The King and His Sorcerer

Part XIX: Arthur's Bane

It had been foretold. That the young druid would be the end of Arthur. That Mordred was the bane of Arthur’s existence. That when Merlin had let the boy live so long ago, he was sealing a fate hundreds of years in the making.

There was battle.

Mayhem.

Blood.

Death.

And Merlin was amongst it all. Praying, wishing against all hope that perhaps destiny had a mind of its own. Perhaps destiny would look upon him and Arthur, two lovers, and decide that they were both worth saving.

But in the back of his mind – he knew. He knew that destiny could not be rewritten, and that everything was set in stone. That Arthur would die, and he would be partly to blame. Because of his own sensitivity, his unwillingness to kill a then-innocent young boy.

If only I could go back in time, Merlin thought to himself, as he saw Mordred advancing towards Arthur.

That morning, Arthur had begged that Merlin stay behind.

“I do not want you harmed,” Arthur had said, brushing his lips over Merlin’s cheek.

“But you need me there. I can protect you.”

Arthur pulled back, staring into Merlin’s eyes with clear certainty. “Camelot will need your protection, not I. Merlin, please, promise me you will protect my city.”

Merlin leaned forward, brushing his lips against the king’s softly.

“I promise I will protect everything I can.”

Arthur had smiled ruefully in return.

I am too far away, Merlin thought frantically, trying his hardest to make his way to Arthur, trying his hardest to change destiny, change the fate of the world, change the future.

Mordred’s sword drew forward, and Arthur’s followed suit.

Merlin ran.

A cry tore through his throat as Mordred’s sword tore through Arthur’s chest.

This cannot be happening, Merlin thought.

The two men fell together, seeming almost to lean against each other for support.

“ARTHUR!” Merlin yelled, and suddenly a path to his king was made.

Arthur’s eyes were drifting closed, his skin losing its pallor.

Merlin landed hard on his knees, hands pressing to his king’s chest.

“Arthur, Arthur, Arthur,” he chanted.

A smile played on Arthur’s lips, a ghost of the grin he always wore. “Merlin,” he whispered, a hand reaching up to cup his sorcerer’s cheek. “My Merlin.”

Merlin promised Arthur that he would be okay, chanting spell after spell after spell to heal his wound. But it would not obey his commands.

I am the most powerful warlock in the world, and I cannot save the one I love.

“Merlin,” Arthur whispered again, the sound barely audible.

Tears streamed down the sorcerer’s face with such force that he could barely see the dying form of the man he loved.

“I want you to always be you,” Arthur breathed.

“I will, I promise,” Merlin hiccupped. “Arthur, I love you.”

The king’s lips formed a smile. “And I, you.”

And then he was gone. All heat from his body, all colour from his cheeks, all life from his eyes.

The king of Camelot was dead.