was drifting in the direction he wanted to go. He was still faster than he would usually be on foot and he knew he would not need to stop and rest. Hopefully he caught up to Arthur soon. 

Merlin was on a time limit. 

Chapter Text

“Let my knights and my servant go; you don’t need them.”

“No, I don’t need another servant.”

A knife tip. Blood. Screaming. The light leaving Merlin’s eyes. 

Merlin dead.

“Rise and shine, your Royal Highness!”

Merlin? Arthur thought, somewhat wildly as he clawed his way back to consciousness.

“Mer-” he stopped. It wasn’t Merlin. Of course it wasn’t, Merlin rarely used honorifics like that with him. It was a weaselly little man, grinning down at him.

“Your beauty rest is over, and our grand and glorious leader is ready to get a move on, so hop to it!” he practically cackled before darting away.

Arthur looked around the makeshift camp, noting his tied wrists and the rope connecting him to another knight nearby, his other knights scattered around in the same situation, all heavily guarded. Right. It hadn’t been a dream. 

He could smell meat cooking over a campfire nearby and his stomach growled. He remembered he hadn’t eaten since his small snack the day before, since Merlin was supposed to cook them a proper meal that night. Merlin was supposed to, but. Merlin wasn’t here. Merlin was–

Arthur shook his head. Focus, Arthur. Your knights need you. They needed to get out of this situation. There was little to no chance of escape, not for all of them. One of them, though. One might be able to slip through. Arthur noted the positions of the guards; some had left to help with packing up the camp. Apparently their leader was anxious enough to get moving that he was willing to sacrifice part of the guard to speed things along. 

If there was a time to make a move, this was it. 

Arthur looked to the knight closest to him, a single arm’s length away. As it happened, it was Yvaine, the new recruit. Perfect. After noting that the remaining guards were not paying close attention to them, Arthur scooted as close to the other knight as he dared, whispering to get his attention.

“Yvaine!” he hissed. “Yvaine!”

Yvaine’s head snapped up. His eyes were red and Arthur recalled his friendly interactions with– 

Well, Yvaine was new enough to knighthood that he likely was not too acquainted with the loss of fallen brothers-in-arms. Although, even if he had been, it probably would not have made much difference. It was one thing to mourn the death of a man who had sworn his life to the protection of the kingdom. They all knew the risks when they joined the knighthood. A servant, on the other hand, who had no business being anywhere near danger–

Focus, Arthur , he reminded himself again. “Yvaine, listen. When you get the chance, you need to run. Go back to Camelot and get help. On my mark, while the guards are distracted,” he whispered, eyeing the mercenaries’ progress with the campsite while trying not to look suspicious doing so.

Yvaine’s eyes widened. “No, my lord!” he whispered back, equally quiet but twice as fervent. “You should go, you are far more important.”

“We don’t have time for this," Arthur snapped. "If I go, they’ll have to go after me; you might make it out without notice. We cannot escape this situation on our own, we need reinforcements. Go back to Camelot, alert my uncle as to what has happened here. Wait for my signal, then get out of here, as quickly as you can.” 

Yvaine trembled but held his ground, glancing at the mercenaries’ leader. “After what they did . . . I don’t wish to leave anyone else behind, sire. I swore an oath of protection and I have already failed it once. To leave now would be cowardice, or worse than cowardice.”

The words struck Arthur like a kni– “No, Yvaine. Listen to me. Protecting Mer– protecting him was my job. My duty. He was my manservant and my responsibility. What happened was my–” No. Arthur was getting distracted; self-blame would not help his knight right now. “What happened is not a mark against your character, and you have not failed in your oath. No man can be everywhere at once, and part of the wisdom of knighthood is learning from your mistakes and accepting when you have done all you can. Right now, you have a chance to serve your kingdom and see to it that no one else gets hurt. This is not cowardice, this is an order from your king. Do you understand?”

Arthur waited for Yvaine’s hesitant but affirmative nod before beginning to glance around the camp once more, but– “Sire,” Yvaine said. “For the record,” he paused, and swallowed. “For the record, I believe your words also apply to you. He would not want you to blame yourself.”

Arthur merely smiled wanly before continuing to observe the camp. Their window of time was closing. Yvaine needed a way to free himself from his ropes and go, but the guards were still too close to miss it if Yvaine made any obvious moves towards escape. They needed a distraction.

Arthur stifled a groan. Where was Gwaine when one needed him?

Another knight caught his eye, then, perhaps the next best person for the job. Elyan looked intently from Arthur to Yvaine and back again. Perhaps he had noted the lessened guard and arrived at the same conclusions Arthur had. Arthur looked intently at Elyan and tried to communicate what he needed with just his expression. He doubted he was particularly successful, but Elyan was a smart man. He nodded at him once before looking around the camp. 

Elyan slowly, carefully dislodged himself from the surrounding knights, gently rubbing his wrists as he stood. Arthur vaguely wondered how he had loosened the rope, but supposed Elyan had spent quite a lot of time on the road (not to mention, quite a lot of time getting into and out of trouble with Gwaine); this probably was not the first tight situation he had found himself in, for whatever reason. Sure enough, Arthur saw the flash of a small dagger slip out from under his sleeve and into the hands of the knight next to him. The knight cut into his restraints before doing the same to his fellow and passing on the dagger, which slowly began making its way towards Arthur. 

The movement was not noticed by any of the guards, however, in light of Elyan marching up to the man who had killed– no, in light of Elyan marching up to the leader’s second-in-command, and punching him squarely in the face. 

The man dropped like a sack of potatoes and Elyan made sure to grab his weapon before he hit the ground. The mercenaries made to swarm him but enough knights had been freed by now that Elyan, while still outnumbered, was not without backup. 

Arthur was so intent on the fight it took him a moment to notice his loosened bonds and the knife being pressed into his hand. He snapped to, nodded to Sir Caridoc, and cut Yvaine’s bonds before handing him the knife.

“Run. Go, now.”

Yvaine hesitated, glancing at the growing brawl and back to his king. “It isn’t cowardice,” Arthur reminded him. “It’s an order, Yvaine. We cannot defeat them now. Quickly, go. Go!”

Yvaine nodded once more. “I won’t let you down, sire. I’ll be back soon, and we’ll kill them. For Merlin.” With that, he took tight hold of the knife and darted into the woods.

Arthur took a moment to recover himself and glanced around to make sure Yvaine hadn’t been seen, before jumping into the fray himself. He knocked out one of the mercenaries from behind and grabbed his weapon, but hadn’t made it two steps before a voice he despised rang out around him. 

“Enough!” the leader shouted, voice echoing across the clearing. Arthur briefly considered trying to recall if he had overhead a name for the man, but quickly stopped. The man had not given Merlin the dignity of a burial; he would not be granted the dignity of a name.

Predictably enough, the knights were quickly subdued, but the damage was done. Yvaine was long gone. The Man Arthur Hated saw to it that the knights were disarmed once more and forced onto their knees; the mercenaries were in the midst of retying their bonds (much more extensively) as he stopped in front of Arthur. The Man Arthur Hated narrowed his gaze, first at Arthur, then at the suspiciously empty space next to him. 

“What have you done,” he hissed flatly. After counting off the knights and confirming one was missing, he quietly swore and grabbed hold of his sword. 

“Sir, would you like us to go after him?” one of the mercenaries asked hesitantly.

The Man Arthur Hated exhaled through his nose before refusing. “No, the last thing we need right now is to split our forces.” He looked at Arthur again, dead look supplemented by something more sinister. “Don’t think these actions have been without consequences, little king. I warned you before what defiance would cost you.” He glanced around the knights before resting his gaze on Elyan. He strode forward, sword in hand. 

Arthur realized with horror what he was about to do. “NO! STOP!” The Man Arthur Hated continued forward, heedless of his cries. “Kill me!” he shouted desperately. 

At this, the man stopped. He turned around slowly, eyebrows raised slightly. Arthur continued. “It was my plan, these men acted under my orders, and they are my responsibility. I will face punishment for my own actions. No one else.” He glared at him. 

The Man Arthur Hated looked at Arthur consideringly. “I can’t kill you,” he finally said. “But if you are so insistent on suffering, I believe something can be arranged.” He strode towards Arthur, sword in hand. 

As the knights began their loud protest, no one noticed the wind picking up speed, nor the rustling from the surrounding trees. 

The Man Arthur Hated continued his steady walk towards Arthur, who refused to break eye contact. He would not show any sort of fear, not to this man. Instead, he pictured what he would do to him if he still had his sword. 

The man finally stopped in front of Arthur. “Last chance to change your mind, little king. I was told to bring you in alive, but no one specified whether you should be unharmed.” At Arthur’s answering glare, the man nodded. “Very well.” He glanced around Arthur’s body where it still kneeled on the ground, seemingly contemplating where and how best to inflict injury.

The clearing seemed to darken suddenly. Arthur’s heart rate picked up. 

Somehow, this fact seemed unrelated to his current quandary. The mercenaries shuffled uneasily. There was a sense of foreboding, of danger, within the clearing. Something big was about to happen. And yet, Arthur felt reassured. Safe. He was reminded of the time he was retrieving the Morteaus Flower, of the mysterious light that appeared when all seemed lost. He thought then that he must have some sort of guardian angel watching over him. Perhaps the notion wasn’t as fanciful as it had seemed at the time. 

The Man Arthur Hated seemed to settle on a method and raised his sword, seemingly oblivious to his men’s discomfort. Still, Arthur looked him in the eye, determined not to show fear. As the sword came down, Arthur prepared himself for pain.

He was certainly not prepared to see the sword intercepted by another sword. And at that, most definitely not a sword held by nothing but a disembodied hand. 

For the first time, Arthur saw fear enter the gaze of the dead-eyed man, seemingly paralyzed by the shock. When the disembodied hand knocked his sword back and went for the kill, he barely reacted in time. It was then he seemed to snap out of the daze, parrying the blade and stabbing back in turn. However, where the blade would have gone through a man, it went through thin air. The man began to fight more earnestly, but things continued in something of a stalemate.

As Arthur contemplated whether he had completely lost his sanity, he couldn’t help but notice that the disembodied hand had terrible form. It wasn’t a sentence he had ever thought he would think, but there it was. The only advantage it--he?-- had was a certain ruthlessness behind his wild swings, not to mention unpredictability that came from being completely invisible. Then, there was the whole lacking-a-body thing that seemed to make it rather impossible to lose. 

After shaking off their own shock, the surrounding mercenaries attempted to jump in and help their leader. Attempted to, being the key phrase; Arthur started violently when he saw the very Earth itself began fighting them off. A fierce wind threw half of them off their feet. Some were lucky and hit the ground, others made contact with a tree and fell down, necks at odd angles. 

Arthur and his knights remained untouched.

The other half found themselves battling the trees themselves. Roots shot up from the ground, binding the men and dragging them down. Branches flew through the air, miraculously missing the knights and knocking out any mercenary that seemed to have any fight left in them. 

With most of the mercenaries unconscious (or worse), the disembodied hand disappeared suddenly, sword falling to the ground. The wind died down, the trees ceased their movements. 

The Man Arthur Hated looked around warily, slowly turning to survey the damage and to figure out what became of his opponent. He circled around until he was facing Arthur once more. He looked at him absently, as if just remembering he was there but knowing he had bigger problems at the moment. They locked eyes briefly before a knife tip protruded from the middle of his chest.

Right where Merlin had been struck. 

The man gasped, and coughed. “I see,” he breathed out. “My apologies,” he added, shaken. The Man Arthur Hated fell down, dead.

Where he had stood, still holding a knife aloft, was Merlin. 

Merlin, with a pale, glowing, almost translucent body, hovering a half foot above the ground.

Merlin, with the most serious expression on his face Arthur had ever seen.

Merlin, with eyes that seemed to be made of pure gold.

“Merlin?” he tried to say, but his voice failed him. “Merlin?” he tried again. “Is that . . . is it really you?”

The knife fell to the forest floor and Merlin vanished.