A Different Destiny / Merthur

The Druids

Dawn was breaking. 

Sunlight caressed the tops of the trees, not quite strong enough to break through their ranks and reach the shaded forest floor.  But the place was still alive with energy.  The birds had woken up.  They sang, calling out like sirens, as the last of the nocturnal creatures scampered home beneath them: hedgehogs, mice, foxes.  Not that there were ever many foxes about.  At least, none that were easily visible.  That's how they hunted: silent and unseen. 

The idea made Merlin nervous. 

Bandits hunted in much the same way that foxes did.  Their prey almost never stood a chance. 

Merlin shuddered.  The last attack was still fresh in his mind and he was in no hurry to see a repeat.  Especially not now.  They were sat — or, in Arthur's case, slumped — against a tree, completely in the open, with no horses and only one weapon between them, which had been rendered utterly useless by the fact that Arthur, the only one able to use it, was barely holding on to consciousness. 

Merlin had thought it was shock, at first.  That, mixed with heavy blood loss and an acute lack of sleep, would have made the Prince understandably exhausted.  It was only when the fever broke that Merlin understood; Arthur's wound had become infected.  The stitches had ripped and the bandages had loosened and the shirt and chain mail had dirtied and—

Merlin tried to take a deep breath.  His mind was going into overdrive.  Things had gone from bad to worse so bloody quickly that it barely felt real.  It felt like a nightmare: the fire, the forest, the darkness, the blood. Somewhere along the way Merlin had dropped his book.  By the time he'd noticed it was too late to go back.  Not that it was important.  Not really.  Not anymore. It was just another failure — a minor one, but a failure none the less. Just like his failure to stop Kilgarrah from burning Camelot. Or to stop Agravaine from taking over. And now, as he tended to the wound of the semi-conscious Prince, Merlin couldn't help but wonder: what if he failed Arthur too?

What if this was it?

What if Arthur's closed eyes never opened again, so that their bright blue ceased to shine with laughter or prickle with tears — like the time he'd eaten something so hot it burnt his mouth, but refused to sacrifice his pride and spit it out?  What if the dried blood that stained his shirt and skin, so pale now it was almost like parchment, could never be washed clean? What if he lay like this forever, propped up beneath the trees, until he was consumed by moss and falling leaves, fading into the undergrowth, lost—

Merlin jumped up as a twig snapped behind him.  "Who's there?"

Silence.

"I said," Merlin hiccuped, trying to wipe away the tears that were blurring his vision, "who's there?"

A figure stepped out of the trees.  He was tall — or relatively so — and dressed in deep browns and greys, with the exception of his scarf, which seemed to be a very drained form of purple. "You don't remember me," he said, moving closer, "do you?"

Merlin stared at him.

"You saved my life once. Many years ago."

Something tugged at Merlin's mind. There was something familiar about him: the mop of curled black hair and piercing blue eyes— "Mordred?"

He grinned. "Hello, Emrys," and then, glancing down to the blond on the floor, "and Arthur," he added. "What happened?"

Merlin moved a hand out protectively. He could feel the magic moving through his veins and tickling his fingertips: ready just in case.