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“Arthur!”
‘Merlin?’
Arthur’s head swivelled around to find the source of the voice, his ears straining to hear his name fall from Merlin’s lips, to hear Merlin call for him once more above the sound of the battle rushing past him, above the sound of men from both sides of the war falling to the ground, either dead or wounded beyond repair.
His mind flashed to an image of Merlin’s body, face pale with red dripping down his lips. The same lips permanently twisted into a grimace as blood stained his tunic, a sword buried deep in his abdomen. The smooth skin underneath would undoubtedly be marred with damage no healer would be able to fix.
Somehow, Arthur couldn’t help but think that if Merlin was out here— if it was Merlin he had heard— that that image would be in the near future.
Merlin shouldn’t be here, he’d said he wouldn’t be here. No, it was far too dangerous for the raven haired man to be out on a battlefield with flaming arrows, a hovering dragon that’s only instruction was to maim and kill, and gleaming swords painted with red.
“Arthur! Watch out!”
There it was again, to his left. It had to be Merlin, no one could possibly sound that similar to his— the ravenette. But, before he could turn to face the man, another voice called out to him, bitter and cold, years of hatred leaving a hard edge to her voice.
Ah. So that’s what Merlin was trying to warn him about.
“Oh, Arthur , did you really think you could hide from me amongst your dead men?” With a grin on her lips, Morgana materialised in front of Arthur, a circle forming around the two of them, her own men not letting any of Camelot’s knights pass through.
In her hands was a beautiful sword, the golden runic inscription that ran along the blade glinting around them in an angelic halo.
Arthur’s grip on his sword tightened, knuckles turning white from the strength of it as he tensed, preparing for a fight he knew he would inevitably lose to. “I never intended to hide from you, Morgana. I never have.”
“How touching,” Morgana snarked, an ugly twist to her mouth as she toed the line they had retained between each other, stepping closer to Arthur. She was close enough to do a great deal of harm to the king, yet she refrained, letting the game roll on. “But, no. That’s not what I came here for today, dear brother. I’ve heard from a. . .trusted ally that Emrys never strays far from you. And I want Emrys.”
“Emrys?” Arthur couldn’t help but scoff. He was aware of how much that irritated his sister and he knew he shouldn’t try to antagonise her, but really? “You’re still on about that, Morgana? I’ve told you before and I’ll tell you again: I have never heard that name except from yours and Agravaine’s mouths. I don’t know why you keep thinking that Emrys is by my side. Magic is still outlawed in Camelot and his presence in itself would be crime. The only one who has dared to be so close to Camelot’s walls in a public manner has been Dragoon.”
Arthur’s fingers itched to ram his sword into Morgana until nothing but the hilt was seen, though his heart was already aching at the thought of it. His shoulders were stiff with anxiety, his mind racing for ways to escape this alive, to save his men, and to get Merlin out of here.
Morgana’s bark of laughter shook him out of his pensive state and Arthur’s gaze zoned in on her just as she threw her head back, her hair blown askew at the sudden wind. There was a completely mad look in Morgana’s blue eyes when she looked back at Arthur, his own heavy with sorrow.
“I see how it is. You want to take your secret to the grave? Fine. So you shall—”
Morgana was on the brink of yelling her words at Arthur, who prepared to brace himself to be pushed to the ground— a trick Morgana favoured— and it all would have been intimidating, truly, if not for Merlin’s voice breaking through once more.
“Morgana! Stop!”
There was a commanding edge to Merlin’s words and time itself seemed to freeze as though waiting for something to happen.
Arthur just prayed time wasn’t waiting for Merlin’s blood to be spilt.
“Merlin?” Arthur hated the way she said Merlin’s name; so similar to how he pronounced it and, yet, so far from the tenderness that came from Arthur’s tongue. The speeding winds let up only the tiniest bit, but it was enough for Arthur to take notice, Morgana’s face alight with a maniacal smile, her lips pulled white across her face. “Nice of you to join us. Please, do come in.”
The circle parted and Merlin was seemingly pulled towards Morgana on an invisible lasso, eyes wide as his arms flailed about in panic. The same panic surged through Merlin’s entire being, his magic pushing out from underneath his skin, tingling with anxiety and the urge to fight.
Merlin’s lips parted as his mind battled with what to do, his thoughts literally and figuratively faltering as he realised that there was no Kilgharrah to help— not that the old lizard would have been much help either way— and no Gaius to guide him. Between his floundering, Merlin resolutely came to the conclusion he was fucked.
He needed to do something, anything, to distract Morgana, to get her attention off of the two people she really wanted dead after she toyed with them a bit. Unfortunately for Merlin, there just so happened to be a shortage of branches for him to break off of trees and knock Morgana out with.
Merlin inwardly cursed himself for ever having listened to Kilgharrah about Morgana and for becoming the High Priestess’ enemy.
“Morgana, stop!” Arthur’s arm reached out to grab Merlin, finding itself wrapped around the younger man’s waist and effectively holding him in place. “There is no need to bring Merlin into this. This is only between you and me, Morgana, no one else.”
“No,” Morgana spat, acid twisting her features into rough lines and she took a step forward, fist balling up at her side. “This is more than just between you and I, Arthur. It has always been, and always will be, between you, Merlin, Gaius, Uther, and I. Even Gwen isn’t exempt from blame, brother.”
Merlin could picture Arthur’s confusion without even looking at the king’s face— the way his brows would scrunch together, his lip pulling up in a way that might be mistaken for disgust, and the befuddlement dwelling in his sky blue eyes— and just as Merlin knew that, he also knew he had to stop this before Arthur gave Morgana the upper hand in her knowledge.
“Morgana,” his voice was nothing more than a desperate whisper, somehow heard through the chaos that continued around them. “It’s—”
He was going to say, “it’s not too late to stop, to call off the war,” but even as the words crossed his mind, Merlin knew they would be the wrong ones to speak.
Not to someone who suffered under the hands of a father figure.
Not to someone who had been made to believe that they were evil.
Not to someone who felt as though they had no choice.
Not to someone who felt that this, bloodshed, was the right path to take.
Not to someone as wronged as Morgana was.
Morgana snorted, not a hint of humour in the action. “It’s what, Merlin? Not too late to rid me of this evil, vile, contaminating magic? Well, guess what: You. Can’t! I won’t let you because this is me and you just don’t want to face it!”
“Morgana, no—” Merlin stepped forward, freeing himself of Arthur’s arm, his hands automatically beginning to slowly rise into a placating position while he shook his head rapidly. Merlin could see that he was losing Morgana, if she was ever there for him to grab onto, could feel her temper pushing itself up, ugly horns making themselves known.
Unfortunately for Merlin, its seemed that small, insignificant action of stepping forward in an attempt to approach the dishevelled priestess was the ‘straw that broke the horses back’ and any resemblance of humane nature was replaced by a deranged anger in Morgana’s stormy, havoc-ridden eyes.
“Enough of this,” was all Morgana said before her attention shifted from Merlin to Arthur, who Merlin had almost forgotten about if not for his mind constantly screeching at him to get Arthur out of the way of danger, the wind screaming and whistling in their ears with a vengeance.
Amongst a cackle that fell alongside the harshness of the wind, roughly torn from the originator’s throat, Morgana’s arm shot out, fingers curling slowly into a fist.
The air thickened, the world pushing in on all sides of them, at least for Merlin, like the corridors that were made for the servants in the castle— tight and narrow.
There was a rush of magic that ran across Merlin’s skin, coating every inch of the flesh like a bucket of cold water that had been dumped over his head— so wild and uncontrolled, untamed, Merlin had no doubt that Arthur could, also, feel the pure power emanating from his sister.
All in the matter of a few seconds, though it felt much like years, Merlin simultaneously saw Morgana’s eyes glow bronze— the natural gold of magic tainted by the malicious intent of her soul— and Arthur tense, the king’s body slowly moving out of instinct rather than rational thought toward the out-stretched hand.
Merlin saw the manic glee tug Morgana’s lips upward, and the resolution tug Arthur’s down, and a static buzz filled his ears in place of metal clashing against metal, darkness creeping at him from the corner of his vision.
Suddenly, Merlin felt as though he could no longer breathe.
A fire burning deep in his chest.
In his lungs.
In his heart.
Everywhere.
His mind willed his body to snap out of his paralysed shock, telling him ‘you’ve been through worse, so fucking fight back and do something about it!’
So, he did.
“NO!” The scream was torn out of Merlin, a show of raw fear and anger echoing through the suddenly still air, snapping suddenly like threads that had been tied together, slowly being pulled apart, further and further, until the tension between them broke and they ricocheted.
“What—”
Merlin’s cry, terrifying as it was, rang loudly in Arthur and Morgana’s ears, clutching tightly onto their hearts and forcing them to turn their attention back to the raven-haired man. Though they only had seconds to process what was happening before them, it felt like they were watching in slow-motion as Merlin curled in on himself, his eyes shut tightly as he focused on breathing correctly.
Merlin’s mind was fuzzy up until his lungs found themselves pumped full of air, fanning the flames in the pit of his stomach and only then could he think clearly, his mind suddenly as sharp as glass.
Gold eyes snapped open, not quite concentrating on anything in particular, and an invisible force rooted itself up around Arthur, Merlin, and Morgana. It lifted itself up and slammed down into the earth, sending violent shocks coursing across the battlefield to knock anyone and everyone down.
Very few were left standing, stumbling for balance, among them being the main three, but Merlin could care less about them, only having eyes for Morgana.
Morgana’s face morphed from gleeful to fearful in the blink of an eye, bronze eyes widening to the size of saucers as she was pushed multiple steps away, her magic automatically fighting for dominance against Merlin’s.
The fear Merlin saw directed at him from someone he had looked to as a friend— ‘not anymore,’ Merlin had told himself repeatedly— truly hurt more than a serket sting to the back.
He couldn’t allow himself to even think about how Arthur was looking at him.
“It’s you. . .” Morgana choked out, the grimace pulling at her lips making it seem as though the words were physically paining her to say. “You’re Emrys. . .”
A “Merlin—” came from Arthur, sharp and abrupt, followed by a sharp intake of air right in Merlin’s ear and he couldn’t help but tense.
“Arthur. . .” Merlin forced his body to comply and relax, the battle of emotions raging inside of him already unbearable enough, even with the tight handle he had over them. “Please. . .”
Morgana was in her own world, giving Merlin ample time to just breathe for at least one second and deal with Arthur.
Arthur was silent, but. . .it wasn’t an angry sort of silence, Merlin knew.
More of a “we’ll talk about this later” silence, rather.
No words needed to be spoken for Merlin to understand the trust Arthur was placing in him as he took a step back, letting Merlin do what he needed to do.
Arthur of all people would understand how long Morgana’s wrath had lasted, how much destruction had followed in her wake.
Slowly, tension leaked out of Merlin’s body, back straightening out till he stood tall above the others as he walked towards Morgana. “I can no longer let you keep doing this to yourself, Morgana. I hope you understand.”
Merlin’s words were clouded with emotion— hurt, anger, betrayal, disappointment, resignation— even while his face betrayed nothing of that nature.
Meanwhile, Morgana was muttering “no no no no” under her breath, stuck in her own mind. Her eyes were wide and unfocused, darting around with no real destination. Morgana’s breathing was shaky, inconsistent, her arms wrapping protectively around her torso as she shook her head fiercely in denial.
No more than a second later, Merlin was less than a foot away from the witch with his eyes locked onto her.
Groans were heard all around, the knights carefully picking themselves up from the ground where they had lain, unconscious.
A knight closest to the trio pushed himself up onto his elbows, one hand rubbing his temple, asking, “what the hell is going on?”
Merlin cursed in his head, he was running out of time, but even so he didn’t let the pressure get any further inside his head. Inhaling deeply, Merlin raised his hand till his palm was hovering over Morgana’s forehead, peace falling over the whole field like fresh spring rain.
A colour not unlike gold misted over Morgana, rooting her to the spot, her gaze locking onto Merlin, bronze against gold. The contact did not last much longer than a few seconds after Morgana inhaled the golden mist, her eyes rolling back in her skull as her body folded in on itself, dropping like a sack of coal, her grip of Excalibur going slack as she did.
The mist faded as Merlin’s eyes faded back to their original blue, dissipating as though it had never been there.
Acting more out of instinct rather than any actual thought, Merlin’s arms went out to catch the falling witch, winding around her and lowering down to rest on the bloodied ground.
“May your soul rest well, your mind cleansed of grief. . .Let go of your pain and rage, hand it all over to me. You will have no need for it where you are going. . .” Merlin breathed out in a whisper, tucking a strand of Morgana’s black hair behind her ear as he closed her eyes.
As she lay in Merlin’s arms, he took a moment to just. . .observe her. The first and most obvious thing that he noticed was that she looked far more peaceful than Merlin had seen her in a. . .long time, her face smoothed of vengeful wrinkles, burning fury shut behind closed eyes.
Tension leaked from Merlin’s shoulders as he gathered Morgana up in his arms, standing up from his crouched position to face Arthur.
All it took was one look from Merlin to Arthur to convey every thought running through his head, though none was sensical to Merlin himself.
By now, the men left on the battlefield were awake and were waiting for answers, answers that Arthur would be the one to deliver.
Arthur straightened his spine, standing just as a king would as the sun glinted off of his golden hair, raising his voice to speak:
"The war is over. Morgana is dead." Arthur's eyes swept over his men— both alive and dead— watching as they processed the news, his words spreading like wildfire, watching the joy and anguish pass over their worn faces.
The war was over, but the healing had only just begun.
The first step was to bury Morgana's body once and for all, not for who she had become, but for who she once was.
“Long live the king!”