The Strife of Albion

A/N: The last of my stories (the others are, in order: Broceliande, Joyous Gard and the Passing of Uther). It stands alone, though. I hope you have enjoyed them – and even if you haven't, thank you for not flaming me.

Nothing belongs to me and I make no profit – characters belong to the BBC and lots of long-dead British and French authors. I like to think of it as an Arthurian literature mash-up, to alleviate my guilt for completely bending chronology and characters to my own use. But Merlin does it, so whatever. Plus I've studied it so long that part of the fun is trashing it... (also, for the purposes of this story, Llamrei is a stallion, not a mare. Just because. Why I feel the need to highlight that deviation from literary canon and none of the others I have no idea, but for some reason I feel it's important).

Chapter One

The mist was low over Lyonesse, it was as though the whole landscape was underwater. King Arthur was on a small ridge, very small, but still the highest spot in the country for miles. The locals called Mount Badon, which suggested they had never seen anything approaching an actual mountain in their lives. Someone, probably Gaius, had told him once that Lyonesse had been raised from the waves centuries before, and this evening he could well imagine it. The only difficulty was trusting it wouldn't return to the waves by the morning. Far off, he could hear faint sounds of King Meloydas's army – whinnying of horses, clashing of last-minute repairs to armour and swords, obscure unintelligible shouts, distorted and muffled by the thick mist. Even the sounds of his own army, just behind him, were blunted by it. He could barely see his horse's ears.

"Will it lift by tomorrow?" he asked.

Sir Tristan, the only Lyonesse native present at that moment, shook his head. "It can last for days," he observed, glumly. "And usually it does."

"We fight tomorrow, still," said Arthur. "Mist or no mist."

Tristan exchanged glances with Sir Leon and Sir Kay, but all three men were silent. Whatever doubts they had were silenced by Arthur's face. King Arthur inspired fierce loyalty and trust, not because he never showed fear – how could you trust someone fearless? – but because he did show fear, he showed he had considered all options, settled on one and was now scared but determined he was on the right course. They trusted his judgement. They trusted he understood what he asked of them.

They all stared into the swirling white murk, as though into an abyss. They were all straining for the sounds of the enemy's army – enemies which until months previously had been friends, brothers in arms, Knights of the Round Table. Sir Tristan's own father, the king of Lyonesse, led the charge to bring chaos to Albion. There was a rumour Lancelot was there. And Sir Bors definitely was, and so was Sir Lavayne. Other familiar Camelot faces were there too – the Lady Morgana was there, people said the Queen was, but then a lot of rumours were spreading. That one couldn't be true, could it? She had been a close friend of the Lady Morgana, it was true. If it wasn't for the rigid armour, their shoulders would be slumped. It wasn't the hundreds of Saxon warriors which dispirited them. It was the few familiar faces.

King Arthur roused himself from his reverie, and turned his horse. "Get some sleep," he said. "It's been a long, tiring road since the battle at Glein. We've faced them eleven times, gentlemen. This is the endgame. Get some sleep." They watched him go, knowing that no one would be sleeping.

He rode back into camp, the chilly mist snaking in between the links in his armour and gaps in clothing and making him shiver. He thanked Morris for taking the horse, removed his helmet and walked proudly into his tent, head high and confident swagger clear for all his men to see. As soon as the flap closed, he slumped onto the uncomfortable camp-bed. He had never felt so alone in his life. That, he reflected, was because he had actually never been so alone in his life. He could hear the nervous energy of the camp around him, men scared but following him anyway, trusting their fate to his hands, individuals whose belief collected together meant he held all of Albion in his hands, and it would shatter when he dropped it, and Arthur was so sure he would drop it tomorrow, because how long could one man hold it? Tears sprang into his eyes, of exhaustion (how long had they been on campaign?), of premature mourning for his failure, because after his failure became apparent, he wouldn't be around to cry over the shattered land. These men's faith would be disproved, this land would shatter, over his dead body, because he had nothing more to offer than that, but what good was a dead body to anyone?

Rolling over, he wondered how many of his knights would survive. Enough to maintain order under the Saxons? Would Mordred sit in the great hall at Camelot? His head swam at the horror he wouldn't be alive to witness. His father wouldn't believe the scale of destruction his son had wrought on the kingdom, and all, Arthur thought, all was done with the best of intentions.

He needed to follow his own advice, and sleep. But all he could see was the people who had gone: his father, and Gawain, Galahad, Lionel, so many other knights, all killed in the last eleven battles; and Merlin, Gwen, Lancelot, not dead but completely lost to him, and perhaps never even belonging to him in the first place – that way madness lay, but he couldn't stop thinking about it now. He didn't believe they were over there with Mordred, no matter what the rumours said. He actually couldn't believe they were there. He had put off thinking about them for months, but now there was nothing to do but try and sleep and stop the ghosts rising. But when ghosts are intent on rising, it takes more than sheer will to stop them. The camp went about its business, ignorant of their king lying in more acute torture than any Saxon could conceive of.

******

Meanwhile, Sir Leon, wandering back to his tent with a bowl of hot food (the exact nature of which seemed lost to human knowledge), became suddenly very aware of a white horse staring at him. It followed him with his eyes. He walked around in a peculiar spiral to test the theory, and still the horse watched him. It was a real beauty. No owner seemed apparent, and having such a valuable creature wandering through camp the night before a battle seemed somewhat ridiculous. After making sure no one was paying him any heed, he approached the creature.

"Who're you, then?" he asked, rubbing the horse's neck, who still regarded him with a thoughtful air.

"Llamrei," said the horse, causing Leon to leap backwards as though burned with a yelp, and spill the hot stew on his hand, which actually did scald him, making him scream a second time, even more girlishly than before. The lack of general attention he had been enjoying before was most definitely absent now; everyone within earshot was staring at him, most of them looking concerned. He sucked his burned hand, cheeks flaming, and waved his other hand as nonchalantly as possible. People continued about their business, but slightly quieter than before, with more suspicious sideways looks at Sir Leon.

The man in question looked closely at the white horse, who looked back equally inquisitively. They inspected each other for a moment, neither saying anything.

"Did you say something?" said Leon, in as low and indifferent a voice as he could manage.

"I said my name was Llamrei," said the horse, in equally as low and indifferent a voice. "Leon," he added, pointedly, nuzzling Leon's arm in quest of the food.

"Careful, it's hot," said Leon, batting the investigative nose away, absently. He was wondering if he was going mad. The horse was definitely talking. It wasn't even that, after the initial surprise, which was making him doubt his sanity. Magic was magic, after all, and although magic was of course dangerous and so on, Leon took it on a case by case basis these days. No, it was the fact the voice was familiar. "Have we met before?" he asked.

Llamrei gave Leon a thoroughly disgusted look. "I think you'd remember," he said. "Will you come with me, please?" He tossed his beautiful, creamy mane and made to turn around. Leon didn't move. Llamrei said impatiently, "look, I'm not being funny here, but you have to look like you're leading me, not the other way around. Do you want to make a spectacle of yourself...again?"

"Where are we going?"

"Just out of camp," said Llamrei. "You won't be away long. And...Sir Leon. I mean no harm to Arthur."

Leon put down the ill-fated stew, and took Llamrei's forelock. Something about the way he said Arthur's name made the bells ring even louder in Leon's brain, but as they walked through the cold fog, his fingers pressing against Llamrei's warm hair, he didn't feel equal to pinning down exact thoughts anymore. For some reason, Leon completely believed the horse. He believed in instinct, he trusted to instinct, and his instinct told him that, especially in the context of the slaughter everyone knew would happen tomorrow, following the horse was not completely stupid.

Llamrei lead him a little along the ridge to a small grove of oak trees. Leon reached for his sword, and distinctly heard Llamrei mutter "Oh, please." Llamrei pulled away from Leon's loose grasp and trotted ahead, swallowed by the mist and trees, despite being only a few feet ahead. Leon followed, disorientated in the mist and looming trees. When he eventually found the clearing, sword in front of him, he found Llamrei standing, grazing, and next to him –

"Oh, I might have guessed." Leon was disgusted with himself. Of course it was that voice. Who else? He put the sword down in irritation, before remembering himself and raising it again.

Merlin patted Llamrei. "Thank you, friend." Llamrei gave Leon a supercilious look and moved away. "Hello, Leon," Merlin said, quieter. "It's good to see you, and I really mean that. I am sorry if Llamrei was a little rude. He is kind enough to deliver messages for me sometimes by borrowing my voice. But he can be a little...acerbic. Listen, Leon, do you mind putting that sword down? You're making me nervous."

"I'm making you nervous?! You single-handedly brought down Camelot and..." And Arthur. He wouldn't betray his king to say it out loud, but they both knew what he meant.

"It wasn't single-handed," said Merlin, sadly. He had changed significantly since Leon had last seen him, two years previously. He wasn't a scrawny servant wielding unimaginable power. He looked like a sorcerer. He even had a cloak. He held himself taller, and no longer looked scatty and ill-fitting in his own body. He looked like someone who wielded such power, and as such made Leon very nervous. "It was never my intention, Leon – "

"Sir Leon." Leon wasn't arrogant. But that 'Sir' meant more than it ever had before. It meant he was honoured by, loyal to and a believer in Arthur. He was a knight of Camelot, and that meant more than it ever had before, certainly in conversation with arguably the greatest traitor. Although there were so many traitors. If Merlin was the greatest, where did that leave the Lady Morgana and the Queen and Lancelot? The thought of the betrayals stung him, because they stung Arthur.

"Sir Leon," conceded Merlin, eyes downcast. "Listen, we need to have a civilised talk, and I can't do that with a sword in your hand."

"You could kill me where I stand."

"Yes."

"I won't die without a sword in my hand."

"You knights and your honour. You're all as a bad as Arthur. As though it matters! Stop being ridiculous. I'm not going to kill you where you stand. You could kill me with that sword, but just because you can doesn't mean you will, and just because I can doesn't mean I will. Put the sword down, Sir Leon, this is important!"

The urgency in his tone convinced Leon, and he sheathed the sword. "Why are you here?" he asked, wearily. "We fight tomorrow. We likely will die. Your friends will win, Merlin. If you could see King Arthur, you'd see that they have already, really. I don't betray him to say that. A great gift of his is his compassion, and he is grieving for his kingdom which will be lost to chaos tomorrow. He doesn't care he will die. He cares he can't save Albion." If Leon were less loyal, he would cry, but he wouldn't show weakness to this false friend. "You've won."

To his astonishment, Merlin slumped on a log, looking utterly defeated. Merlin was always emotional and open, but Leon had never seen him in a despair so acute. "I haven't won anything, I've lost everything. You can't imagine the loneliness without him, Leon. Having to watch the struggle for Camelot from so far away. I'm so grateful to you, and Tristan and Kay and all the others who are loyal. It's been dreadful, but he's got this far and...I've been on the Isle of the Blessed. I've learned so much about my craft, more than ever. I can help you. I can help him. But he has to let me."

"You're insane if you think you're getting to him."

Merlin said gently, "I know he is in pain. But I think he'll listen to me. Eventually. We have a bond – "

"No, you don't understand. You don't understand!" Leon never shouted. Ever. But he was now. He was tired and scared and confused and blind furious. "You're insane if you think I'm letting you get to him! You think it's been hard for you?! Tristan is fighting his own father here! One of Kay's brothers died at Caerleon and another one at Guinnion! My mother and sister are completely unprotected in Camelot, and Astolat is totally overrun – I mean, who knows if Sir Urre's sister-in-law is dead or worse! My brother is somewhere in Northumbria, which as far as I can make out is on fire, and Mercia has totally collapsed! Bayard was killed in his own throne room! And Arthur has watched all this happen, Merlin, by himself. He's lost his father in front of his eyes, he's lost the woman he loved to a man he respected and trusted with his life and he lost you, his best friend in the world, who it turned out was a sworn enemy of everything he stood for, and always had been! Now he's going to war against the woman who he grew up with and loved like a sister, and probably his wife and her lover too. Every single person he opened himself to love has betrayed him, Merlin, every single one. He's faced more trials than any other king, he has done more for everyone all over Albion by courageously fighting invasions, and he's done it completely alone, completely abandoned by the only people he ever let himself need. I can't replace those people, because his heart is shut, but I can protect him and so help me, Merlin, I will. I will, do you hear? He is going to die tomorrow, I won't have you raising the ghosts of betrayals in his head. He isn't perfect, but he's my king and my sworn brother, and I will die before I let you near him." The sword was out again, and brave warrior though he was, there was a slight tremble, his eyes fierce but brighter than completely dry eyes would be in the gloom. It was probably the most he had ever said in one go.

Merlin didn't talk for a long time, but he seemed to be swallowing hard. He passed a hand across his eyes, but couldn't meet Leon's accusatory stare. His voice was unsteady. "I didn't betray –"

"You knew, Merlin. You knew all along what they were doing. You helped them, from the start to the end. You stood by where Sir Agravayne died trying to stop Lancelot's escape, you stood by and let it happen. He loved her so much, Merlin. He loved you and the Queen and Lancelot so much, how could you? I mean..." his voice caught, as he shook his head in genuine disbelief, "how could you do that to him?"

"I don't..." He stood up. "Night's fallen, Leon. Time's running out. You're wrong. Arthur doesn't have to die tomorrow. It isn't the time to cast Excalibur away. I can help him. It isn't his time. But I must see him."

"I don't trust you. How do I know Morgana didn't send you? You're friends, aren't you? How much we didn't know about you two."

"I haven't seen her. But I do know Gwen and Lancelot aren't over there. I do know that your brother is safe, Sir Leon. In fact, I know him. Don't look so scared, I'm not threatening you. He's a good man, and an excellent sorcerer. He's brought many of the Old Religion to realise that Mordred is dangerous to all of us. He isn't in Northumbria anymore, but I can't tell you where he is. I know a lot, some of it very helpful. But I must see Arthur. I must save him, Leon. Do you understand? I can't let him die. I can't let you make me."

Leon considered his level, intense gaze. "It isn't his time?"

"It isn't. I couldn't lie about that. You know I couldn't lie about that."

Hope that had been absent since the exhausted army regrouped after the last battle fluttered in Leon's heart. Perhaps doom wasn't inevitable. Crazy as trusting the sorcerer might have seemed merely days ago, what now were the alternatives? "Oh, all right," he snapped. There wasn't any other option. It was trust Merlin and possibly bring about the destruction of Arthur, or fight tomorrow and almost certainly bring about the destruction of Arthur. There was something in Merlin's stare which told him that, whether it was true or not, Merlin really did believe he could save Arthur. "Yes. All right."

Merlin smiled, relieved, but Leon was slightly flustered that he didn't seem surprised at his victory in reason. "Come, Llamrei!" he called, and the horse trotted out of the trees. Merlin turned to Leon, and said in a low voice, "Llamrei is a gift for Arthur, to ride tomorrow into battle. Best not to tell him about the talking, if you don't mind. You know what Arthur's like about stuff like that."

Leon followed the warlock and the horse, thinking he could understand Arthur's point of view.