Chapter Text
Merlin tore through the undergrowth, the forest a blur of green and grey streaking past. Tangled roots clawed at his boots, but he didn’t dare slow down. I have to make it in time, he thought, anxiety tightening in his chest as much as the burning in his lungs. Merlin’s legs throbbed from relentlessly pounding against the damp earth, his breath sharp and ragged in the cold night air. He stumbled, caught himself, and kept running—faster, harder—driven by a growing worry that every second lost was too much time.
Merlin skidded underneath a low branch scattering leaves in his wake. A dull orange glow pulsed a warning on the horizon. It was the kind of glow that could pass for the first light of dawn, but Merlin knew better, it was fire, torches. He broke through the tree line gravel flying out around him as he skidded onto the road. He was almost there. Come on, he urged himself, gritting his teeth as he pushed his aching legs harder. Summoning a burst of speed Merlin charged over the final rise. At last he spotted tents scattered across the valley, the glint of armour in the firelight, Camelot’s camp. The Saxons would strike soon.
A shout rang out as Merlin reached the perimeter. ”Oi! Who goes there?”
”It’s Merlin! The king’s manservant.” He wheezed, holding up both hands. “Please don’t shoot me, I’ve had a really long night.”
“Haven’t we all?” Said the guard looking him over while Merlin bent double, resting his hands on his knees trying to catch his breath.
“You’d better get to the king then.” The guard nodded once and stepped aside.
Merlin didn’t reply—his gaze was already fixed on the central tent, knowing that was where Arthur would be. As he closed the distance, the tent flap stirred and a familiar figure emerged. Arthur stepped into the glow of the firelight, his arms folded, brow quirked in amusement.
“Where have you been?” He said a lopsided grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Let me guess - you tripped over your own feet and landed in Gaius’ emergency herb supplies?” Merlin froze, drinking in the sight of Arthur - eyes shadowed but alight with life, hair tousled from lack of sleep. Arthur made a show of looking Merlin up and down, taking in his twig infested hair and mud splattered clothes, the evidence of his flight through the woods.
”I know you're not a knight, Merlin.” Arthur said dryly. “But do you think it’s possible for you to collect herbs without looking as though you lost a fight with a bush?” Merlin smiled, trying to fall into their familiar joking rhythm.
“In my defence, it was a particularly aggressive bush.” He replied, pulling a couple of twigs free from his hair.
“An aggressive bush?”
”Yes. It had a lot in common with you actually. Thorny, dense, territorial, I think it was particularly annoyed at me.”
”I can certainly understand being annoyed at you.” Arthur said, unimpressed. “And the mud?”
”Collateral damage in our epic battle.”
“Just admit you fell, Merlin” Arthur drawled.
“I slipped.” Merlin said indignantly. “Because I came the fast way.”
”Through the forest? Bringing half of it with you?” Arthur scoffed.
“Yes there wasn’t time to take the road, someone needed to warn you about the ambush.” Merlin raised an arm to point out where he remembered the Saxons were. “The Saxons are flanking you along the eastern ridge. They’ll strike just after dawn,” Merlin said—too confidently, he realised, as Arthur’s smirk faded into something sharper.
“Since when are you an authority on Saxon tactics, Merlin? How exactly would you know that?”
“I— saw their torches in the trees,” Merlin lied, slipping past Arthur with practised ease. “Now, unless you’d like to waste more time being a prat, I have work to do.” He disappeared into the tent before Arthur could press him further.
“I suppose you're not completely useless.” Arthur called after him, “But you could have warned us sooner, given us more time.”
I really couldn’t have Merlin thought.
———
Arthur hovered over the valley map, jabbing at positions, voice low and clipped as he issued final orders in the first light of dawn. Steel scraped and leather creaked as the knights nodded and left. Merlin lingered at the edge of the tent, gaze fixed not on the map but on Arthur, on his armour where the plates didn’t quite overlap.
When the last knight moved off, Arthur straightened, one hand still pressed to the table. Merlin stepped in without a word. He ran his fingers over the leather straps at Arthur’s shoulder, tugging a buckle at his side more forcefully than needed. He didn’t speak, but his hands moved with a quiet urgency that made Arthur glance down, brows drawn together. Arthur watched him for a moment, then tilted his head.
“I know you’ve got an unhealthy attachment to my armour, but this is a bit much—even for you.” Arthur huffed a quiet laugh. Merlin paused, his fingers fidgeting with the buckle at Arthur's wrist, adjusting it even though it was fine. He took a deep breath, eyes flicking briefly up to Arthur’s face.
“Calm down Merlin. You’re twitchy as a girl before her wedding.”
Merlin still said nothing, threading a strap through its loop with white knuckles and deliberate focus. Arthur watched him for a beat longer, the smile fading a little.
“Merlin?” Arthur frowned.
“I just need you to be prepared for the battle ahead.” Merlin said keeping his eyes down, slipping the chainmail links across the pads of his fingers, feeling for breaks or dents. Arthur tilted his head.
“Merlin, I'm the greatest swordsman in the five kingdoms.” He boasted. “I’ve fought more battles than I can count.”
”I’m aware, sire.”
”And I’ve always survived.”
”Not always.” Merlin muttered.
“What was that?”
“Nothing.” Merlin’s voice caught in his throat. He coughed once and waved a hand. “Arm up.”
Arthur obeyed without comment. Merlin tightened the strap at his bicep, then moved behind him, settling the cloak across his shoulders, his hands lingering on the fabric. He stepped back, adjusted a fold that didn’t need adjusting.
“You’ll do,” he said, lighter than he felt.
Arthur turned, his teasing expression faltering. He looked at Merlin and set a hand on his shoulder.
“I’m glad you’re here Merlin.”
Merlin blinked. His throat worked, but no words came. He gave a jerky nod and turned away from Arthur’s stare.
“Well, someone has to look after the royal laundry,” he said, too quickly. “Left to you, you’d be dead of sock rot.”
Arthur huffed a short laugh, not quite full. A horn sounded outside. Arthur squeezed his shoulder once, then let go and stepped out into the morning light. Merlin waited a second before following, blowing out a shaky breath. His fingers curled into fists and released. Once. Twice.
Outside, the valley lay quiet, the early light casting long shadows. Camlann was upon them.
———
The wind whipped through the valley, carrying the sharp scent of battle—mud, sweat, steel, and the bite of fear. From his position hidden low on the valley slope, Merlin gazed across the field. It churned with movement—knights marching, banners snapping, drums rolling in the distance. Arthur stood before his men, sword raised, armor catching the dawn light.
“For the love of Camelot!” Arthur cried, raising his sword high. The valley seemed to vibrate with the force of the response—“For the love of Camelot!” The shout rolled through the ranks, a living thing, full of fire and promise. Merlin squeezed his eyes shut, his breath tight in his chest. “For the love of Camelot,” he whispered.
The army surged forward, a flood of steel and fire charging through the valley. Merlin moved through the turmoil, weaving between bodies, his eyes scanning the battlefield for threats to Arthur. He carried no armor or blade, just the magic coursing in his veins and the hard earned lessons of the past.
Arthur led the charge, his movements sharp, relentlessly cutting a path through the press of enemies. Merlin’s magic twisted through the chaos, his eyes flashing gold as swords slipped from hands and feet stumbled on uneven ground. The battle raged but Merlin’s focus remained unbroken, his eyes locked on Arthur. Nothing else mattered. In the fire of Arthur’s fury Merlin found his hope, believing they might pull through.
But then, Mordred emerged.
He cut through the press of bodies with unsettling ease, his armor gleaming, untouched by the battle around him. His blue eyes locked on Arthur, cold but burning with hatred, a storm building in their depths. Arthur lowered his sword, brow furrowing in confusion.
“Mordred?” Arthur’s voice was sharp in disbelief. Mordred’s lip curled in a sneer as he raised his blade. The clash of swords rang through the air, sparks flashing. Arthur’s movements were slower now, the weight of battle pulling at him. Merlin’s fingers twitched, his magic thrumming under his skin. Mordred pressed forward with brutal precision, his strikes unrelenting, body unburdened by fatigue. Arthur’s strength was waning. It was only a matter of time.
Both men raised their swords. Merlin’s gaze flashed gold, his power flying through the air. Mordred lost his footing, giving Arthur an opening. Arthur swung—but too wide, too late. His strike sailed through empty space. Arthur’s foot slipped, his balance thrown off. With a savage roar, Mordred lunged, his blade finding its target, sinking deep. Merlin’s chest tightened, a strangled gasp rising in his throat, the wet crunch of steel meeting flesh turning his stomach. Arthur jerked back, his face twisted in shock, but it was already too late.
“Arthur—” Merlin croaked, raw and desperate. Arthur staggered, his knees buckling, breath coming in ragged gasps. Mordred yanked the sword free with a sickening pull, and Arthur crumpled to the ground. Blood spread in thin branching veins, like fractures running through crystal, too many to follow and too fast. Merlin fell to his knees, his hand outstretched. “No,” he whispered.
The sky cracked like a shattered glass as Merlin’s eyes flared gold. Colours twisted, spiraling into each other as time folded, each fold a fragment of fate—splinters of possibility torn apart and spun together. And then, as quickly as it had begun, everything stilled. Silence. He was back in the crystal cave.
Hundreds of crystals pulsed with a faint glow—steady, like the beat of an ancient heart. Merlin knelt in the centre of the cavern, the chill of the stone leaching through his clothes. His arms hung heavy at his sides. His chest was tight. He had failed. Again. Merlin dropped his forehead to the ground, the stone cold and unforgiving against his skin. He squeezed his eyes shut, the image of Arthur falling burned into their lids.
“What now?” he whispered into the silence, his voice small, swallowed by the vastness of the cave. The rock and crystals didn’t answer.
After a moment, his breathing steadied. He clenched his jaw and lifted his head, catching his reflection on the surface of a crystal. His face was set, eyes bright with intent. He stood, shoulders squared and turned from the cave. In the distance he knew the fires of Camelot’s camp burned. Arthur prepared his men for the upcoming battle. The world turned back to a night he alone had already lived.
I haven’t tried everything.
Fate wasn’t a tapestry to be neatly threaded. It was a coin—two sides always in motion, always waiting to be flipped. This time, Merlin would flip it. He would change the course. Merlin’s pulse quickened.
He would defeat destiny, this wasn’t over. Not yet.