Merlin: The Loneliest Hour

Chapter One: Merlin and Lancelot

Chapter One: Merlin and Lancelot

Merlin fell on his knees, panting.  The enormous two-headed beast lying in front of him was slowly dying and the young warlock could not bear to look at it.  Instead, he kept his eyes on the ground, waiting for the creature's final breath. The pool of blood underneath the monster was steadily growing.  The brown fur was dark and wet on the spot where the spell had hit it. The effort of killing the beast had been quite substantial yet Merlin felt no pride, only a deep sadness.  The air around him was stirring with old and powerful magic and in his head he could almost hear a painful moaning. As the creature let out a last growl of pain, its front leg unfolded and reached out towards him with three curved black claws.  He saw them as though in slow motion; one claw reaching out further than the other two. It wanted to grab him, and for a moment he was going to let it. Why shouldn't he? He had killed another one of his kind. It was only natural that it was looking for revenge.  How many of this creature's brothers had he killed in the last year alone? When had it been decided that his destiny would include blood on his hand?

"Merlin, what are you doing?" cried out a familiar voice that was close to him.

Suddenly, Lancelot was before him, his long sword aiming to cut the creature's claws.

"No, Lancelot!" Merlin said forcefully.

He grabbed the knight's forearm before it could strike.  Just then, the beast let out a long last sigh and stopped moving altogether.

Lancelot glanced down at him.  His face was full of questions and concern.

"There was no need for that," said the young warlock.

"And what about you?"

Merlin merely shrugged, mumbling a barely audible "I'm fine" as he struggled to his feet.  He felt so drained and exhausted that he had to lean on Lancelot for support.

"You don't look fine to me, " said the knight.

He did not like to be scrutinised.  Gaius was doing enough of that already.  Everytime he came back late or bruised or covered in mud (or worse), the old physician had a look on his face that strangely reminded Merlin of his mother.  It always came as a surprise that someone could be so unequivocally supporting, yet worried beyond measure, all at once. The result was invariably a pat on the back, an awful-tasting tonic, bandages when necessary, and a few hours of troubled sleep.  Perhaps he wouldn't be so tired if he didn't have those nasty nightmares every time he closed his eyes.

"Still can't sleep?" asked Lancelot as they started to walk out of the forest.

"No," said Merlin. He was avoiding glancing too much at Lancelot's concerned face.

The sky was of that white color just before rain high above their heads.  The forest was thick with green trees, but also wet and chilly. Merlin could feel the wind blow right through him.  It would be so easy for him to conjure a small flame in the palm of his hand, just to keep warm; yet he couldn't. Sometimes he had that strange feeling as though his magic did not really belong to him, that it had fallen upon his shoulders, quite by chance, to be a burden but nothing more.  It could be used to protect Arthur, but for no one else, not even himself.

This was the reason why he hadn't been able to save her.  Freya.  But that wasn't really accurate.  He had possessed the power to save her, he just had not dared to, for fear that her curse might hurt Arthur in the end and fear that the dark magic around her would somehow bring Camelot's downfall, or his.  How could he have been so stupid and selfish?  It had been a year since he had seen her face in the water of the cave, and he had missed her every day ever since.