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What are you planning? And don’t even think about lying,
I know you too well.
It’s too difficult to explain.
You can tell me.
Morgana has the Cup of Life. If I can find it and empty it of the blood within,
then the army will be destroyed and Morgana will be powerless.
Aren’t you forgetting something?
It’s guarded by an immortal army.
Aren’t you forgetting something?
I have magic.
Doesn’t make you immortal.
No.
You know, Merlin, you’re the one Arthur should knight.
You’re the bravest of us all and he doesn’t even know it.
– Lancelot & Merlin
*
You need to be careful.
I’ve got the easy bit. The warning bell is nothing compared to the cells.
I overheard you, Merlin. If Morgause catches you, she’ll kill you.
I have no choice.
– Gaius & Merlin
They had gotten so close to the Cup.
So close to ending this for good.
But before they could triumph, an invisible force plucked Lancelot from the ground with ease and sent him flying into the wall, back slamming hard against the stone. The impact stole all the air from his lungs, and he was left dazed and gasping and pinned before he could even think of regaining the strength to fight against it.
As the room returned to focus, so too did the reason for his inability to move. He had never seen her before but the fierce eyes and powerful magic emanating from her outstretched hand told Lancelot that this was Morgause.
The sorceress, the witch. The half-sister of the Lady Morgana who had been so kind and caring when Lancelot had last stepped foot in Camelot. But Merlin had told him just how much Morgana had warped into a dangerous force to be reckoned with. And how her sister was even worse.
Proven now by the way every inch of him was held against the wall with no reprieve, he couldn’t so much as twitch his foot, it was stuck fast.
Morgause’s dark eyes were piercing as she stared him down, yet Lancelot happily kept her gaze, grimacing from the way his chest seemed to tighten with every step closer she took. Because just behind her, hidden from her view and just in the corner of Lancelot’s, Merlin was pushing himself to his feet, palm outstretched as he reached for the all-powerful sword lying nearby. Before he could be stopped, Merlin rushed forward, sword pulled behind him at the ready to strike the Cup of Life resting prettily on its plinth in the centre of the room.
And he so nearly succeeded.
Blade mere inches from the vessel, Morgause’s eyes suddenly lit up gold, chin tilting upwards in the same way Lancelot had witnessed before whenever Merlin cast a spell.
Maybe Lancelot had given something away. Maybe he had failed to hide his smile or the way he had been watching Merlin’s every move out of the corner of his eye. Or maybe Morgause was just that powerful. Either way, his poor friend didn’t stand a chance.
Without warning, Merlin went flying through the air, hands frantically grabbing at nothing as if that would save him. His back struck the wall first, followed by his head slamming into the stone with a sickening crack. But unlike Lancelot, Morgause didn’t bother wasting her energy keeping Merlin pinned. Did she think he was less of a threat? Because he was a mere servant?
Or maybe she knew it would be pointless.
Lancelot’s breath caught in his throat as he watched his friend drop bonelessly to the floor, body landing at an awkward angle.
Chest still.
Eyes open.
Unmoving.
“No.” Lancelot found enough breath to whisper in disbelief. A cold shiver run up his spine and he instantly felt sick to his stomach. If he could move his extremities, he was sure they would be trembling.
Morgause didn’t spare Merlin a single glance as she stepped closer to the knight, and yet Lancelot couldn’t look away, couldn’t comprehend what he was seeing, couldn’t breathe.
The warning bell began its rhythmic clanging, the muffled echo exposing their failure throughout the castle and providing clarity to Lancelot on just how close they had gotten. The Cup was right there. They had been so close to ending this.
But now his friend—his best friend—was dead.
This couldn’t be happening. This wasn’t supposed to happen! Merlin, with his unbelievably powerful magic and his criminally overlooked bravery and his stupidly warm smile— he was supposed to outlive all of them.
Lancelot was never supposed to see him like this. Silent, broken, lifeless. And if Morgause didn’t let go of him soon, he was going to give into his nausea right then and there down his chainmail.
What was he going to tell Arthur? Or Gwen or Gwaine or any of the other knights that had grown so fond of their dear friend. What was he going to tell Gaius? How do you tell a friend that his surrogate son is dead. And that you didn’t do anything to stop it.
A firm grip on his chin brought his focus back to a different pair of cold, dead eyes as the sorceress smirked at his defeat.
“What do we have here? A lost, little knight of Camelot.”
The tunnels beneath Camelot were in chaos.
Metal striking metal. Men fighting ghosts.
It was an impossible task with unthinkable outcomes and yet Arthur had never had more faith in a group of men than the freshly dubbed knights that were currently fighting alongside him.
It was the two men not fighting alongside him that he was beginning to have doubts about. The two men that had one job to do.
“What the hell are those two doing!” He yelled over the sudden clanging of the warning bell to anyone that would listen, narrowly missing the blade swinging towards him as he kicked one of Cenred’s knight square in the chest and sent him tumbling to the floor.
He wasn’t going to stay down for the long. And that was precisely the problem. Because how do you kill an unkillable army?
Arthur feared for the lives of his men. They had all followed him into this, knowing that it was a fight they likely wouldn’t win, and yet he knew that not one of them would back down willingly. Because Camelot couldn’t fall into Morgause’s hands— into Morgana’s hands.
Morgana; the girl he had grown up with, the girl he had played with and fought with and loved. How had that girl turned into this monster who was willing to kill those he cared about just to take the throne.
As he struck swords with his latest adversary, he caught sight of Gwaine struggling against three men while Elyan fought desperately against his own opponents. Percival looked to be holding his own, sword hacking with great force at each enemy that approached, but even his strength wouldn’t last forever. He couldn’t even see Leon and just had to hope that his oldest friend was still alive amongst the crowd.
And suddenly, a wave of fear hit him for Merlin and Lancelot and what they might be facing. Sending them into the heart of the castle to take out the warning bell was supposed to be the easy part; less knights, more places to hide. They shouldn’t have failed. But clearly, they had.
And Arthur dreaded to think what could have happened.
He couldn’t lose his men, not like this.
The ache crawling up Lancelot’s spine grew worse the longer he stayed pinned to the wall. Morgause had slammed him against it quite forcefully and she had yet to cease the magic that was holding him there, revelling instead in the amusement of having a knight of Camelot trapped.
“How brave you are, thinking you can win this.” She whispered, face close enough to his that he could feel her breath against his cheek. He felt almost naked in front of her, laid bare for her to ogle at with curiosity. Because of all the people that would be willing to risk their lives to reach the Cup, an unknown knight and a lowly servant were clearly the last people this sorceress expected to come across.
But underestimating them would be her downfall. Even if Lancelot didn’t make it out of this, his fellow knights would not stop until she and Morgana were defeated. They had taken a vow, and there had been nothing in his life that Lancelot believed in more.
He squirmed against the unrelenting enchantment, muscles burning as he tried to kick against the stone despite his legs not moving an inch. He had to get out of this. He had sworn to Arthur that he would do all in his power to help him stop the evil that had corrupted Camelot and he was no use to anyone pinned to a wall. Just a few seconds, that was all he needed; just a chance to reach the Cup and empty it of the blood within.
It wouldn’t stop Morgause – he knew that – and he was prepared to accept whatever fate she forced upon him in retaliation. But it was the only way to help Arthur; the only way to stop this plague that had infected the castle.
The only way to make Merlin’s death mean something.
His breath hitched without permission as his eyes darted back to his fallen friend.
Doesn’t make you immortal.
What had given Lancelot the right to think that just accompanying Merlin would be enough to keep him alive. Who did Lancelot think he was?
When Merlin had told him his plan, Lancelot should have stood firm and forbade his friend from even attempting to reach the Cup. It was a suicide mission being carried out by a very mortal man, whether Merlin seemed to remember that or not. Lancelot should never have encouraged him.
He should have put an end to his plans last night before they had even begun. He should have stayed up all night finding a different strategy; a different way in that didn’t risk the boy’s life.
Or better still…Lancelot should have protected him.
And suddenly he saw red.
“You won’t win this, you and Morgana.” He spat out in protest of the smirk on her face. “You think you can take this castle by force? The people here are so much stronger than you can possibly imagine. You can’t protect that Cup forever. Prince Arthur will stop you and the people of Camelot will never bend to your will.”
He pushed against the wall once more, hoping his anger-fuelled speech had riled him up enough to break free of her magic. Instead, a small yet unnaturally strong hand clamped tightly around his throat, fingertips pushing with just enough pressure to turn the air thin around him but not enough to cut it off completely.
Though Morgause’s smug expression remained, Lancelot’s comment had clearly chinked her resolve. Well, good, he thought. If this was his end, he wasn’t going to give her the satisfaction of thinking she had won.
Tears began to creep into his eyes as the pressure increased, blood rushing in his ears as a coppery taste coated the back of his throat. He could feel his body trying to squirm as he reluctantly started to panic.
Accepting the honour of becoming a Knight of Camelot, he knew that death would not come from old age, but he had hoped that it wouldn’t claim him quite so soon.
So, when the pressure on his throat suddenly lifted and he dropped away from the wall onto his knees, the gasping breath he drew in without hesitation was more than just a desperate need to fill his lungs with the air, it was his body’s confirmation that today was not the day he succumbed to his oath.
He watched in confusion as Morgause went flying backwards, an invisible force flinging her against the wall and leaving her crumpled in an unmoving heap. Just as she had done to Merlin.
Merlin— who was lying half-upright, hand outstretched in front of him, chest heaving and eyes wide as he looked on at what he had just managed to do.
This wasn’t possible.
Lancelot couldn’t move as he watched a ghost push himself off the floor and, sword in hand, limp with determination to the centre of the room. He watched his friend – his dead friend – swing the sword towards the Cup and knock it clean off the plinth, thick red blood splattering across the floor as it landed with a clatter. He watched his friend drop back down to sitting as his legs failed to keep him upright, and suddenly Lancelot’s own legs unstuck themselves from the ground.
“Merlin.” He breathed, stumbling over to his friend to crouch down next to him. Lancelot clasped his shoulders gently, hands trembling in his need to touch him; to confirm that this was real. And he near sobbed in relief as his eyes roamed over every inch of his very much alive friend.
Merlin looked terrible. Face pale with an unnatural flush across his cheeks, blood slowly dripping from a gash hidden in his hairline from where he had struck the floor. His eyes, sunken and ringed with dark smudges, were wide but glassy, like he wasn’t quite there. Like death had relinquished its hold for only a moment and would come back to claim its victim any second.
“Merlin.” Lancelot whispered again, hands coming up to cup his cheeks and draw his attention away from the darkness that may be coming back to retrieve him. He frowned at the unsightly red coating his forehead and he dabbed at the wound with the exposed sleeve of his tunic to try and staunch some of the blood.
“Ow.” Merlin muttered, his own hand reaching up to investigate the cause of the pain before he seemed to register who was sat in front of him. “Lancelot? Are you okay?”
“Am I—?” Lancelot couldn’t find the words to continue. His friend was looking at him so seriously, so sincerely, with such care and concern in his gaze, as if Lancelot hadn’t been mourning him only moments ago? Maybe he had been wrong, his grief premature, but he had been so sure… “Merlin, you were— How are you—? Are you okay?”
Merlin nodded distractedly at his question, fingers lifting slowly to hover before Lancelot’s throat.
“She hurt you.”
Lancelot gently guided Merlin’s hand back down before he could touch the mark that was no-doubt forming around his neck. In truth, his throat felt like it was on fire and each breath burned as it entered his lungs. But he wasn’t about to disclose that to his friend.
“I’m fine.” He reassured him before he could worry any further.
Just then, the never-ending pealing that had been echoing in the distance began to slow to a stop as finally the warning bell ceased its noise.
“It’s done?”
“You did it. Merlin, you saved Camelot.” Lancelot cupped Merlin’s cheek once more in an attempt to ground the boy’s wandering mind, but when Merlin responded in turn with a tired yet distinctly dopey smile, it suddenly wasn’t enough for Lancelot. With a sigh, he pulled Merlin into his arms, pulling him close until he could feel the rise and fall of the boy’s chest against his own. Merlin sagged into the hug almost instantly.
“I thought you were dead.” Lancelot murmured into his friend’s shoulder.
“I feel like I was.”
Lancelot shuddered at the frighteningly honest response and allowed himself a moment longer to revel in the relief, before he pulled back and eyed the still-oozing wound with a wince.
“Can you stand?” He asked, slowly pushing himself off the floor and offering out a hand. “We should get that dealt with.”
It was slow going, getting Merlin upright and steady enough to put one foot in front of the other, even with Lancelot’s supportive grip around his waist. His own aches and pains were making themselves known now with every step, but there was little either of them could do about it until they reached Gaius’ bountiful supply of pain remedies.
They walked wordlessly past Morgause’s prone body, unaware if she was dead or merely unconscious. She may be powerful but without her immortal army by her side, she was just one witch; she couldn’t take on the whole of Camelot alone. If she didn’t slink off by herself, the other knights would surely find her before long.
They were only halfway down the corridor when a rush of footsteps came up to greet them as Arthur charged around the corner. He stumbled to an unexpected stop in front of them, breath coming hard from his hurried journey up from the dungeons.
“Oh.” He started, taking them both in. As his eyes lingered on Merlin, Lancelot could feel the barely concealed concern radiating from the prince. “You didn’t take out the bell.”
Merlin tensed in his hold and even Lancelot’s mind raced to think up a cover story. They hadn’t planned this far ahead. “Sorry, Arthur. We tried—”
“No, it’s— I just thought—” Arthur swallowed hard and drew in a deep breath, resetting his composure before trying again. “Are you both okay?”
It was a redundant question really, in the face of their injuries. Clearly something had happened and clearly it was bad, but Lancelot wasn’t about to announce to him the near prospect of Merlin’s death. Now wasn’t the time nor place to break that news.
Before he could reply, a further stampede approached with haste as the rest of the knights caught up to their prince. Lancelot counted off each of them in his head. Percival, Elyan, Gwaine, Leon. Good. They were all still here.
“You two look terrible.” Gwaine grinned as he stepped forward, looking just as worn out as Lancelot felt. He hadn’t exactly known Gwaine for long — in fact, aside from Arthur and Percival, he had only known the rest of the knights for a grand total of one whole day — but it hadn’t taken Lancelot long to realise that the man’s blatant use of disparaging words was often a form of endearment and camaraderie.
He also appreciated that Gwaine didn’t need to be asked before coming around to Merlin’s other side and lifting the boy’s arm across his shoulder. Lancelot nodded in silent thanks, which Gwaine brushed off with an easy smile.
“Morgause is still in there.” Lancelot announced to the rest of men as he nodded towards to the throne room. “I don’t know if she’s still alive or not.”
“We’ll deal with her.” Arthur affirmed, looking to the knights to muster up enough energy to accompany him into combat once more. They didn’t need to be persuaded. Swords at the ready, they instantly advanced on the throne room.
Arthur, however, faltered as he watched Gwaine fuss over Merlin’s head. Lancelot could see the conflict warring in his mind, eager to help his servant but knowing that his duties in that moment laid elsewhere.
He conceded after a moment, instructing Lancelot and Gwaine to get Merlin’s wound seen to before stepping past to follow his fellow knights. That is, until Merlin abruptly planted his feet with more strength than Lancelot thought possible.
“I can help.” Merlin muttered, stumbling over his own feet as he tried to evade their grip, receiving a solid “no!” in response from the three knights as Lancelot and Gwaine began to drag him down the corridor.
Lancelot shook his head in disbelief, amazed once more at just how selfless his friend was without even trying. If not a little bit stupid. But they could blame his scrambled brains for that right now.
But honestly, Merlin was incredible. Not only had he been willing to face whatever unknown was lying in wait for them inside the castle, he had conquered near-death itself to single handedly save Camelot. None of them would still be there if he hadn’t succeeded.
Of course, Arthur could never know the truth. Hell, most of their friends could never know the truth. But Lancelot knew and he had never been prouder.
Merlin really was the bravest of them all.