Things were going very, very wrong. This much was clear to Merlin as he stood to the side, surveying the scene.

The battle had been raging for nearly two hours now; Arthur and the knights fighting hard, the sounds of steel and of men long since becoming background noise, a groan against the earth. He couldn't see where the opponents were coming from, and they were being overwhelmed.

Merlin knew a decision had to be made; even from here, helping as best he could, he wasn't doing enough. Soon they'd be overtaken, dead, or injured, or captured for slaves, knowing their opponent.

Just then a sharp slicing sound, followed by a cry, hit his ears. His head snapped as he followed the noise, and his stomach sank to his knees. Arthur. Arthur had been fighting, and in half a moment, had been sliced open. Arthur's eyes were wide, his mouth agape, and his hands clearly torn between holding tight to his sword, or holding tight to his guts. He fell to his knees, then face down on the ground, as his attacker shouted in triumph, raising his fists above his head. Time seemed to slow as Merlin watched. He could see blood pooling around Arthur. Leon noticed first, going pale and faltering. He was cut down, too. Percival was next, cut across the legs as he turned to run to Arthur, and from there, Merlin lost track, unable to move, and unable to take his eyes off his dying king.

Their attackers were screaming now, declaring victory. The man who had cut Arthur down was their leader, and he was making it well known. At last, Merlin was able to move. He wanted to sprint to Arthur from his hiding place, but knew that he, too, would end up face down on the ground. Instead, he crawled. His belly pressed to the ground, unable to avoid the blood spilled. The sticks and thorns scratched him, and he knew he'd be bloody as well, but it didn't matter. He made his way towards Arthur, avoiding the glances of the enemy and the grasping hands of his friends, and after an eternity, was next to his king. Merlin took a deep breath, then reached out. Arthur didn't respond to his touch, offered no resistance or help when Merlin pushed to turn him over. He was dead weight.

He was dead. His eyes were blank as they stared up at the sky, his face slack. The life's blood that came from him was a slow seep, not the bright pulsing gush of a man with a heartbeat. Merlin gagged, turned his head away. There was nothing to be done; he had failed his destiny, and failed his king. There was no pain with it yet, only numbness and disbelief. This was broken when a hand grabbed his arm, and he turned to look. It was Gwaine, bloody and beaten, unable even to lift his head from the ground. Merlin watched in horror, grasping his friend's hand, as Gwaine opened his mouth, and nothing but blood came out. Gwaine was dying, too, then.

Merlin had to fix this. This was simply unacceptable; the loss of King Arthur, of all the knights of Camelot, of Camelot itself. It was his duty to ensure that Arthur was alive and well, the greatest king Camelot had ever known. And with that, he knew what he had to do. With Gwaine now dead, Merlin pulled his arm away, and rose to his knees, uncaring of the victors above him. He heard rushing in his ears as he planted his hands palm down on the bloody ground.

It started slowly, a buzz in his fingertips, and it grew. Merlin's eyes flickered gold, then stayed, bright and growing brighter, as he felt his body connect with the ground beneath him. It pulled at him, like the touch of cold glass to skin on a hot day, didn't hurt at first, but it kept pulling. Merlin felt his magic being drawn from him and into the earth, into everything touching the earth. His breath grew shorter, and he attempted to gasp, but drew in nothing more than a choking, strangled breath.

He couldn't stop it, felt it pull and pull, unwinding from within him, stealing his breath and his energy, but he couldn't move, didn't want to move, just wanted it to be over. He didn't know what manner of magic he was doing, but it was deeper than anything he'd done before. Perhaps he wasn't doing it at all, and the earth was using him, now powerless to move, think, breathe. The pain was real now. It was sharp, and his magic cut into him as it left him, spreading away and away, spreading thin, but there was no end to it. There was nothing to hear but the pounding in his ears. Merlin felt his world healing around him. He felt Gwaine's heart start again, a jolt in his gut. He felt Leon's flesh knit itself back together, felt the dozens and dozens of other knights around him and finally, finally, as his lungs burned for oxygen and the pain seared through him, he felt Arthur live again.

He managed to let out a breath, then, and was almost able to draw a new one in, but he didn't have the energy. His eyes were burning, and his hands stuck into the earth. Merlin felt his own heart falter, and he wobbled, now unable to maintain his balance of his own accord. Several of the knights were around him now, all afraid to approach or to touch. Merlin was fading, his power almost completely gone. There was a gasp beside him. Arthur had his eyes open, was looking right at him, clearly saw his eyes bright gold. Merlin didn't know how else he looked, but he knew it was very clear he was doing magic. The world twisted and spun around him, and Arthur pushed himself up onto his elbows. At last, the connection was broken, and Merlin was free. The sound returned to the world, a different sort of chaos than before. Their attackers were gone, Merlin didn't know where. Arthur opened his mouth to speak, and with that, Merlin fell.