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It was not how he had wanted things to go, but Merlin rarely got to have things his way.
All that he had was to be snatched away, cruelly, without a moment's notice. His childhood, his innocence, the people he loved, his King, his magic, his life. It was all a game of take take take, and take this battle did.
It's certainly a dramatic manner to go about his revelation, as he always expected it to be, but it comes in the midst of chaos and out of a despair so profound it twists his guts and drives him forward, shooting like lightning in-between the soldiers until he's pulling Arthur back, so roughly he throws his King to the ground, raising his hand against Mordred.
That's the way the best kept secret in Camelot is revealed, his greatest betrayal, all merely two steps ahead of Arthur.
The magic has rolled out of him in waves, and there was not a soul who would have missed his golden eyes, or the words from the old religion that slipped from his tongue or how Mordred was thrown back. It doesn't deter the Knight who had once been a boy who he once saved and who was destined to kill the person Merlin held dearest above all. He rose, his eyes full of hate, his blade by his side and his eyes glowed golden too before they were both shouting incantations, and fighting each other's spells.
“ Emrys! ”
He flickers his eyes to where Morgana screams in rage from his left, hair wild and face twisted with an angry bitterness that has rotten the woman she used to be. She too throws her hands towards him and screams in the tongue of the Old Religion, calling upon curses to strike on him, and he manages to raise his hand to counter her attack by utter luck and nothing else.
Merlin stands there; the man he's destined to protect behind him, the woman he's destined to kill to his left and the man whose destiny he cannot allow to come through ahead of him. Life and fate have snatched too many things from him all his life, but he refuses to let them rip Arthur from his hands as well. So he screams.
His voice echoes through the valley, and blows a strong wind against all those that surround him. The magic replies, the thunder on his voices calls forth lightening, the fire of his rage invokes flames all around them, and his hand twist with the amount of power he has to hold to defeat them both. Morgana holds her ground but Mordred falters, so he presses on. He calls for the wind to attack them and for the earth to not let them have a firm standing, be calls for his power to crush them and for Arthur to be safe behind him, safe from their hands and their magic and their Destiny. When Morgana howls a hex meant to kill towards Arthur, when everything else seems to have failed her, he directs her spell with mastered agility towards Mordred and sees the life leave the boys green eyes as he stumbles back, confused and hurt and scared, looking like the aspiring knight who came to Camelot or the boy he snuck out of Camelot, before he falls lifeless to the ground.
The witch wails miserably and screeches and curses him with all she has, buts she's grown to frantic and too mad in her lust for power and in her attempts to drown her fears. Both of Merlin's hands are on her now, and every fiber of his being shakes with magic, as if it's running under his skin and he's merely power wearing a flesh best.
“I blame myself for what you have become." He says, sorrowful and numb all in the same, voice echoing unnaturally with something too grand and ancient to be known. “But this ends here. Goodbye, Morgana.”
Her magic turns on her, at his command, and the magic in every being and element deserts her when he calls on them to do so. He watches as her eyes widen with despair and the agonizing fear that had grown on her inside the walls of Camelot and forces himself to remain as firm as rock, and as aloof as the skies while watching her perish, and hearing her scream until there's no sound on the battlegrounds to be heard.
No sound but the sound of armour behind him, where Arthur is bound to have gotten up. Merlin shuts his eyes, as if that could make this all go away.
He doesn't want to look back, because he does not want to face Arthur. A scared breath leaves him, and his hand shake, from anxiety and over exertion. Still, he doesn't dare look back.
Maybe it was for the best. Or maybe he should have turned.
There was almost no pain when it happened. Only a mild discomfort. He looked down, exhausted, buckling knees barely keeping him upright to see where the blade had ran through him. Excalibur's tip was still there, sticking out from his body, directly under where his ribs ended, and he brought a trembling hand to touch the sword he had Kilgharrah breathe fire onto for his king.
The one weapon that could kill him.
He always kept it so sharp. Always fearing for Arthur's safety. He can see the print of his digits against the blade, where his fingertips touched it. How many nights has he spent bowed over this sword, making sure it was sharp enough to cut from a strand of hair to slice through bone? He can't remember
Merlin could feel his magic buzzing over the blade, and ressonating along the leftovers of magic inside his body.
When it's yanked from him, it's way more unpleasant but not from pain. He can barely feel his body, but the lack of the blade leaves him hollow, and whatever magic the wake of the battle left in him reaches for what is in the sword. His fingers, that before were grazing Excalibur's blade, now rest against the wound, and grow increasingly red as the blood pours unrelenting from it. There's no helping it, he knows. Arthur knows how to strike to kill. He won't disgrace himself by trying to hold the blood in.
It's better than burning .
Merlin feels tears make their way to the back of his eyes, but he refuses to shed any as he turns around on unsure feet. Arthur stands there, face contorted in too many emotions to name, sword in hands, dripping his blood on the earth under them. He can see, clear as day, when the single-mindedness of smiting down an 'evil sorcerer' that his father drilled into his mind gives way to the recognition. Merlin and sorcerer walk hand in hand through Arthur's train of thoughts; impossible, betrayal and liar follow.
He cannot find it in himself to apologize. He has nothing to apologize for. Whatever of him is left perks up with pride, profoundly unrepentant in the wake of being known and at the threat of death.
Gwaine calls for him, and despite his pride and his conviction, Merlin is still dazed with severe blood loss and still weak from a spell that demanding, his knees finally buckle. He falls just as Arthur releases his grip on Excalibur, with a horrified expression. He can see the question form in his eyes, ‘ what have I done? ’, he can see the dawning realization change him in the seconds that take for Merlin and the sword to fall to the ground as one.
Except that he doesn't hit the ground, because strong arms hold him. When he looks up, he sees Gwaine's tearful face, screaming for help and talking reassurances to Merlin, making promises he can't keep.
“You're going to be okay, mate, don't worry.” It's a lie, but he can see how desperately Gwaine means it, how much he wants it to be true. He cannot fault his friend for the denial that he's already gone. “We're going to get Gaius and you will be alright— Stay away from him !”
It takes him a moment to understand that the growled words, threatening and angry, are directed at Arthur, as is the expression of a vengeful man that Gwaine's tear-stained face takes on. Merlin's blue eyes flicker from him to Arthur, whose eyes are teary and whose posture seems to beg to be allowed closer to yet someone else he's losing — someone he never dreamed of losing — because of his own devices, yet he still folds to Gwaine's rage.
“He saved you! How dare you?!”
He's fighting. But the war is over. They won, Gwaine's alive, the Knights are alive Arthur is alive, there's no reason to fight. He does not understand.
He wants them to stop. They won, there's no need to fight, they should be celebrating.
Instead there is “Get back, or so help me god I'll break my vow to you!” and "I didn't think it was him, I thought it was someone else. I thought someone else had taken his form and that it was a trick, I didn't mean to—", followed by “He is dying because of you!” and “I didn't know what to do!”, “Murder a loyal man who saved your life was your only solution?! My friend is bleeding to death on my arms because of you!”
“Merlin.” Someone calls, close as Gwaine but not Gwaine, and certainly not Arthur. He strays his faltering gaze to his right and finds Elyan, horrified and pulling his cloak from his back, sliding it under Gwaine's bloodied fingers, and they both pressure it over the wound, try to save him. It's no use.
He makes for a brilliant knight, he wants to tell him that. His father would be proud and so would his mother. His sister makes for a wonderful Queen, and he will carry the guilt of her sorrow to the grave. He wishes above all else, she would smile like she did when they were servants, and laugh as freely as she did then. But everything is so distant now, he can barely remember how they got here. He failed Morgana and Mordred and Gwen and Elyan and Gwaine and his mother and Gaius and the druids and Aithusa and Kilgharrah and—
“ HE WAS MY FRIEND FIRST !” Arthur screams, and in the same enraged tone Gwaine screams back: “ YOU NEVER DESERVED HIM !”
Merlin doesn't want anyone to fight. They have to stop. He tries to tell them to stop, but all that leaves him is a pained groan. There is silence at last before Percival hushes him, a hand to his right shoulder, and he cannot remember when did Percival arrive, but he can see Leon over his shoulder as well. His breathing is quickening, and Percival tries to calm him, he cannot panic in the face of death, it's unbecoming. He faced it so many times before.
Merlin's blood stained fingers hold onto one of his friend's arms — Gwaine's, his brain supplies — and his attention directs back to Merlin and away from the confrontation, his hand still presses the wound hoping to get him a few moments more, trying to give him a fighting chance. He smiles. It's weak, he knows, and it doesn't reach his eyes, his gaze is growing misty with his own tears and there are spots of black dancing about the world around him.
Arthur is alive, Morgana is dead, Mordred is dead.
He had nearly died too many times for this to phase him. Besides, he had came so close to dying in so many worse ways, for so many worse causes, by the hands of worse people. This was alright. This was…
“A good… death.” He reassures him, and Gwaine howls his sorrow, shakes his head against his words, shouts for Gaius and for help once more. Gaius is too far away, and there's no help.
There's no other way. He's dying. It's okay.
“ Merlin .” Arthur says is a desperate voice, and he knows the only reason why his King's face now hovers over him, by Percival and Leon, without any attacks from Gwaine is because Merlin is still gripping at him as if his hold could contain his anger. “I'm sorry, please don't die. Please don't die.” He repeats, over and over again, pushing past his knights until he's directly by Merlin's side, holding onto his arm and shoulder and his hands are shaking . “I don't know where the magic came from. Maybe… Maybe it was Mordred or Morgana! Is that why you were gone?! Were you cursed?! We will save you and then we'll fix you, you're not a sorcerer, I know that, I'm sorry.”
He's weak, and he's losing blood and acceptance, sadness, rage and betrayal fight their way inside his chest. He still loves him. This man killed him and he stills loves him as he did the night he drank poison for him and the day Arthur tricked him so he could drink Angora's poison instead and as he every day when he woke him, and dressed him and followed him and every time he smiled. Merlin shakes his head. It pains him, but he takes in half a lungful of air and says.
"I am."
It's like breaking chains. He's dying but he feels free, lighter. Giddy happiness takes over him, he smiles.
Golden brows furrow in confusion.
"What?"
He smiles through the most of tears that well in his eyes.
"I am magic."
It's as if he's told him all his life had been a lie; His best friend was a traitor and a liar and he had magic and he ought to be evil. Still, Arthur shakes his head and swallows the knot of feelings down his throat.
"No… No, you're not. Don't be an idiot, Merlin. You couldn't have been, I would have known."
“Born magic… Used it for you... Since beginning…” Merlin tries to raise his head, to look his King in the eyes, tries to stress his words as fervently as he can manage “I was good. Magic can be good. ”
Gwaine is sobbing above him, and there's a mess of cloaks and hands pressing on his wound. The scarlet of Camelot grows redder still, with his blood, and Elyan is trembling against the sobs and one by one, the men who surround him, the friends of a lifetime, realise he's not making out of this one alive. It's the one time Merlin won't make a miraculous recovery.
Arthur looks crestfallen, as if his men's grief is the one thing that finally gets him to realise the same. He shakes his head, he mutters 'no's and he's ready to argue, but Merlin must press his matters before he has no breath to do so.
“Avalon.” He croaks out, choking back mouthfuls of blood. His red fingers grip tightly at a knights' cape, but he can't say whose as wakefulness eludes him and his blood escapes his body. “Burn… Me… Lake…”
Return me to Freya , he wants to say. Give me peace , he wants to plead.
“Merlin, you're not going to die—”
“Please.” He asks, begs , and he sounds like he's at the verge of crying. Arthur is still unwilling to give in, and Gwaine walks hand in hand with him in such denial. “ Please .”
“I'll take you to Avalon.” Leon is the one to promise, and Merlin could not be more shocked or more thankful. “I'll burn your body on the lake.”
He smiles, squeezes once again, before his hand no longer holds the strength to hold onto the fabric. It makes sense, he thinks to himself, coughing with the blood once he is in no condition to laugh, that Leon would volunteer to burn a magic user. Uther would be proud.
“Merlin, I'm sorry " Arthur tries again, and he can't quite see him — a horrible thing, because he wants to commit his golden prince to memory if he's to never look upon him again — but he can hear him and he knows that Arthur is weeping, miserably. Merlin thinks he smiled up at him, but he can't not know for certain. His whole world is black.
“Just… hold me?”
Arthur does, holds onto him like if he could keep him from the clutches of death, even if Gwaine refused to back away an inch, even if all the Knights were around them still, even as the soldiers of Camelot stood around them watching his demise.
Merlin's head rests against his chest and Arthur's body is covering him so no harm could come to his despite the wound he had inflicted. He can hear the racing heart underneath and relishes on the thought that at the very least, Arthur is alive and if the price for his life was Merlin's, he'd pay it gladly.
‘ Emrys ’, a tiny voice whispers, ‘ It's time, come to us'.
‘Merlin ’, Will's voice calls, ‘Don't stall, come on.’
‘My love, come join me.’
‘My son, you may rest.’
‘Merlin.’
There are so many of them. They're all calling him.
‘Emrys.’
‘You did well.’
‘Emrys.’
‘Rest.'
‘Emrys’
‘Close your eyes.’
‘Emrys’
“Merlin?” Arthur asks. He sounds terrified.
There's something he wanted to say. Something he wanted to tell him for the longest time, and he can't remember. A secret as well kept as his magic, but his tongue won't aid him. He's too far gone. Merlin closed his eyes for the last time, to dream of the Isle of the Blessed, of those he has killed and those he had lost, and not even the heartbroken cry Arthur let out when his body grew limp on his hold was enough to tempt him back.
The words 'I love you' go with him to the grave, stuck on his throat.
Avalon welcomes him.