by GR Griffin
Hell.
Their sanctuary had turned into hell, a dark paradise that had been stripped of its crux.
Aware of his instability, Merlin lifted his head to try and establish his surroundings. It was a scene of panic. Everyone was lost. Emrys was gone; any trace of power and hope inside of him had vanished. Because it was all gone. All destroyed by Uther- Arthur. Clamping his eyes shut viciously, Merlin threw his head back to the ground feebly. Just that name abolished everything inside; it was the route of all of this, the instigator. That name. Oh that name had so recently meant the world to him, given him more life and optimism than ever before. That name had swallowed the world, bathed in the suffering of his people. That name was no longer a name in his own mind; it was the embodiment of betrayal never to be spoken of again, a word representing a figure he placed too must trust and loyalty into. That name became a word that had obliterated destiny, love…taken everything. All gone.
It’s all gone.
Merlin.
The voice gave him hope instantly, and it took all his strength to simply respond and cut through the inner chaos.
Father! Where are you?
No response. Flustered, Merlin tried to get onto his knees. The bruising of his skin, the internal weeping was too much. Yet still he continued to lift himself up. His feet were too numb to walk on. He crashed back onto the ground hopelessly. The cries of his people had begun to subside into silence; the grief was too immense for the body to handle. Wiping a hand over his face slowly, Merlin swallowed a torrent of sobs about to slip over him. He had to find his father. His father would know what to do, how to lead the people out of this calamity. Crawling through the wreckage, past limp bodies and burning branches, Merlin inhaled a raspy breath.
“Father!” his voice echoed around the plain.
Many of the druids had dispersed, following Gwen and Will no doubt. It was too much to even be here, it hurt. In this moment Merlin prayed for those he had not seen whilst the shelling took place: his mother, Gwaine, Lancelot. But not Arthur; not the name. His lips curled up with a dark loathing. He could have stopped this. All the evidence suggested that he wanted this to happen. He was just like his father with a heart as black as the blackest nightfall. Pushing the resentment away, Merlin spotted a fallen tree ahead, scorched from fire. It was what he saw under the tree that struck him. Fiercely dragging his throbbing body towards the tree, he cried out, voice husky.
“Father!”
Merlin.
Reaching the figure pinned beneath the tree, Merlin felt tears spill from his eyes. No. No. Crouching over Balinor, he cradled the head in his arms. The reality of the situation was that the tree that had crushed his lower body. His arms hung motionless beside his upper body, possibly paralysed. Merlin guessed it wouldn’t be long before his father was unable to speak.
“Father, come on.” He whispered, nudging the head lightly, fearful of causing any more damage to the bloodied man.
Glassy eyes, unfocused, gazed in the direction of Merlin, but were incapable of finding his eyes directly. That was enough to break the young druid.
“It’s…it’s up to you now.” Balinor uttered faintly.
Swallowing-hard, Merlin brushed the tears from his face. No. He couldn’t lose his father. Not after all of this. He didn’t think he could hurt anymore, everything was gone.
“Don’t say that! You’re fine.” he wasn’t fine. “I’ll get you out-“
Lifting a palm towards the fallen, rotten tree, Merlin bit his lip. He knew, despite efforts to fool himself, it was an impossible task. Admitting it would mean accepting more desolation, more pain. Mouth trembling, Balinor’s words became a little muffled.
“-Merlin.” Gazing back to his father, willing to do anything, Merlin stroked his hair soothingly. “I’m dying.”
He’s dying. He’s dying.
No. Unable to speak, too frenzied, Merlin shook his head. You’re not dying. I will save you.
Save him.
A flicker of gold fell from his palm and pathetically evaporated. Emotionally compromised, physically exhausted, his magic – as expected – was still inconsolable over the Crystal Cave. He could hear it whimpering inside. That didn’t stop him from trying again. It refused to move. And again. It did nothing.
“It’s no good Merlin…”
No good. No good. He’s dying. Save him.
Save him.
Lowering the head to the ground, Merlin clutched Balinor’s chest intensely.
“I’m EMRYS. If I can’t save you then what is my power for?!” his words cracked, the hoarse voice jumping between octaves.
Emrys, save him. Save him Emrys.
“You are d-destined.” Large inhale of breath. “for g-greatness Merlin. You always have been. I believe in you.”
Merlin didn’t want fucking belief. He wanted his father safe and sound. Panic of reality surged around him. His father was dying; his father was about to die. The Crystal cave was gone. Ealdor was gone. It was all gone. He delicately pressed his lips to Balinor’s forehead.
Father.
He felt the pulse dim, the heavy frantic breathing faltered.
FATHER. Father!
An uncontrollable rocking swept through Merlin’s body, as he attempted to shake his father free from the tree, praying he could bring the man back to life. But he was gone. It was all gone. Merlin had lost everything in a matter of minutes. Shivering, he embraced his father. With one gentle gesture, he shut the man’s transparent eyes. The earth around lamented for this loss. The sky cried, its tears caressing Merlin’s face; the remaining trees swayed sorrowfully side to side. Slowly, the fires began to wither from the touch of water, leaving black charcoal wounds in the ground. The soil thickened, becoming grime. Bringing a muddy hand to his face, Merlin cupped his mouth, insatiable weeping sprouted from his mouth.
A figure gazed upon this sight, throat swollen. Taking a step forwards, the two men beside him warily shook their heads.
“Don’t.” One murmured drearily, too weak and distraught from the recent events to act upon his words and commit to grabbing the man.
The figure ignored him. Crouching down beside Merlin, he pressed a firm, consoling hand on his shoulder. Although it’s intent was consolation, the contact singed the druid’s skin.
“Merlin, it’s not safe. You must go.”
Too fragile to push the hand away, but knowing exactly who it was, Merlin curled up closer to his father’s immobile body. It was so unfair. He didn’t deserve to die this way; he was a noble, powerful leader. No, no no. Father. The name, the name. It was here, it was touching him, trying to offer him peace and- no. A dark furnace seethed.
“Get away!” the voice barely resembled his own anymore, it was uneven and volatile. “Get...” His throat was clogged with an agonising ache, tears streaming down his face. Painfully, he dislodged the trapped words with an overwhelming sob. “Get. Away.” Gritting his teeth, Merlin clenched his fists tightly in his father’s shirt.
The hand didn’t leave. The figure was still here. The name, that stupid name.
“Get. Away.” He repeated, each word spat out forcefully, through ragged breaths. “Never. Come. Back.”
A few moments passed; he continued his grieving. The figure removed their hand. Merlin was too engrossed in death and unrest to notice. It was all gone.
“-Merlin.”
Merlin’s eyes flashed open; he viciously turned to face the intruder, the only person who had lacked enough humanity to drag Albion into a state of disrepair and sorrow- the only person who wouldn’t let him lament his own father in peace-
“-LEAVE ME ALONE. YOU’VE DONE ENOUGH.” Not even looking the figure in the eyes, Merlin hissed ominously. “YOU...I, EMRYS, BANISH YOU FROM THIS LAND.”
Without bothering to check if the figure had anything to say, Merlin continued, voice too frail to continue shouting.
“If you ever come near my people again,” His eyes darkened dangerously. “I will kill you.”
Because once a Pendragon, always a Pendragon.
Arthur stumbled dizzily into Gwaine’s arms, not managing to support himself any longer.
Reluctantly, he consented to the black abyss enclosing around him. When darkness enshrouded his entirety, flashing imprints of the Crystal Cave’s ruins ignited. The onslaught frozen in frame, fading in and out of focus, flickering. A figure stood unscathed amidst this all, in a smart business suit, Camelot Enterprise plastered across the front pocket.
For a split second he thought it was Uther.
Then, as the picture faded and left him in a bewildering obscurity, he realised it wasn’t Uther at all.
It was himself.
Chapter 39
Merlin is broken.
But it’s worse than that. Emrys is broken. He walks with a defeated stance, eyes misted over with a poignant vacancy as he leads his tired, despondent people through the endless terrain of empty, decaying woodland. Once upon a time within those eyes was a fierce Hope, a blinding Faith, a quest to free Peace from its shackles. Those eyes were once a beacon, he was once a beacon. Just his name, his very name could set the whole of Albion alight with a newfound force, spark a perilous resistance. But names were dangerous, and there was one name that had tainted the world forever, demolished ruthlessly any trace of power Emrys supposedly had. There was one name that echoed amongst the silent forests, the weeping druids, the despairing earth. This one name had broken Ealdor, broken Albion, broken the very essence of magic.
Emotions start to flee in panic and dejection. He watches this unfold miserably, confusion the only sane emotion left to cling onto as the others floundered at Fate‘s command. Deception pushes Trust over the edge when it isn‘t looking, you hear its scream. And Love, of course Love jumps to its own death. Love is always so self-sacrificial, playing the martyr even when it is the root of all this pain inside him. But three far more key elements quickly deteriorate in front of his eyes. It is these three elements that hold the fate of the people: Hope, Faith, Peace. Merlin can’t find them anywhere. Then again he’s not really looking.
As he walks, their whereabouts slowly unfold. Hope is nothing but a distant mirage on the endless horizon; it’s never close enough to touch, always out of reach. Faith is dangling from a noose in front of his very eyes, and Peace is shattered into a thousand shards, crackling under his bleeding feet.
It’s all quiet in Albion now.
The birds have left, flocked elsewhere knowingly. The creatures that roam the forest have hidden away, some willingly giving their lives. Their corpses stain the browned grass, rotting in the arid soil, once rich with minerals and sacred magic. For what is there to life for, if Magic itself is dying? What is there to live for knowing that this demonstration of reckless power is not the end, but the beginning? That name never rests, it will never rest. There is more to come -and there is worse to come.
His father, Balinor, He would have known what to do, what to say to the people. He could have lifted the people’s spirits back up, or reassured them somehow. But the name, the name took him away. The name destroyed everything. His mother is nothing but a pallid statue now, a shadow of her former self. She has not spoken for many days, her lips are cracked with dried blood, her wide, bloodshot eyes forever spilling tears. The children don’t speak. Merlin fears many have forgotten how to, traumatised at the loss of something so enormous – and in many cases their parents - to do anything but walk compliantly. Will does not speak. He walks beside Merlin impassively. However, to think that is a gesture of loyalty would be foolish. This is now a broken world full of broken people. Friendships, no matter how strong, are dangling on a fine string, thin enough to snap at any given moment. People start to place blame, start to throw accusations at each other through their eyes. The majority of these are hurtled at Merlin. Merlin isn’t surprised, or hurt by it. It’s his fault after all. He trusted the name, he let the name into Ealdor.
Gwenevere is hauntingly silent too.
She likes to pretend that Merlin is leading them somewhere safe, somewhere they can find a new Peace. The truth is that they haven’t stopped walking since the event, not even to satisfy the thirst and hunger of their weak bodies. Merlin just thinks that she’s stupid, to have such blinding belief in him after everything. He doesn’t tell her that though. Nobody has spoken since the event. If he could speak, form some words on his tongue, he would tell Gwen she should just accept the truth out loud. She should put herself out of her misery, or rather, plunge herself into it. After all, everyone else has. Some druids have already left, refusing to follow Merlin, Emrys. There was no greater indication of failure than this, to condemn the savoir of the people, of Albion. A ruined savoir, a lost symbol.
And the ones who stayed, they weren’t exactly following because they wanted to.
They follow because there is safety in numbers and…well, where else is there to go? Nowhere. Albion is falling, Albion has fallen, to the hands of the name. The name is spreading, the name is going to destroy everything. Magic is dying. Her soul is withering away. Without magic, there is nothing. Without magic there is nowhere. Life is not worth living. Some people start to realise this, and slip off into the depths of the forest. It is no secret as to what they are doing. Many believe it is better to die by your own hand, than by the name. Merlin hears their final thoughts, feels their final breaths, their final heartbeat. Each time it happens, he cries again. Only it’s so much worse than anyone could imagine because it’s his fault this has happened, and the very notion plummets him into the darkest abyss of nothingness.
Yet he keeps walking, aimlessly.
They keep following, aimlessly.
The smoke is still rising from Ealdor. Merlin can’t stop himself from looking back at the remnants of his once magnificent home as they venture up the slope. It’s all black; the earth is slashed open, bleeding out its pain. It’s all quiet. It’s all gone. Everything is gone. Merlin can feel it, it’s seeping from his skin, crying and begging not to go. It’s not its time to go, it doesn’t want to die. It can’t die. It created all of this, this world, this beautiful, perfect world. It created this civilisation, it fought for it, it protected it. It failed. It wants to make amends. But the wreckage left behind in its name, in that name, is too much. Too much has been lost. Those vacant, cold eyes study the pillars of smoke on the endless horizon. They continue to rise dramatically, smearing against the darkening sky. He turns away.
The image singes itself into his mind, never once leaving the foreground.
He keeps walking, aimlessly.
They follow, aimlessly.
Then smoke starts to rise in other places too.
It breaks Merlin again.
And again.
♦☼♦
“Uther’s going to destroy all of Albion if we don’t stop him.” Gwaine mutters under his breath, gazing up despondently at the pillars of smoke rising in the distance.
From beside him Lancelot sighs and hums in agreement, shock still overpowering his system. The events of the past few days were traumatic, horrific. People had died before their eyes, a whole settlement blown to smithereens callously. It was difficult to be in the middle of both parties; exiled from one, disgusted with the other. They were in no-man’s land, helpless observers in this unfair war. Gwaine catches the solemn look in Lancelot’s eyes, and wonders why the hell Arthur won’t man up and deliver one of his morale-boosting speeches. He’d always been good at them. Arthur was the key to this resistance.
For a moment he thinks Arthur didn’t hear him, and he clears his throat to try and make some sort of contact with the silent statue. Arthur is sat underneath a small tree at the edge of the clearing, not too far from the pair. His eyes are lost
and hazy. He rarely speaks; he rarely does anything. And when he does do something it’s out of character. His behaviour odd; unsettling. He is like a tormented, raving lunatic; driven crazy by trauma and internal grief. It took hours to convince him to move from the ruins of Ealdor. Even now, they’re not situated far from them. The smell of ash and charred wood is still strong, a foreboding reminder of the ferocity that is Camelot Enterprise.
Lifting his head slowly, Arthur allows a bitter smile to spread over his face, revealing that he did in fact hear Gwaine’s words. That silver pendant is still weaved around his right hand, the symbol dangling from his hands. He’s spent all day staring at it, as if he hoped it would start talking and tell him what the fuck to do. Gwaine could have sworn earlier he’d heard Arthur muttering to it.
“We can’t stop them.” His tone is infested with pessimism.
Gwaine only has to take one more look at the smoke in the sky to turn towards Arthur with ferocity of his own. He doesn’t care that Arthur it broken, everyone is broken. But there’s still time, there’s still time to fix all of this, to piece people, a nation, back together again. No matter how dismal the chance is, Gwaine seizes it in his hands and holds it out to Arthur pleadingly.
“How can you of all people say that?”
Arthur averts his eyes back to the necklace in his palm. Surprisingly, it doesn’t speak and tell him what the fuck to do. It just dangles there silently against his hands. It’s just an object after all, a memory of his mother. A contort makes its way across his handsome face. It’s the first sign of normalcy in days.
“I caused this. I did this.”
Kneeling beside Arthur, the tanned male frowns sympathetically. He places a hand on his knee, Arthur rolls away from the touch frantically, a whimper of all things leaving his lips. And that’s enough for Gwaine to feel his own heart breaking, just a little.