by GR Griffin
“Then it is over.” He shrieked, shrugging dismissively into the sky. Tears stained his eyes, the blood and dirt on his skin no longer significant. “After all this, after all we’ve done. I’ve failed him!” a wretched sound escaped. “Merlin is going to die.”
“You have only failed when you accept that to be the absolute truth.” Kilgarrah replied enigmatically, swinging its neck around to glance over to a shaken Arthur.
False hope was not kind; it was cruel. Arthur knew that much from experience more than anything. False hope that he could stop his father from destroying Ealdor, false hope that he could stop Gaius going to the labs….Whatever Kilgarrah was doing, he didn’t like it. Flinging his arm over to gesture towards the destroyed Cave, Arthur grimaced.
“Kilgarrah the Cave is gone! Any trace of the flower is now buried beneath tonnes of stone.” Arthur paused abruptly having to catch his voice before it crumbled dramatically. It was already wavering unsteadily. “There is nothing we can do now, it’s over.”
The Dragon stood silently for a moment, musing over the Young Pendragon. Then he spoke once again, deviating into the tongue of riddles and wisdom that Arthur truly didn’t want to hear or understand.
“Only if you wish it to be so. Then it will pass-”
“-What’s that supposed to mean?” Arthur raised his voice. The unclear nature of the words merely fed the explosive state he was in. “Why would I wish that?!”
“You still believe that there is hope.” Another voice said calmly. Whilst Arthur was relieved to see Aithusa was well recovered, he was not relieved to hear the words that spewed from the White Dragon’s mouth. “You have to convince Albion herself of this.”
Gaze flickering between the two Dragons, Arthur ran a hand through his hair in frustration before addressing them again.
“So we’re all speaking in riddles now are we?” indignantly, he huffed and began marching away from the beasts. “I don’t have time for this.”
“This quest is not measured against time; it is measured against the courage of your heart.”
At Kilgarrah’s words, Arthur halted and spun around once more. Exasperated he sighed. Desperation overcame him.
“I don’t know what you expect me to do.” He admitted bleakly, eyes watery and soul crushed. What was he supposed to do now? The extent of the situation was still raw and fresh; it hadn’t quite sunk in yet. He was terrified about what would happen when it did. “The Flower isn’t here, the Crystal Cave has gone.”
“And yet,” Kilgarrah began softly. “Magic did not die the day the Cave fell, it continued to live on.”
Narrowing his eyes, Arthur titled his head. Whilst that was true, he failed to see what exactly that had to do with the flower and Merlin. Kilgarrah said no more. He outstretched his wings and lifted into the air, heading towards Iaonem. Arthur wondered what he would tell them, that Arthur had failed, that there was no hope. Gazing over towards Aithusa, Arthur frowned. She looked radiant, dazzling white scales in the sunlight. Her strength had returned, and there was a kindness in her eyes that he felt he truly did not deserve right now. Dejectedly, he leant against her sturdy legs for support, unable to stand on his shaking knees.
“Arfuera, you will save him.”
“How?!” he cried dismally, bringing a hand up fiercely to brush against his wet eyes.
Lowering her head, the White Dragon smiled gently. Her words ignited the repressed hope and life inside him. It was impossible yes, but Albion was an enigma constantly proving the impossible to be possible. Climbing onto her back, Arthur picked up Excalibur and gazed out towards the horizon. Aithusa flew majestically into the air, soaring up into the sky. Arthur relished the feeling of the crisp air against his face. His heart was beating again, he was breathing again. They didn’t have much time, but it was clear. He couldn’t give up now. Despite the odds, he just couldn’t abandon Merlin. He was going to save him. Aithusa’s words resonated through his head.
“Don’t doubt yourself, you already know what we must do.”
She was right; nothing had ever been so clear.
Notes:
Just to clarify:
The Naiimen - ancient Druids of Albion. Said to have built the barrier that protected Albion from the outside world (The Naiimen Barrier). Also many references to them are made by Merlin in several chapters of the story.
The Naemon - ancient Druids of Albion that practiced the darkest of all magic. They were defeated by the Naiimen in a great battle...or so it was believed they were.
Chapter 58
Merlin had lost all of his senses. Despite lack of visions, he could feel his body cascading through a black abyss with nothing above him or nothing below him. In fact to describe the abyss as black would be inaccurate too. No matter how hard Merlin tried to focus his eyes on his surroundings, which was incredibly difficult considering the circumstances (falling!), he saw nothing. Nothing is terribly problematic to describe for it bears no colour, no texture, no life. Thus, all that Merlin could establish is simply that he is falling. The rate at which he is falling is unclear too, for how can he know if there isn’t anything to compare his speed to?
It was strange, because Merlin could hear voices slipping into his ear’s focus every now and then. They resonated in his mind like vibrant pings of sound that quickly dwindled into the background, getting lost in the abyss around him. But that was all it was, voices. No background specifics to the environment just echoed voices that sounded so far away to him…so far away.
It stayed like that for some time, until suddenly every cell in his body becomes active and he feels that rush of electricity sparking up in his skin. It’s instinctive and it happened before he even could register it. He doesn’t try to stop it, despite his predicament – he assumed he wasn’t conscious judging by the strange floating state he was in – because one thing completely overrules all of his logic and sense. Arthur. Always Arthur. That name, it sets in motions the chain of violent magic he can’t control. He can feel his body writhing and thrashing, he can feel a hand on his forehead trying to soothe him. And yet he can’t feel any of that at all, because he’s stranded, so far away.
Arthur is in danger, his Arthur! He can sense it in his very bones, his withering body. He feels a sudden tremor wreck through the unrealistic landscape around him. He couldn’t remember when the black abyss shifted into a surreal plain, resembling that of Breguoin. The ground split with a violent crack and the endless blue skyline descended into a dark chaos of shadowy clouds that growled and flashed with intense electrical bursts. Everything about the scene was crumbling, which was impossible. The tremors continued until the ground becomes unstable and he fell through it into darkness. Arthur is in darkness. His eyes flash gold, his entire world shaking dramatically. The light in his palm illuminated everything around him. Everything, but Arthur. He managed to sustain this for a few minutes, until exhaustion toppled over him. The light faded from his palm and he slipped further into the gap in the ground.
That was when he knew he was falling at a dangerous velocity.
♦☼♦
Once he had been to see Gaius, Arthur felt his body protest. It begged for rest, for sleep. He could not grant the request yet, of course. He needed to know that Merlin would be safe, that everything would be okay now he’d done what he needed to do. Perching against a rock beside Merlin’s bed, Arthur frowned. It hadn’t been easy; he had definitely cut it a little fine. But he and Aithusa had done it. They’d bloody done it! Exhilaration rushed through him, igniting energy through his body. Merlin was going to be okay now; he had seen the expression on Gaius’ face as he had passed over the yellow flower. It was one of relief. That’s was all Arthur needed to see; he left Merlin’s side, seeking a place of solitude.
A great magnitude of gratitude that could not be voiced had followed Arthur around Iaonem as the news spread. He avoided the attention, finding a suitable alcove in the rocks uninhabited. He fell to the ground; hand on his head. Not that it was necessar
y to thank him; of course he was going to save Merlin. He didn’t need thanking for it; he loved Merlin. Merlin was everything, there was no way he was going to give his everything up so easily and without a fight. After all that the people of Albion had been through, that Merlin and Arthur had been through, it seemed almost a bit insulting for fate to think it could pull a stunt like that and get away with it.
Or to be more precise: his father. Uther Pendragon. A shudder swept over his skin. It had all escalated so quickly after the battle. Arthur hadn’t had time to mourn, to think about anything. The memory of his father jumping off the mountainside got worse the more he recalled it.
Pushing his face into his hands, Arthur sighed. There could have been another way, maybe. His father didn’t have to jump and make a bold statement so cruel and ruthless. But he did it anyway. It was rather fitting that he would taunt and punish Arthur, even after death. Morgana was right, he hadn’t jumped for himself; he had jumped for Arthur. This was no gesture of respect or love either. It was quite the contrary, a victory. Yes, Albion had won the great battle of Breguoin – Camelot were leaving. In fact most of them had left. But there was one man who would never leave Albion, his memory forever engraved in the land itself; Uther Pendragon. The pain and suffering he had induced, the destruction – it would never be forgotten, never. And Arthur still felt sadness, grief beyond anything he’d ever admit in front of the Druids or Morgana.
He and his father had always been dysfunctional, that was the Pendragon way. Family had been perceived more as a line of inheritance and stature. Nonetheless, there had been many moments where Uther had proved he wasn’t the cold mechanical father Morgana described. There had been times where he would hold a broken Arthur when he cried, like when he was eleven and it was mother’s day and everyone else was making cards and asking why he wasn’t, and put him back together again with a few words. There was one Christmas when Arthur was seventeen, his favourite Christmas, where Uther had laughed and laughed at Arthur’s bad jokes and absently ruffled a hand through his blonde curls as he sipped his wine. It was these memories that hurt the most, because they meant so much and so little simultaneously.
Arthur didn’t realise he had burst into a fit of sobs until his body was curled in on itself and he was inhaling ragged breaths in uneven gasps. He felt the thick grief release from his tense muscles and exit his aching bones. He cried, and cried and cried. He’d never cried like this before, so openly and without any signs of wavering in intensity. It consumed his whole body, his soul, his mind and his heart. His father’s death is a reminder of all those he failed in Albion, all those people he watched die because his own stubbornness and pride prevented him from taking action sooner. It reminded him of all those who had fallen in the battle, some barely of age. It reminded him of William, who had valiantly taken a bullet for him. Will. This made him think of Merlin, spurring more wretched tears. What would Merlin think of him? He had destroyed Ealdor, ripped apart the People’s faith and messily sewn it back together, and allowed Merlin’s best friend in the whole world to die.
Allowed, it was an interesting word. It suggested that Arthur had intentionally caused all of this, that he had taken a step back and been a mere observer in the events that had come to pass. Whilst this was not true, Arthur felt like that’s what he had been for far too long. He coughed violently as his tears started to choke his throat, swelling up and dramatically bursting out of his mouth like capsules that catapulted against the land and ruined everything around it. He doesn’t realise that he is not alone until there is the sound of shuffling beside him. Opening his eyes slowly, he gazed miserably over to the sound. The sight faltered the awful sorrow he can’t control, replacing it with a shaky smile.
The White Dragon sat on the stone, gazing over at Arthur silently, a pleading look on her face. Beside the Dragon was Arthur’s large Wyvern Bregurófne. It nuzzled close to him, a low humming resonating from its chest. Arthur gently ran his hands over the scaly skin of his Wyvern. It had been a while since he had seen Bregurófne, too long. Bregurófne was one of the first creatures he’d met in this world that granted, had tried to kill him at first, but only because it didn’t want to kill him. The very concept defied all logic and yet Arthur wouldn’t have it any other way. It was then Arthur noticed another familiar creature, nestled on his shoulder. Laughing lightly through a sniffle, Arthur gazed over to see Ábilgest. Its wide lilac eyes were focused on him, and if a fluffy red bird could look concerned then it was fair to say Ábilgest was concerned.
Funny, Arthur had never been an animal person back in Camelot. But now, the thought of not having these friends was a horrible one. Ábilgest hopped from Arthur’s shoulder onto Bregurófne’s head and nestled there comfortably. Honestly, Arthur was constantly perplexed by the odd duo. Aithusa finally spoke, breaking the silence that no longer was full of remorse.
“Gaius has administered the flower, Merlin will be waking soon.” She explained. “You did what no-one else could, you saved Emrys from a dark magic.”
“Now you’re just being nice to make me feel better.” Arthur said in a light tone, eyes gleaming with something that wasn’t fresh tears. He reached for the fluffy red bird, patting it on the head gently.
“It is okay to feel sorrow for those who have passed,” Aithusa admitted knowingly. “Even those many believe don’t deserve any more of our grief.” Arthur lifted his head and swallowed-hard. He found himself quickly averting her gaze.
“Do not be ashamed Arthur Pendragon, Once and Future of Albion. He was your father; he raised you.” The blonde man clenches his jaw tightly, wincing. “The ability to see beyond darkness - that is what makes you special.”
“Most would say it is weak and foolish.” Arthur replied in a monotonous voice, sapphire eyes catching the light over the horizon. He knew Morgana would be livid for one, to find him sitting in solitude crying over a man he once called father, the man who had caused the Druid’s suffering, lied all these years and caused Merlin’s illness.
“It is never weak or foolish to respect another life, no matter what path they chose.” Aithusa lowered voice softly. Pause. “She is proud of you, you know.”
Arthur didn’t need to ask to know who the ‘she’ was. He reached down for the necklace around his neck, tracing the metallic Merlin bird tenderly. Igraine Pendragon, his mother, his beautiful mother. A smile found its way onto his face. Then he noticed the odd way Aithusa had phrased her words, as if she had been in communication with the woman. Lifting his head, Arthur glanced at the Dragon speculatively. Hope dusted his eyes.
“Will I see her again?” he asked bluntly.
Aithusa sighed.
“She has passed beyond the reach of Albion now,” Arthur pressed the necklace to his lips, kissing it devotedly. He would have loved to see her again, but to hear she was at peace truly calmed him. “She didn’t leave until she was sure you were safe, until she had seen her son become the great man that he was born to be. You have become that man Arthur, Igraine can now rest.”
At this moment, another voice sounded alerting the attention of Arthur. Morgana rushed into the private clearing, blissfully unaware of the private moment unfolding between Arthur and his mythological friends. The look in her eyes immediately roused him. Her words confirmed all he hoped, pushing him onto his feet frantically.
“It’s Merlin, he’s waking up.”
♦☼♦
He had hardly expected the reception he did as his heavy eyelids fluttered open and allowed sight back into his dark world. He could only assume he had finally left the odd abyss he’d been trapped in. Everything about this place was familiar, comforting, home.
The sun was blinding overhead, and did not aid his pounding head or shaking limbs; he found he had to squint in order to retain this level of consciousness. A small sound slipped involuntarily from his mouth, he couldn’t hear it over the buzzing of his ears but he felt it and that was enough. His throat was sore; his larynx had been meticulously chiselled to it
ch at his skin uncomfortably like sandpaper each time he attempted to swallow the wave of nausea overpowering his system. Trying to sit up proved to be a mistake as the dizziness wrecked his body until he had no choice but to clumsily fall back down on the scratchy surface.
The sunlight was suddenly stripped away as familiar faces came into recognition. His friends; clan leaders; his mother. They were all here. He noticed a cinnamon-skinned woman, a rugged haired man and many others he was too exhausted to start identifying. His lips managed a sloppy, lazy smile whilst he searched for that one particular face. There was one person he needed to see, to make sure he was safe. A wave of panic washed over him when he couldn’t see the face. As he thought about it – gosh thinking really hurt right now – there was another important face missing. He was about to put a name to that face when the ringing in his ears faded away.
Sound came back to him next, distracting him and not allowing any chain of cognition to progress.
Voices. People. Lots of people. They were all talking, all talking to him and he couldn’t understand a word of it. They were talking too loud, though he was certain they were whispering. This paradox confused him further. He tried to listen to what they were saying. It was too much. He was unsure how long he could stand this overpowering sensory overload. It didn’t take long for the details of their faces to dissolve away, leaving circular blurs dotting his vision against the sunlight that was too bright. Suddenly the faces were gone, and then he heard that voice. The one he hadn’t heard his whole time in this strange world of semi-consciousness. Desperately, he reached out with trembling fingers. The name spilled out in a mesh of jumbled noises, his tongue weighty and difficult to move without exerting too much energy.
The sensation of warm skin brushing against his fingers arrived in less than two quick heartbeats, clasping his hand. Weakly, he moved his stinging eyes over to the source of this intense, burning heat. The face was still blurred and he was so frustrated that he can’t see it because he really does want to see it again. He hearda string of words calling out to him; that voice was gently speaking to him. He was incapable of untangling the cluttered syllables, the consonants from the vowels, and the words from the sentences. It was all too much. Before his vision completely failed him, he realised that the sun had created a golden halo around the blurred head.