by GR Griffin
“You cannot change what has passed-“
Gwaine detects the sympathy in Lancelot’s voice and scoffs, rudely he interrupts his colleague. There’s no point dwelling in the past anymore.
“-But you can change the future, we can.”
It takes no longer than a few seconds for Arthur to morph back to this strange echo of a person, personality faded, skin paled. He throws his head back against the tree’s slender body, and a chuckle escapes his lips. By the time his friends identify that sound, he breaks into insatiable, erratic laughter. It erupts loudly from his chest, resonating through their small clearing. The laughter doesn’t die out, it continues. Arthur doesn’t even know why this is all so funny. But it is. It’s hilarious. It becomes too much of an insult for Gwaine, and he takes a step forwards venomously.
“Stop laughing Arthur. This isn’t funny.”
Barking out a final laugh, the young Pendragon grinned frenziedly at the rugged male. There was a glint in his eyes, bordering insanity and instability. Realisation pelts his face. Yes. It was funny. This was all so funny! The hopeless Hope Gwaine had, the way he had personally screwed up everything despite knowing this was going to happen in hindsight anyway, the fact that his father was now some kind of warlord. It’s as if they were in some kind of epic movie. He knew what was coming next, he was supposed to suddenly find newfound hope and lead a resistance. Like a hero. That made him laugh again.
“Yes,” he has to cut his own words off, succumbing to the cloud of bitter laughs surrounding him. “Yes it is! You think we have a chance against my father.”
Gwaine grits his teeth, confirming Arthur’s suspicions. The blonde raises a hand almost drunkenly towards him, a repulsive beam snaking over his face.
“We’re outcasts….we have no purpose-“
Gwaine steps close enough to cast an overbearing shadow over Arthur. The shadow is still nothing in comparison to the one cast by his father.
“-Don’t you dare just cast Hope away like that. There are hundreds of people in Albion who would give anything to feel it again.”
Raising his eyebrows, Arthur shrugs casually. He strokes two fingers over the Merlin bird necklace in his palm before shooting Gwaine an apathetic glance. He doesn’t know why the fuck Gwaine’s angry with him about Hope. It’s not his fault it wandered off without stating when it was returning, or if it even was returning. If people were so worried about losing it, they should have tied a leash on it or something. He resists the urge to laugh at his own twisted thoughts.
“Well,” he begins, an aberrant smile on his face. “They can have it. I don’t want it.”
It takes a hell of a lot of self-control, and Lancelot’s strong vice grip on his arm, to stop Gwaine from diving towards Arthur and punching him square in the face. Instead, he ejects venom from his eyes, snarling his lip upwards.
“You’re a bastard, you know that?”
This merely sends Arthur into another fit of frantic laughter. Releasing himself from Lancelot’s firm grip, Gwaine picks up the sword on the ground, holding it out challengingly towards Arthur. Still laughing, Arthur’s eyes darken, amused by his friend’s actions. Lancelot casts a dejected glance over to Gwaine, because this isn’t the Arthur they knew or loved.
“I’m not going to fight you.” He hisses, tongue clinging to the vowels, making him sound a little ludicrous.
“Of course you’re not.” Gwaine spits on the ground, gripping the weapon tighter in his hands. “You’re not going to fight for anyone. You always did nothing! You always stood by and let him rule your life, destroy other lives.” Plunging the sword into the red soil, Gwaine narrowed his eyes. “What is it going to take for you to stand up to him once and for all, after everything he’s done? How many people are you going to let die before you stop being a selfish brat and fight back-“
“-Gwaine.” Lancelot hissed, establishing that he might have overstepped a line. The man beside him shot the tanned male a glare, continuing ruthlessly. Arthur showed no signs of anger. In fact, he seemed to be rather detached from the whole thing, grinning occasionally.
“You need to take responsibility for your actions Arthur Pendragon. You started this mess, you clean this shit up.”
And for a moment Arthur is silent, staring seriously up at Gwaine. It’s in this moment that Gwaine thinks he’s finally gotten through to the real Arthur, buried away inside this monster on the exterior. However, it seems his efforts are all in vain, because Arthur starts laughing again, louder than before. Exasperated and disappointed in a man he once looked up to, Gwaine stumbles away from the hysterical blonde, picking up the supplies on the ground.
“Where are we going?” Lancelot asks, for the first time voicing where his loyalties lay. Of course, he’d fight for justice, for a noble cause. This didn’t surprise Arthur Pendragon one bit. He lifts his head, watching the pair in front of him, ready to go, leave him.
“We’re going to find people who will fight for justice.” Gwaine replies, shooting the broken Arthur a look of disdain. Guffawing at these words, Arthur smirks bleakly.
“I’m not going with you. Go off on a wild goose chase, you’ll only get caught by my father’s men-“
“-Don’t think for one second that I won’t leave you and your spoilt ass here.” Gwaine snaps back in avid fury, pointing a finger in his direction. “After everything you did to Ealdor, to Merlin-“
That word, that name…the name nobody has dared voice since the destruction of Ealdor and the Crystal Cave. That name sparks a resilient agility in Arthur. He rose to his feet instantly, picking up the sword in the soil, eye smouldering.
“Watch your tongue.” He says, voice low, walking towards Gwaine.
It’s Gwaine’s turn to laugh now, because since when had Arthur been such a fucking hypocrite – so much like his father?
“Oh I’m sorry.” He begins, blinking petulantly at the blonde man in front of him. “I forgot Merlin meant so much to you. I wonder how I could ever forget…oh yeah, because you used him-“
“-I’m warning you!” Arthur growls, lunging forwards savagely, newfound fire burnishing in his eyes.
And Gwaine knows, deep in his heart, that this is the start of it all. He realises this the moment he spoke that name. That name has sparked the fiery resistance, the raw rage inside which will consume him, obliterate his wrongs. By mentioning that name, Arthur has already flung himself into action, looking more like his past self. It’s set in motion the chain of events which will bring Arthur Pendragon to Camelot, will push him towards the light. Swinging the sword around helplessly, Arthur suddenly finds everything funny again and starts laughing. Gwaine grimaces.
That name may have instigated something inside of Arthur, but it’s it too early to tell. He’s still a shell of a man, a broken man. It’s just begun, it’s early days. This, Gwaine knows, is something Arthur must face alone. Chuckling, with a sincerity that deeply confuses Arthur, Gwaine holds his hands up in surrender. Arthur’s already slumped back against the tree. He’s dehydrated, tired, hungry, restless, broken, insane. Slowly, Gwaine walks away from Arthur, and Lancelot follows.
Arthur doesn’t follow.
But for now, Gwaine believes it’s enough to know that one day he will.
Chapter 40
Merlin does not cry, at least not in front of the people. He does not allow the sobs bottling up inside to rise. To show such weakness, such defeat would be the end of everything. Instead, he lets turmoil claw at his throat, burst into a chaotic throbbing in his body. His magic embraces it, soaks up the anguish, basks in the agony willingly. He keeps walking, feet stumbling forwards, entire body screaming for release, for some kind of rest. He does not rest. He cannot rest. There is nothing to rest for. Over the horizon he is certain to see smoke. If there is none, he is certain there will be by the time they have walked to the edge of the Ealden forest. The name is strong; the name is hungry for it.
But it’s too much. He clamps his eyes shut and allows himself a moment
to wince at the excruciating feeling ploughing his body. He brings a hand to his side, inhaling rapidly. Will studies him cautiously but says nothing. Nobody says a word. They keep walking. Merlin barricades the pain away, unsure how long he can withstand it. He walks forwards aimlessly. They follow aimlessly, like mindless souls wandering through a dark purgatory.
Now it’s just too much, because Emrys doesn’t exist, Merlin is broken. Merlin is only a human being, he has his limits, his weaknesses, his flaws. He is not what the prophecies foretold. They got it wrong. He’s a helpless druid who is losing his magic because magic is dying. Merlin is not special. Emrys let them destroy everything. He was powerless. His destiny was wrong all along. How could it be right when everything is gone?
It’s all gone.
It’s all gone.
He stops walking.
They stop walking.
He casts an empty, meaningless look towards Gwen, and Will. Their empty eyes meet his submissively. Without any words, he stalks into the forest like so many have done before. All who have done so never returned. Gwenevere reaches out for him, her fingers curl at the ends. She says nothing, casting Will a look of despair. Will stares into the distance, watching Merlin walk away.
Nobody follows him.
Out of sight, he flings himself against the trunk of a tree violently and slides down its rough back in exhaustion. He pushes his face into his knees, and lets out the inconsolable sobs. It’s all gone, all gone. Balinor. The name…the name. Hell, the name was so powerful he couldn’t even think it. The explosives planted inside detonate and as his magic writhes inside, his eyes flashing ochre, he lets that name slip off his tongue. A name he had associated with so many things other than death and destruction, a name he had trusted, loved-
“-A-Arthur.”
It feels liberating to say it, despite all the anguish inside. But nothing is how it seems. A few moments later the consequences of speaking that very name pelt him hard in the face. It’s more than he can handle. His magic hisses angrily, fuming. He screams and wails into the expanse of woodland. He should have never trusted that wretched name. He saw the vision in the Crystals. He should have acted upon his visions differently, protected the people. He should have never let this happen. All of this was his fault. His father’s blood was on his own hands. And so would be Will’s and Gwen’s and his mother’s. They would all die – every last druid – because of him. There was nowhere to go. Leaving the dying Albion would ensure a life of torture in the labs. Staying here would ensure psychological trauma beyond repair: to watch Albion die, and be completely powerless.
He was completely powerless in this time of darkness.
Albion was going to fall. Albion was over.
A subtle breeze creeps past Merlin, almost afraid to be heard. It could easily be dismissed. It isn’t. For reasons unknown to himself, Merlin lifts his head from his knees slowly. He takes a deep breath of air, lets it expand in his choking lungs. His stone eyes focus themselves upon the object by his feet. Painful memories ignite inside him at this object. It was given to him right at the beginning, when the name was fresh and exciting, interesting. It was overlooked, ignored. Wiping his eyes, he leans forwards towards the object. With a frenzied desperation he cradles it in his hands.
It is in times of darkness, when Hope is nothing but a distant mirage on the endless horizon, where Faith is dangling from a noose in front of your very eyes, and Peace is shattered into a thousand shards, when a new force is formed. It begins quietly, entwining itself around the wounded, the injured, the traumatised. It sits there silently, stirring over inside the blank, defeated minds of the people. It doesn’t heal the wounded, the injured, or the traumatised- even though it could. At first it does nothing, absolutely nothing. It allows them to dwell in their suffering, their despair. At first its presence is neglected. It has no purpose other than to amplify what has already been and gone.
Merlin studies the sapphire liquid swirling around inside the object, and a minute trace of something begins to emerge behind his glassy eyes. It’s only a tiny ember, but it’s enough something to detect, it’s enough of anything to set in motion the force. He swallows hard, shaking hands reaching for the cork of this vial. The force – it magnifies the wounds, the injuries, the trauma. Merlin pours the sapphire liquid onto the ground beside him, lips trembling, eyes becoming treacherously open; emotions are beginning to seep back into them. The force increases the turmoil and calamity amongst the people, unleashing a whole new realm of evil upon an already broken civilisation. It grates down upon the children, beats the beaten, weakens the weak. It kills the souls of the barely living, it infects the wounds, it deepens the injuries; it worsens the trauma.
Merlin gazes into the water, and what he sees is the final spark to revivify his soul. He’s still broken. But he can feel this force wrapping itself around him. He hears that voice, the voice needed so desperately to hear.
The force does this not out of spite or malice; it does this out of sincerity.
And now, Merlin is beginning to understand why. He understands the force, the importance of feeling such a thing, such an enormity of emotions.
Because to feel such pain, such agony, such a cataclysmic level of loss and complete obliteration once – it forges an unspoken vow, a promise that this will never be felt again, at any cost. For the suffering of the innocent, the deaths of the righteous should not and will not be in vain. As it is in darkness, when Hope is nothing but a distant mirage on the endless horizon, where Faith is dangling from a noose in front of our very eyes, and Peace nothing but a thousand tiny shards, that this new force is formed. It is in darkness, where the light shines the brightest – invisible to the naked eye, but ablaze within the hearts of the wounded, the injured and the traumatised. It is in darkness where turmoil and destructions escalates, only to be met by fortitude.
Merlin lifts himself onto his feet. He begins to walk, but for the first time it isn’t aimless, his feet have a more pronounced echo. His eyes, his eyes are back. He is seeing. He is believing. It is in darkness, where Hope is found – dehydrated and drained – but nonetheless found. It is fed, nurtured and rebuilt calculatedly, stronger than ever before, laced in the protection of an unbroken vow. A promise that this will pain, this agony, this loss and complete obliteration will never, ever be felt again- at any cost. It is in darkness where Hope is resurrected, and taught to wield its own weapon.
Merlin walks through the resting, devastated druids. He walks past the wounded, the injured and the traumatised. He keeps walking, and with each step he takes his lips tingle. He knows now, that it is only in darkness that Peace is questioned, interrogated. Peace has been too Peaceful about this massacre– it’s allowed itself to shatter. Hope was no better, it simply didn’t want to be found and Faith. Merlin lets the whisper of a ghostly smile wisp over his face, haunting the broken druids who catch glimpse of it. Faith hung itself, it was of its own doing. Gwen stands and makes her way towards Merlin. Will follows her. Hunith is already there, watching her son with confused eyes. A laugh escapes Merlin’s lips, bringing uncertainty to those who hear it, and a trace of something. It’s enough something to bring many to their feet.
Finally, voice scratchy and alien, somebody speaks.
“It’s all gone.”
Those simple words - it’s enough to light the final beacon in Merlin’s eyes. Turning to Gwenevere he finds his body gradually remembering how to signify emotions other than despair, trauma and melancholy. It’s all gone. An admission of this out loud would have eradicated his soul less than an hour ago, allowing it to accept the darkness hovering around them. But, times change, people change. That ancient proverb. It finally beings to shed its elusive, enigmatic shroud and reveal its true meaning to Merlin. Pouring saliva into his dry mouth, attempting to co-ordinate the appropriate muscles, words form on Merlin’s tongue.
“Yes.” He says in a hushed voice, gripping the attention of all around. “It’s all gone. But it’s not all gone.�
�
Meeting his mother’s eyes, Merlin sighs, wishing he could restore the life back into them. Will and Gwen share their first form of interaction in days, exchanging looks of bewilderment. After a moment of silence, Merlin continues and raises his voice a little more.
“This is far from over. Magic is dying, but it’s not dead yet.” A hint of urgency laces his tone, enticing more to listen to him.
He turns to Hunith, Gwen and Will, offering them a small smile.
“I want you to lead the people to Iaonem-“
“-and where the hell are you going?” The sound of Will’s anger, that familiar irritation sends a thrill through Merlin’s body. Already, without even realising, they’re all changing. They’re all feeling, they’re all thinking – they’re all healing. The force is working.
“Will,” Merlin begins, the words of the voice he needed to hear resonate through his mind, reminding him that this is not the end. This is not over. There is still a chance to restore Hope, Faith and Peace.
It is foretold that Kilgarrah will rise in a time of great need to the call of a dragonlord.
“There comes a time when Peace stops itself from being shattered,”
Deep within yourself you must find the voice that you and he share- for your soul and his are brothers.
“When it stops bending over backwards for everything else,”
When you speak to him as kin, he must obey your will. For you alone carry the ancient gift.
“There comes a time when Peace stops running,”
You, my son, are the last dragonlord.
“And it starts fighting for itself.”
♦☼♦
His eyes don’t leave the horizon until he sees Gwaine and Lance pass beyond it. He feels somewhere inside the delusional, mechanical model of himself something. He’s too weak, too delirious to diagnose the feeling. Instead, he laughs gruffly, throwing his head back viciously; it slams against the tree trunk. Not that he cares. Physical pain, emotional pain – there’s not much difference. He’s endured so much of it that he’s pretty sure he can’t feel anything anymore. The numbness itself hurts the most, beneath it a layer of memories he’s swept into the corner of his mind.