Chapter 3 – "Hope and Destiny"

After some unknown gap of time, Merlin began to perceive a distant sense of movement. As awareness slowly crept back into him, he realized someone was carrying him. His head was hanging back, nothing supporting it now. He hesitantly opened his eyes. If by some miracle his sight had been restored, he was fairly certain that abruptly seeing the world upside down and swaying back and forth would do unpleasant things to his equilibrium, and that would affect his body and mind in ways he didn't even want to consider.

There was nothing to be seen but darkness, though. It was a bizarre sort of relief. He didn't think he could cope with sudden reversals right now, even if they were for the better. Unless the change was Arthur relenting and not sending him away.

He could hear horses stamping and snorting, bits and stirrups jangling. Whoever was carrying him hefted him up a bit higher and maneuvered him into a saddle. He couldn't sit up on his own, was lowered forwards, felt something soft brushing against his face. Probably the horse's mane.

He could sense someone next to him, a strong hand running down his arm. There was a voice saying, "This is my fault, and I'm sorry."

It was Arthur. Stubborn determination sparked in Merlin. He had to try and talk some sense into him. He couldn't just allow him to sacrifice himself, or there would never be an Albion, with its promise of a bright, shining future. "Take me with you, please." He hoped the 'please' would do it. He hardly ever said that, at least not with this kind of utter sincerity.

"You'll die, Merlin." A simple statement, direct and uninflected. Arthur's tone was nearly emotionless, the sound of a prince decided and unwavering. Cause and effect. If Merlin stayed, he would die. If Merlin went, he might live.

Hearing that voice, Merlin knew it was probably futile to carry on trying to convince Arthur to change his mind, but he refused to give in. "But you don't understand me, please, Arthur." The words were slurred together despite his best efforts to speak clearly. He knew it sounded like begging and was well aware that Arthur didn't usually respond very well to overwrought demands or what he deemed to be unreasonable requests, but the pleading was unavoidably there, and it was honest.

"Do you ever do as you're told?" Arthur's voice was still flat. His response seemed more automatic than deliberate. So many times he'd said something similar. It was expected, familiar, but far more annoying this time than it had quite possibly ever been in the past.

Merlin fought against his own frustration. He was not going to give up. He never had, and never would, not when it counted. He couldn't let it end like this. He was the one who was supposed to die, not Arthur. He was dying already. He couldn't deny that any longer. There were too many things damaged in his body. There was no use in Lancelot bringing him back to Gaius. But if Arthur would take him to the Isle of the Blessed, if he could hold on long enough to get there, the last of his life would have some purpose. Arthur didn't have to die, too. "I have to come with you."

Before he could give the reason, the painfully obvious solution to this entire predicament, Arthur cut him off. "Merlin." There was more feeling in that one word than all the others before, but it was commanding, not gentle.

"We have to leave." That was Lancelot. He didn't understand either. Merlin hadn't been able to explain before the coughing fit had started.

Now it was happening again, that contracting of muscles in his chest. He held his breath. If he could contain and control his breathing, keep from being wracked with another round of hacking and gasping, he might just be able to make one more try.

It was too late, though. A firm grip on his arm, lingering for a moment before it was gone, then one last word, "Go." The horse began to walk, hooves clopping against the cobbles. The motion gave a bit of momentum to his body, enough for him to raise his chest and head up slightly, but his lungs were still trying to betray him. He couldn't speak to stop the horse, couldn't move his feet or hands to direct it. He had no choice but to go where it went, undoubtedly following behind Lancelot as he rode on ahead.

He fell forward, resting the side of his face against his horse's neck. He wanted to scream and to cry, but he could do neither. The ability to weep seemed to have gone with his sight. He prayed for the darkness and let it take him when it oh so willingly came.

He roused some time later with no idea how long it had been since he and Lancelot had left the rest of the group. The horse was going at a brisk trot now. He couldn't understand how he was staying in the saddle. Then he realized they must've tied him down, lashed his legs to the girth most likely. He remembered an intermittent pull and tug when he'd been speaking to Arthur.

An unexpected surge of anger went through him. Arthur had tied him to the horse, damn him. Wanted to make sure his unruly servant did as he was told for once and didn't throw himself off the horse in an attempt to stay. Was so sure he knew all the answers and was the only one who could solve Camelot's problems. Wouldn't listen when someone was trying to tell him something of vital importance. Was so blasted determined to give up his own life, as if no one else's was good enough to be offered up instead.

And as long as he was casting blame, damn Gaius as well for telling Arthur that a blood sacrifice would be needed to repair the tear in the veil between the worlds. Gaius should've taken Merlin aside and told him privately, and then they could've decided together how best to handle the situation without endangering the prince. He couldn't help but feel that Gaius had betrayed him at worst, or unthinkingly dismissed him at best. If he made it back alive, he'd tell Gaius exactly what he thought of being treated that way.

Then just as quickly as the anger had flooded into him, it drained away, leaving a lingering hollowness behind. Yelling and raging wouldn't change anything. He probably wouldn't even have the strength left in him by the time they reached Camelot to put up a respectable rant. And what would it solve, to end with angry words? What might have been his last time ever speaking to Arthur had been fraught with tension. Before his final breath was gone, he'd like to have a quiet moment to thank Gaius for all he'd done, perhaps say a few words to Gwen, try to comfort her, let her know that Arthur's sacrifice was not in vain.

His time and his life, his energy, all that made him who and what he was, were almost spent. He started to drift off into a place between reality and something like a dream, but then he heard someone calling his name. There was a sense of refreshing coolness in the voice, laced through with the sound of rippling water. He wondered if he'd imagined it, but there was his name again, more urgent. "Merlin, hear me. Come to the water. Come to us and we will heal you. Do not be afraid. You must hurry."

The voice was sweet and slightly musical, underpinned with urgency. It might be nothing more than a delusion born out of the tatters of hope, but he couldn't dismiss the possibility of one last chance to save himself, and thereby save Arthur as well.

"Lancelot," he managed to croak out. There was no answer. He must not have heard. He gathered all the breath he could muster and forced it all out at once, past the agony in his chest. "Lancelot!" The sound was harsh and ragged, but apparently loud enough for Lancelot to hear this time. There was a whinny, then cracking branches and swishing leaves, followed by the heavy footfalls of a horse beside him. Both horses stopped and stood still. It felt strange not to be moving. Stranger still to have the possibility of hope once more, ephemeral though it was.

"What is it?" Lancelot's voice was full of concern, and a bit of surprise as well. He probably hadn't expected Merlin to call out so loudly, or even be able to.

"I have to get down," he mumbled, tasting blood trickling from the back of his throat into his mouth. He thought it might've dribbled onto his chin as well. He wondered if his lungs were slowly filling with blood or if he'd caused himself some further injury by yelling Lancelot's name with such force. He ignored those disturbing possibilities and instead focused on trying to shift his weight to get off the horse. He somehow managed to move his upper body, but he'd forgotten his legs were strapped down. He ended up with his head and arms dangling down one side of the horse, the rest of him still firmly seated.

"Merlin. Stop. You're going to hurt yourself."

"What, more than I already am?" he muttered with a trace of sarcasm. He noticed that it seemed to be easier to speak now, as if he'd broken something loose in his struggle to make himself heard. A small blessing, gratefully accepted, no matter its origin. "I have to get down," he repeated more firmly. "Help me."

"All right, I will," Lancelot replied, a bit of exasperation in his voice. "Just give me a moment to untie your legs."

He gave Merlin a good push to put his upper body back on top of the horse, but then he paused. Something swiped across Merlin's chin. "Oh, Merlin." Lancelot's voice was slow and weary and sad. He must've seen the blood.

It wasn't right for Lancelot to sound like that, certainly not for him. "Don't you give up on me," he said with determination. He swallowed back the fresh blood that came with the words.

"That, I will never do," Lancelot replied, and he actually sounded like he meant it, even in the face of such horrible odds. He started to undo the bindings. His movements felt quick and determined to Merlin, as if such a simple act meant everything in the world. Perhaps it did.

As Merlin waited once again for someone else to do for him what he should've been able to do for himself, he felt a ripple of resignation mixed with regret running through him. There should have been another way. This had gone too far, and now there was only an unknown voice in the distance to undo the mistakes and misguided decisions. "You should have stayed with Arthur," he said and tried to keep his voice gentle. He didn't want it to seem like an accusation, but he felt he had to say it.

"I know," Lancelot replied evenly, without the slightest trace of defensiveness. Obviously he'd already had this conversation with himself. "I couldn't leave you. I didn't want to entrust you to anyone else. None of them knows how important you are."

Merlin felt the ghost of a smile flittering across his face. "You're very conflicted, Lancelot. Me, Arthur, Camelot. Gwen as well, no matter how much you try to deny it. You really should consider sorting it all out."

There was a slight huff of laughter as Lancelot went around to the other side of the horse. "I don't think those particular things can be untangled, Merlin, even if I wanted them to be."

Merlin made a humming sound and found the gentle vibration somewhat soothing to the residual soreness in his throat. The bleeding seemed to have stopped, or maybe it was just staying down inside of him for the moment. It was a small respite, but welcome. He shifted until his head was on the side of the horse where Lancelot now was, then settled himself with his face against the horse's mane once more. "That's what destiny's like," he said quietly. "All tangled up and determined not to let you go."

"Maybe yours is like that. I don't have a destiny." Lancelot sounded matter-of-fact, but Merlin thought there was a trace of bitterness there as well. He'd had his wish fulfilled in becoming a Knight of Camelot, but he was still trying to find his purpose.

"Destinies have a way of sneaking up on you when you least expect them," Merlin said softly, his voice little more than a whisper, "whether you want them or not."

Lancelot didn't reply to that. He apparently was now completely focused on loosening the last of the bindings on Merlin's legs and seemed to be having some difficulty judging from how hard he was tugging.

"How many knots are there anyway?" Merlin mumbled.

Another hint of laughter from Lancelot. "Quite a few. It's almost as if someone thought you might try to get loose. I can't imagine why."

Merlin snorted but didn't make any further comment. He was getting very tired again, as if he could fall asleep and never wake up. He strained his ears, trying to hear that strange, musical voice once more. He caught a distant sound that might have been his name. "Is there water nearby?" he asked. He needed to tell Lancelot what to do, just in case he lost consciousness again.

Lancelot paused for a moment, looking or listening, not that Merlin cared which it was, as long as he got the reply he was hoping for. "Yes, I think there is. A stream of some sort, just through the trees."

"I need to get there. I have to be right next to the water, close enough that I can touch it."

Lancelot, to his credit, didn't ask why. Merlin almost laughed, but caught himself before he did. He'd probably end up coughing like he had before, and that would be extremely unpleasant. He was left with the vaguely amused thought that he'd trained at least this particular knight very well. All those times he'd dragged Lancelot off somewhere or other, usually with very little information to go on, and he'd rarely asked questions, just did what needed to be done.

A few more moments and his legs were finally free. Lancelot gripped Merlin's arm with one hand and reached over his back with the other, then pulled Merlin carefully towards him and down. Despite the caution, he tumbled off the horse rather more quickly than he'd expected. Lancelot apparently hadn't planned on such a rapid descent either, because the two of them ended up in a heap on the forest floor.

Lancelot muttered a curse and an apology, but quickly sorted them out and started to gather Merlin up in his arms. A whicker and the stamping of a horse's hoof brought Merlin's attention back to practicality, though. "You should tether the horses. Hafren might take being left loose as an invitation to wander off and do whatever she pleases. She tends to be a bit headstrong."

"That's probably why Arthur usually gives her to you to ride," Lancelot said dryly. "Here, let me at least move you off to the side so she doesn't try to bite you for making disparaging comments about her."

Lancelot lifted him and carried him a few paces before lowering him to the ground, much more slowly and gently than he'd come down from the horse, to sit with his back against what was probably a tree. While Lancelot tended to the horses, Merlin listened to the sounds of branches rustling, horses stamping, and the creaking and jangling of tack. They were normal, everyday sounds and helped to reassure him that all might yet be well.

His mind started to drift aimlessly, but the edge of his attention was caught by an odd sense of warmth inside of him. He turned his focus inward, casting about in the dark, and found a faint, golden flicker. He thought it might be a sign of his magic returning to him, but it seemed distant, as if it were watching and waiting for something.

He wondered if his magic had only temporarily fled to protect itself from the Dorocha, gone back to the source from where it had come when he was born. Or maybe it had been with him even before that. There was a brief image in his mind of freshly plowed fields, a bonfire at night, and sparks rising up to mingle with the stars. Then darkness fell again, apart from that single flame. It seemed a bit brighter and steadier now. He tried to touch it but it was just beyond his reach. It was as if it were keeping a vigil, waiting to see if its vessel would remain in the world of the living and be able to welcome it home again.

He was heartened by finding he hadn't been entirely bereft of his magic, and by the promise that it might return if his body was healed. With the encouragement that thought gave him, he searched a bit more to see if the gift of the Dragonlord was also still within him. At first there was nothing but silence. Then he sensed something rich and warm, like the depths of father's eyes, but it spoke to him in a voice that sounded suspiciously like Kilgharrah's.

I never left you. You simply forgot how to listen.

Then the timbre of the voice deepened a bit and took on a sense of weight, of years, of strength and wisdom. He knew that this was now Kilgharrah himself speaking to him in his mind, as he had all those years ago from the cavern underneath the citadel.

Do not forget, young warlock, that the fire in one breath of mine is more than a score of your torches. I have been doing what I can, but the Dorocha are too many for me, and I cannot destroy them completely. Nevertheless, I am near to you now. Do not hesitate to call on me if you have need.

He tried to answer back but found that although the Dragonlord's power was definitely still a part of him, he didn't currently have the strength to give it voice, even inside his own mind. He wondered if Kilgharrah even knew what had happened to him. He seemed to think it a foregone conclusion that Merlin would live to face the Dorocha again. Maybe he simply had that much faith.

He was brought back outside of himself by Lancelot slipping an arm beneath his knees. He also pulled one of Merlin's arms around his neck, but before he lifted him off the ground, he paused to say, "It's going to be dark soon." There was worry in his voice. Understandable since this would all come to naught if the Dorocha attacked again.

"I know," Merlin replied, strangely calm. For some reason he felt that if they could get to the water, they would have nothing to fear.

"Can you see again?" Lancelot asked, a touch of startled hope in his voice.

"No, but they said to hurry," Merlin said distractedly, "so I figured it must be near dark." He felt oddly relaxed, quiescent, at peace. Lancelot knew what needed to be done, and he would do it. After a moment of waiting, though, he realized Lancelot hadn't acknowledged what he'd just said, nor was he moving, so he added, "Don't think about it, Lancelot. Just go."

"Honestly, Merlin, the things I do for you," Lancelot replied with an exaggerated sigh, but his voice was full of fondness and amusement.

Then Merlin was being lifted up. He let out a long, quivering breath, letting the pain and sorrow and regrets drift away. None of it mattered any longer. There was no more need to struggle. He let himself be carried onward to his fate, back towards the path of his destiny.

The End