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bitsandbobsofwriting · 2 years

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The Shadows Will Come... (final part)

The creatures creep closer with every second, and the journey to The Isle is every bit as difficult as the group expect it to be. An unexpected but more than welcome visitor helps them out.

Part 1

TW: Angst, bittersweet ending.

They set off that afternoon, not wanting to take any chances, thankfully not facing any resistance from the council for once. Gaius elects to stay behind, and though Arthur tries to make Leon, Morgana, and Gwen stay behind as well, so they can keep an eye on things, he doesn’t get anywhere, receiving nothing but raised eyebrows, crossed arms, and planted feet until he backs off.

The journey is slow and tense as they make their way towards The Isle of The Blessed, all of them feeling a sense of dread; not once have any of them been there and had something good happen. Elyan and Gwen stick close together, Leon and Arthur stick close together, Gwaine and Percival stick close together, and Mordred and Morgana stick close together. Each natural pairing gains a Merlin at some point, though never for long, and untrusting glances continue to be thrown between the two of them until they finally settle into a camp, hours after dark has fallen. Then, the Current Merlin levels a slightly harsh stare on the side of the other Merlin’s head, and said other Merlin in turn stares at the floor with blank eyes, hands fiddling tightly in his lap.

Gwaine, ever the one to break the silence, is the first to speak in what feels like days, directing his question to the group, and then to the Merlins specifically:

“I have what may be a slightly... insensitive question, if the two of you don’t mind?”

The both of them look to him, dragged from the inner workings of their minds’, and raise an eyebrow each, speaking eerily in sync:

“Depends on the question.”

It almost echoes around the forest, but the glares they shoot each other is distracting enough that Gwaine just clears his throat and says:

“... Ok. Now there’s two insensitive questions. One, who’s Freya? I don’t understand, how can one name convince you-”

He nods at his Merlin:

“-that he-”

He nods at the other:

“-is actually you somehow?”

Gwaine’s own Merlin clenches his jaw and looks away, half angry, half suddenly teary, and mutters:

“Not that question.”

But the other Merlin sighs and answers truthfully. His voice is quiet and he can’t quite look anyone in the eyes, but they all hear him loud and clear:

“I was going to marry her, a long time ago, but things went... awry, and she died. With the benefit of hindsight, I know that I could’ve saved her, but that’s what regret is, isn’t it? The benefit of hindsight?”

His counterpart glares at him viciously, his head whipping around and his eyes furious when he realises the other man has no intention of lying or keeping his mouth shut:

“Do you mind?! This isn’t your time, your life, you don’t get to fuck things up for me just because they’re fucked up for you.”

The camp goes chillingly silent, but the other Merlin just shrugs his shoulders and shoots himself a look, half condescendingly amused, half hateful:

“Yeah, well, we’ve always loved a bit of self-flagellation haven’t we? And anyway, they’ll keep asking question after question, now they know about the magic thing and the destiny thing and the immortality thing. I’m doing you a favour.”

Current Merlin snorts in clear derision, and looks away with rolled eyes and a shaken head. Gwaine clears his throat again, opens his mouth, closes it, opens it, and asks his next question, his timid voice somehow overflowing with curiosity:

“That... leads me on to question number two. Why do you two hate each other so much? You’re... the same person??”

Though a few of the people sat around the fire, Gwen and Mordred and Percival, look upset at the question, the others just seem intrigued, like they’d been on the edge of their seats, waiting for someone to ask. The two Merlins look to each other, and when Future Merlin shrugs and looks away, Current Merlin huffs, rolls his eyes, and answers quietly. It’s an odd sort of kinship they have, one in which they know almost exactly what the other is thinking, can have whole conversations in glances and tapped fingers and haughty scoffs, but still can’t stand each other:

“Have you ever... looked in a mirror, for the first time in a long time, and really... seen yourself? Your face, your hands, the blood on them? Seen how tired you are? How miserable? Except this time it’s not a two-dimensional image, it’s another version of you, warm and bloody and thinking and feeling, staring right back at you;-”

He gives them a crooked, self-deprecating grin as he quirks his eyebrow, almost challengingly:

“-it hates you as much as you hate it.”

No one quite has an answer to that, all, including Arthur, staring at him with a desperate sort of sadness, diluted with confusion at just... what could possibly have happened to make Merlin hate himself so much? Elyan is the first to speak, what feels like hours later but is probably less than a minute:

“That’s... a lot of self-loathing, Merlin. How in the name of the Gods does that sort of thing happen without anyone noticing? You’re... you’re Merlin?”

This time, Future Merlin takes the question, starting with a scornful, sarcastic snort, and ending with a tone of voice that speaks to years and years of agonising isolation:

“When you’ve made the decisions I’ve... we’ve had to make, done the things we’ve had to do... When you have to weigh the pros and cons of every life that’s ever been in your hands, every life that’s even just passed you by, and have to watch as the scales tip towards a decision that you know you’re going to have to... live with, often enough that at the end of the day, you’re more monster than man, all for one person, one ideal, one destiny, that you’re losing more and more belief in with every passing minute... well. Self loathing sort of comes with the territory.”

Everyone looks horrified at his little speech, more so when their own Merlin doesn’t even react, just stares into the fire, perfectly still, perfectly unbothered. Arthur begins regretting his anger more and more by every crackle of the fire, and is the first to break the eerie silence:

“Merlin? Is this true?”

His voice is quiet, but it carries strong over the sound of the flames, and his own Merlin looks up to him blankly, only briefly, before he sighs and looks down again:

“Destiny... is a fickle thing.”

Arthur flinches at the words, certain that he’s heard them, or a variation of them, from Merlin’s mouth possibly several times over the years. He asks the dreaded question:

“You both keep mentioning this... destiny. What destiny?”

The identical Warlocks turn to look at each other, for once seeming to seek a comforting agreement instead of sending an argumentative glare. The slightly older of the two sighs and gives his counterpart a smile that’s part pitying, part proud:

“It... might be time, Merlin. As I’ve already proven, things can go to shit at any moment.”

Though most of the people sat around the fire are tense and apprehensive, the group’s Merlin just nods, sighing and clenching his jaw before looking back to The King with a shadow in his eyes that makes him almost indifferentiable from his traumatised future self. Arthur wonders just what that means, but takes a breath, preparing himself for the oncoming explanation:

“Albion, The Forever King, and The Eternal One. There’s this...-”

He sighs again and looks down, fiddling with his hands. He speaks as though he has to force the words out, but after ten years of apparent secrecy, no one can find it in themselves to hurry him along:

“-there’s this prophecy, that you’ll be the greatest King Camelot has ever known, unite the Kingdoms—collectively named Albion—under your High Rule, and bring peace and unification between... between the magic, and the non magic. I’m meant to... protect you, guide you, stand... uh... by your side, I guess.”

Arthur’s expression goes blank, ever so briefly, but then his face pales and he gulps, shaking his head ever so slightly:

“Magic and non... Merlin, why did you never say anything?”

His face and voice seem distraught, almost teary, but both Merlins look to him with a flash of anger, gone in a second for the Future, who looks away, obviously unable to stare at the face of an Arthur that isn’t his whilst maintaining his fury. The time’s Merlin doesn’t have any problems with the tense eye contact as he grinds out through an unrelenting grief:

“Ten years of having everyone around you tell you, unknowingly, that you’re a monster and have been since birth, ten years of everyone who knows about the prophecies parroting that *telling Arthur is the worst possible thing you could do*, really effects a person, really alters the way you think.-”

Arthur obviously wants to interject, but Merlin doesn’t give him the chance, furrowing his brow and clenching his fists as he continues:

“-And besides all that, excuse me for thinking I’d ever be safe in your presence if you knew the truth, King of the self-proclaimed We-Hate-Magic-And-All-Those-Who-Use-It-and-Burn-Sorcerers-As-Public-Entertainment Kingdom. Or as you like to call it, Camelot.”

Arthur, wide-eyed and mouth open, keeps his teary stare firmly fixed on his own Merlin, though the others glance between the two versions nervously, heartbroken and not quite knowing what to say. The other Merlin catches Gwaine’s eye and gives him a small smile, muttering:

“It’s been a tough... decade.”

The King finally finds his voice, breathlessly asking, barely heard over the hooting owls and spluttering campfire:

“You’ve been waiting. For me. For ten years. My Gods, Merlin... I’m so... I don’t even know what to say, I’m so sorry.”

Before Merlin can even answer, his face, despite Arthur’s apology, still unnervingly blank, Mordred speaks up, timidly, but with an undercurrent of confidence that presumably comes from a lifetime of belief in something bigger than himself:

“A lot of people have been waiting, My Lord. A lot of people have been waiting for a very long time.”

Arthur doesn’t have time to open his mouth to ask what on Earth his youngest knight means, doesn’t even have time to blink, before Mordred’s eyes are flashing golden and the fire flares green for a moment. Everything returns to its normal colour, and The King lets out a sudden breath, deflating under the weight of his realised failure. Both Merlins seem perturbed that Mordred had outed himself, despite the young man's—almost boy’s—insistence on appearing strong. He’s failing only marginally; his face remains stubbornly challenging, but his hands shake in his lap.

The atmosphere is charged and heavy, thick with a swirling mix of emotions flowing in and out of everyone’s lungs, becoming more and more potent with each exhalation; it’s anger, misery, guilt, perhaps just a touch of pride. Both Merlins, despite the presence of Mordred and Morgana, feel as though they’ve never missed Lancelot’s quiet, determined, hand-hidden-on-the-small-of-their-back support, more than this very moment.

Arthur is the first to break the teary stare between Mordred and himself when the youngest of his knights refuses to look away; he can’t even muster up an apology, can’t look anyone in the eyes when he calls for everyone to pull out their bedrolls. The watches are decided haphazardly between the others, and no one questions it or argues when Merlin, Mordred, and Morgana settle close together—the King’s sister had always been protective of the youngest of them, and they accept rather easily that she had likely already known about Mordred’s magic, if not Merlin’s as well. The other Merlin strays as far away from the fire as he can without freezing in the cold of the night, and the way his counterpart relaxes more and more with every pace he takes away from The King is mostly ignored by everyone else.

The next day follows as the previous afternoon: silent, tense, awkward.

Arthur figures, when they settle into camp again as the sun falls, that they’ll make it to the shore of The Isle after only an hour or so of travel the next morning; originally, the Future Merlin had pushed for the group to keep going, but Gwen’s soft groan of saddle pain—badly hidden despite her effort—softens his resolve, and he allows the group to build a fire, cook some food, and sit in their customary circle.

Just like the day had followed from the previous, the night follows as well, though this time it’s Leon that starts the almost-interrogation of the two Merlins:

“I... I understand not liking each other. I understand looking at your own face and seeing nothing but the mistakes you’ve made, the decisions you’ve been forced to undertake. I’ve... I’ve done plenty of things I regret,-”

He looks away briefly, and a select few members of the group frown at the First Knight’s rare display of weakness before he looks back:

“-done things I’ll never forgive myself for. But how can you not trust each other? Merlin, or, that Merlin,-”

He nods at the version that isn’t quite his own:

“-is right: regret is formed with the benefit of hindsight, but in the moment... in the moment you are the one who makes those decisions, and you’re the same person. He’s only got one week’s worth of hindsight, and considering him just being here has already changed his past, I hardly think it counts any more. So how can you not trust each other?”

He says how can you not trust each other, but it’s hardly hidden that the question is aimed solely at his own Merlin. They both dislike each other in equal parts, sure, but the distrust comes from the time’s Merlin only, and it’s obvious to anyone who looks between them.

The Future Merlin smirks and shrugs his shoulders, signalling to himself that... he’s going to have to answer this one on his own. Though the others get the distinct impression that he knows the answer anyway. The slightly younger of the two Merlins takes in a deep breath, holding the cool air in his lungs for a moment before he lets it all out and levels a judging, assessing gaze on his other. He doesn’t look away, doesn’t even blink, as he replies, his voice difficult to read in it’s monotony:

“A lot can happen in a week, and I’m a very good liar.”

The other continues his smirking and quirks his head to the side slightly, obviously in agreement, half accepting that his past self doesn’t trust him, though also half annoyed. The knights, the King, Morgana, and Gwen, evidently don’t think his answer explains anything at all and wait in silence for him to expand; when he doesn’t, Morgana—who had previously been intent on staying silent, lest she give something away or upset Merlin—asks, her words slow and her voice low:

“Surely not that much can happen in a week? And even then, a week, a year, ten years... you’re still the same person.”

The other Merlin, now being ignored for the most part, raises an eyebrow in his counterpart’s direction, wondering just how he planned on explaining it; he knows how he would explain it, but Leon had been right, him just being here had changed things, maybe even the way he used to think. It’s all fucking with his mind a little, if he’s honest, so he tries not to dwell on it too much.

Morgana’s Merlin shakes his head, frowning, and though he glances up at his future self for just a split second, he answers with his gaze firmly focused on his Witch friend:

“No, he’s me, I’m not him, not yet.-”

He seems content to leave it there, but with the way everyone stares at him, he knows he’s not going to be able to get away with that. He huffs out an annoyed sigh and rolls his eyes, continuing:

“-What I mean, is that... with the life I lead, the things I’ve done, the things I have to live with... the decisions, the death, the pain, the... the loss,-”

He voice cracks slightly, but no one calls him out on it, not even when his future self blinks away sudden tears and looks off into the forest. He clears his throat, gulps, and continues, his voice forcefully louder and very... matter-of-fact:

-well. I’ve always been hyper aware that it might only take one more thing, one more tragedy, to... uh... send me over the edge, as it were. I’ve always been averse to proving Uther right, but if there is one person in all the Kingdoms whose mind is susceptible to snapping under the weight of magic and all the suffering my destiny has brought... it’s me. Like I said, a lot can happen in a week; yes, he’s me, that’s exactly why I don’t trust him.”

Arthur, at long last, is the one to reply this time. He seems confused, and heartbroken, and guilty, and angry, all in one, every inflection of his voice in every syllable he utters floating across the camp with a different emotion buried in it:

“So you... what? Think that at some point in that week, you went insane, killed everyone yourself, and then came up with an elaborate story so you could travel back in time and... do it all again?”

Everyone’s eyes gradually get wider as Arthur goes on, and then get impossibly wider still when both versions of Merlin just tilt their head and shrug their mouths, answering, once again, in eerie harmony:

“It’s a possibility.”

They don’t glare at each other this time, they barely even notice, in fact, that they’ve both said the same thing at the same time. When Arthur orders everyone to sleep that night, they all toss and turn in equal parts, unable to sleep both out of fear for their friend, and, as much as no one would admit it, as much as they all hate themselves a little for it, fear of their friend.

Arthur would have been right, in that the journey the next morning would only take an hour or so, had everyone had at least a few hours of sleep the previous night. As it is, it’s almost noon before they reach the shore of the lake surrounding The Isle. They had barely slept a wink between them, and even on horseback they’re sluggish and aching and slow. When they finally make it however, there’s an air of relief around them, like they know that, some way or another, it will all be over soon. It being the oppressive atmosphere that has been hanging low over their heads, choking down their throats into their lungs, dulling their senses but heightening their emotions, since the Merlin from the Future had appeared in the Throne Room, dirty and bloody and so very very scared.

The King, the knights, the servant, don’t quite know what they plan on doing once they get there, but they board the boats anyway, trusting, despite last night’s conversation, that Merlin would know what to do. Merlin who had raised an eyebrow at the appearance of multiple boats, with just enough room to carry them all across, but hadn’t questioned it in any way other than sending a narrow-eyed glare of suspicion to his future self, and a confused but passive shrug of his shoulders to Mordred and, more subtly, Morgana.

When they get to the other side and clamber through the overgrown ruins to the centre of The Isle, the room where they last sore The Veil torn just around the corner, they see... not who they were expecting. Their own Merlin is the first to figure out who it is pacing up and down the courtyard with his arms folded tightly across his chest as he mutters angrily to himself. The Warlock stops in his tracks, shocked, before he breaks out into a sprint, calling his name:

“LANCE!”

The man looks up, grinning widely and rushing to meet Merlin in the middle, embracing him tightly as the others stare, suspicious, but hopeful enough to smile and hurry their pace. When they get there, they can see that this truly is their own Lancelot, his eyes devoid of the evil darkness that they hadn’t noticed in the Shade until it was too late. The deceased knight barely spares them a glance, holding Merlin so tightly Arthur fears he might crush him, before pulling back, holding him by the shoulders, and rushing out his words:

“Thank the Gods you’re here, everything’s about to go to shit and I really don’t know what to do about it. Merlin, they’re coming, they’re going to-”

He’s cut off by the other Merlin, pale and shaking and the only one not sporting a smile as he stares at his old friend with wide, teary eyes; Arthur supposes it’s more difficult for this Merlin to see him, having already lost everyone else. This Lancelot... he’s the only one that both Merlins are on equal footing with. He is neither the time’s, nor the future’s:

“We... we know. That’s why we’re here. Why I’m here.”

Lance manages to stare at him with an open mouth for a moment, then look between him and his counterpart, and then glance to The King, before the man at his side sighs and deigns to give him an, albeit rushed and clipped, explanation:

“Everything already went to shit for him. He’s from the future, where the creatures came through, supposedly killed everyone, leaving only him. He came back a week in time to warn us, and here we are. How are you here?”

Lancelot just raises an eyebrow:

“Supposedly?”

The Merlin from the future just rolls his eyes as everyone else looks marginally uncomfortable, but the Current Merlin just waves his question away:

“A long story, doesn’t matter. How are you here?”

Lancelot hesitates for only a moment, but lets out a breath and shrugs his shoulders, accepting that he isn’t going to get much more than that:

"The Veil’s torn again. I’m... uh... somewhat of a special case apparently, I can move between Avalon and The Darkness fairly easily, unlike creatures like the Dorocha and their more... violent, counterparts. The tear meant I could climb through, before the creatures thank God, but I can’t leave the Isle. I’ve just been waiting for someone to pass, for something, anything, for me to be able to get a message to you. I guess you didn’t need me though.”

He finishes with a grin, and moves around the group, hugging everyone tightly, especially the King, Gwen, and the other Merlin, much to the Current Merlin’s evident, badly hidden, annoyance. He takes care not to waste too much time, speaking to Arthur as he lands a hand on each of the Merlins’ shoulders; the way he squeezes however, tells them that he’s actually speaking to them:

“So. How do you plan on fixing this, My Lord? Because unfortunately, I know nothing of use, other than the fact that the Veil has to close.”

Arthur raises an eyebrow and crosses his arms:

“I’ve no clue, but I’m assuming that the two Merlins and Mordred will be able to figure something out. What with their magic and all.”

Lancelot freezes, only momentarily though, before he leans to one side, speaking to one of the Merlins:

“... When did that happen?”

Future Merlin, not that Lancelot knows that, having already lost track of which is which, tilts his head and mutters, only just loud enough for the others to hear and snort at:

“About twenty minutes after I had everyone shitting themselves by appearing out of nowhere in the Throne Room.”

Lancelot just nods, muttering a quiet “Fair enough.-” before speaking up, somehow managing to stop himself from glancing to Morgana, knowing that, for whatever reason, her own magic hadn’t been outed quite yet:

“-So! I’m assuming the plan is just... see what you can manage?-”

The three Warlocks look to each other, one decidedly more worried than the other two, before shrugging and looking back to the knight, nodding their assent:

“-The Tear is just around the corner and it’s pretty... gruesome.”

They all frown at that, and with a glance to each other that is, once again, less suspicious and hateful than the group had become used, the two Merlins turn around and lead the way into the next room.

The Tear is immediately obvious, and the group doesn’t understand how they had missed it before, what with the noise. It’s deafening, seeming to suck all sound from the room and amplify it back to them, loud and distorted and painful. They would have to shout over it to be able to hear each other, but equally, they loath the idea of contributing more turbulence to the cacophony. Gwen, Morgana, and Mordred, in particular, stare at the deep, black, seemingly endless crack in the fabric of their existence with a horror they’ve never experienced before. The others... they have experienced it before, but that doesn’t mean it’s any less horrifying, and they struggle to rip their eyes away to look at the Merlins. It’s only their clothes that tell them apart, their clothes, and the way that only one of them seems to be going pale and shaky at the sound of the ear piercing screeches coming from inside the Veil. Like nails on slate.

Lance is the first to yell, his voice echoing in all different pitches and tones around the room as he struggles to be heard:

“You need to figure it out soon! It’s been getting bigger by the minute, and I have to slip back through, to Avalon, before you shut it, otherwise it won’t work!”

Gwen responds quickly, seeming to lose interest in The Veil entirely as a few tears escape her eyes:

“You can’t stay? Can’t we find a way to bring you off the Island? Can’t you come home?!”

He frowns, teary himself as he shakes his head:

“No. I’m sorry, Gwen, I don’t belong here. I have... responsibilities. And part of my soul being forced to resurrect in the form of a Shade... that’s the whole reason this happened. I have to go.”

Everyone accepts it quickly enough, though they’re clearly unhappy about having to let him go once more. They suppose it’s easier now that they know he’s ok; he’s happy, safe, keeping busy in... Avalon, wherever that is. The time’s Merlin grips his arm tightly at a particularly vicious gust of wind, and changes the subject:

“You know the most about this, how do we shut it?”

He looks to The Veil, looks to The King, and seeing the trust in his eyes, looks to the two Merlins:

“You’re Emrys! You have enough power, especially between the two of you, and especially if Mordred and- especially if Mordred helps. Just tell it what you want it to do, it should obey!”

If anyone notices his slip up, no one points it out; Mordred nods and steps forward, though frowns when a thought apparently occurs to him:

“What about the Cailleach?!”

Lancelot appears angry, only for a moment before it disappears and he yells over the growing noise:

“Fuck her! You don’t need her, not anymore! We’re running out of time!!”

The group nods, all gripping each other tightly as the wind grows, almost lifting them from the ground and dragging them into the rift; Percival has both Gwen and Elyan clinging to him, finding safety in the heaviest and strongest of them all, whilst Gwaine, Leon, Arthur, and Morgana anchor each other. Lancelot turns to face the Veil, pulling the two Merlins and Mordred together so they don’t trip and slide towards the Tear when he lets go. Everyone has to stop themselves from reaching out towards him when he begins walking towards the Veil, leaning back against the violent force to stop himself from being taken off his feet. He turns back at the last moment, screaming as loud as his lungs can manage and still only barely being heard:

“Merlin!! I’ll come find you next time you die and bring you to Avalon! Freya wants to see you! She misses you!!”

Both Merlins tear up, but the current allows the future to answer, already suspecting what will happen if they succeed; he’s decided that if... if this is where either everyone dies, or this Merlin ceases to exist, then he can afford to be a little kind to himself:

“Tell her I love her!!”

Lancelot smiles slightly and nods, but doesn’t get time to answer before the gale becomes too much for him to resist and he has to step through, to the other side.

The Veil tears even more, growing tall into the sky as sharp black claws rip through, holding on to the edge of existence as their anchor. Mordred is the first one to thrust his arms forwards, his eyes glowing golden as he yells:

“We don’t have time!! It looks like they’re early so it’s now or never!!”

The Merlins nod and push their own hands forward, groaning with the effort of forcing their magic to the edges of the Tear without letting it pull them into oblivion. With a blinding light of gold clashing against darkness, the edges slowly begin to push together, starlight stitches appearing at the top and bottom, pulling tightly and disappearing into the bright noon sky as the Veil heals, forcing the claws so disappear. It’s slow work, difficult and tiring, and after minutes of the Veil barely closing a few metres in all the time, Mordred groans loudly, hands shaking, eyes clamped shut:

“This isn’t... this isn’t enough! I can’t keep this up!!”

He sounds close to tears in his agony, and Morgana decides, in that moment, that she should have matched his bravery two days ago; she lets go of her brother, allowing the darkness to pull her forward, catching herself between the two Merlins even as Arthur reaches out for her desperately:

“Morgana!! What are you doing?!”

She can barely speak as she lifts her own arms, gold spilling from her eyes and hands and joining with the stitches of Merlin, Merlin, and Mordred:

“What I... should have done.... from the beginning!!”

No one says anything more, all praying and hoping and begging that this, whatever this is, is enough.

A minute passes. Two. Three. Four. The three Warlocks and the Witch seem to gain traction, their power growing more and more intense the further they manage to push The Veil closed. Eventually, despite the deafening noise and the blinding light, they manage it, closing the last of the darkness away with a great heave of breath and one last push.

Everyone falls to the floor, panting, feeling as though they’re floating with the sudden lack of extreme force on their bodies. The magic users are the last to rise, only able to get to their feet as other members of the group rush towards them on wobbly legs and pull them up, Gwen and Elyan to Morgana, Gwaine to Mordred, Arthur to one Merlin, and Leon to the other.

It’s Elyan. clearing his throat and still gripping tightly to his sister, that is the first to break the blissful silence:

“How do we-”

He realises he’s yelling and coughs again, speaking quietly:

“-How do we know it worked? We thought the Veil was closed last time, but apparently not.”

Leon’s Merlin, the group’s Merlin, answers gravely, glancing to his future self with what looks disturbingly like pity:

“We should know soon enough.”

He barely finishes his sentence when his counterpart collapses to the floor, dragging Arthur down with him. Everyone goes quickly to crowd the two of them, but Merlin waves a hand and they’re frozen in their spots; the magic seems to be tiring him faster than normal, which is to be expected, so he just shakes his head subtly as he looks to each of them before releasing them all. They seem to get the idea, staying back back but staring on mournfully as Arthur rests the other Merlin’s head in his lap, cradling him ever so gently:

“No.”

The creature smiles weakly but shakes his head:

“All your courage, Arthur, it can’t save me now.”

Tears drop from Arthur’s eyes as he shuffles on the floor, trying to keep Merlin comfortable but also hovering his hands over his chest, trying to figure out what’s wrong:

“I won’t lose you, not after everything, I-”

Merlin rolls his eyes fondly and takes his hand in a weak grip. He’s lethargic, more than that, his movements slurred as he opens and closes his mouth, like he keeps forgetting what he wants to say. His eyes close, and Arthur, among everyone, weeps, thinking it the last time, before they fly open again. He struggles slightly, and though The King is shocked, he doesn’t let go, clamping his eyes shut when Merlin’s remain unfocused and confused. He mutters quietly, frightened and angry, though everyone hears him, even over the sound of their own heartbreak:

“Elyan... I left... I can’t... I can’t go. I left... left him. I have to... he’s hurt, I left him.”

Elyan darts forward, kneeling down opposite Arthur and taking Merlin’s other hand softly in his own, stroking his forehead until he looks up at him:

“You didn’t leave me, Merlin, I’m right here. You and I are staying right here, neither of us are going anywhere.-”

He looks up to his own Merlin, grateful that no one acknowledges the tears on his cheeks—though that would have been hypocritical, considering everyone bar their own Merlin is crying at least a little—as he whispers:

“-Is there nothing we can do?”

Elyan’s own Merlin sighs and shakes his head, responding with furrowed brows and soft words:

“I’m sorry. The time he came from... it doesn’t exist anymore. He doesn’t exist.”

Elyan gulps but nods, looking back down to the slowly dying creature in Arthur’s lap, not releasing his hand for a second as he smiles and repeats his earlier words:

“Neither of us are going anywhere. We won, Merlin, you just need to rest, and everything will be fine.”

His voice cracks and splits as he says it, and whether the creature smiles because he believes him, or smiles because he knows he’s lying, because he knows why he’s lying, Elyan can’t quite tell. He doesn’t think it matters really, not when he creaks out a groaned:

“Just, hold me please. Please.”

Arthur tightens the grip he has around his shoulders and chest and face, and Elyan holds his hand tightly, right through the last breath. Before they can even check for a pulse, the body shimmers slightly, fading and becoming glassy and see through before suddenly collapsing into sparkling white dust. Arthur and Elyan almost fall into each other before scrambling back, staring between their hands and the cloud of stardust currently floating away on a light breeze in horror. Merlin, their Merlin, the only Merlin, steps forward, kneeling down and resting a hand on either of their shoulders:

“He’s gone. But if it makes you feel any better... he never existed. Which means he never suffered. I’m... I’m right here, and I’m not going anywhere.-”

The two men look up at him quickly, pouncing on him with teary eyes and shaking limbs as the other members of the group finally crowd in, all grabbing softly at Merlin’s tunic and hair and hands, in desperate need of some sort of comfort, that he is here, that he isn’t going to turn to dust before their eyes.

Merlin sighs, tired, exhausted really, and allows himself to be held, gripping especially tightly to Arthur and Elyan, and forcing himself to remain hyper aware of Mordred and Morgana’s positions; at least half of his brain is always concerned about them. He struggles to stay awake as the warmth and pressure winds him down from an adrenaline fuelled desperation to fix the Veil, to a languid, listless need to just... let go. To not need to be so tightly held together, for once. The Warlock knows that sleeping is probably not the best thing he could do right now, and with the last of his resolve, he forces himself to stand, gently pushing everyone bar Arthur away from him:

“We should get back. I need a... a nap. And a drink.”

Arthur snorts a soft laugh, obviously equally as tired, but pulls him into another tight hug, cradling the back of Merlin’s head softly, but crushing their chests together tightly, not that the Warlock would complain:

“If you think I’m letting you out of my sight ever again...”

Merlin copies his laugh, holding onto Arthur securely and deciding, not too surprisingly, that if Arthur is content to follow him around and keep him safe for the rest of his life, despite everything, well then. Merlin is content with that as well. He’s always wanted a brother.

THE END!!!

At long last!!!

As a prologue, Merlin dirties himself up, travels back in time and re-enacts everything so that no... paradoxes or whatever appear. But it was so long I really couldn’t be bothered to write it all out just for the sake of fixing a minor plot hole.

I almost made this Merthur, but I also love some background Freylin so🥺🤩

I hope y’all enjoyed!!!!! Let me know!!!

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