Chapter 18

Gwen was so glad that Mordred at least made it back to the keep, and to the ground, before he passed out. He kept his word. He did not fall off her dragon.

He did, however, make it four steps toward his home before he collapsed. Luckily, his iron guards were more than strong enough to heft him to his feet and drag him inside. She followed close behind, mind reeling through different options, interspersed with sheer and total terror. The kind of cold, seeping fear that transcended panic.

Tim was standing by the door and took one look at them before running off into the keep. For what, she had no clue. She had other things to focus on. They brought Mordred to his room, where servants were already prepping the bed to deal with the amount of blood that was going to be coming from him.

Gwen stood at the foot of his bed and watched as the servants stripped off Mordred's armor, then his shirt, peeling the muslin fabric out of the wound. At least he was already unconscious, he couldn't feel it. It didn't stop Gwen's stomach from churning in sympathy with how badly it must have hurt.

They started to press thick pads of cheesecloth to the wounds, rolling him on his side to treat where the sword both entered and exited his body.

He was sweating, his forehead creased in agony, even in his unconscious state.

Mordred was dying. Mordred was dying, and she had no clue what to do.

Desperately, she wished Doc was there.

Or Galahad, before he went and helped cause this mess.

Or fuck, even Grinn.

Someone. Anyone who would know how to fix this. Or, at least, shit, she could try.

"Out of my way!"

Maewenn shoved herself into the room, checking the guards aside with her shoulders as she came in like a hurricane, barking orders at the servants and waving her hand about. In the other, she was carrying a basket of supplies. "You—we have to stitch those wounds shut before we dress them—you're not stringing up a roast, we're trying to save him!"

Tim was standing in the door, shifting his weight from one side to the other. He must have gone to fetch her the moment they arrived.

"Mae?" Gwen blinked. Then she remembered something from history class—that ships' cooks were often their surgeons. Maybe it was true in this case.

"Best with a needle." Mae didn't waste much time on pleasantries, and immediately went to work. "I don't suppose you can heal him, can you? With your magic?"

"I—I don't know. I can try." It was worth a shot. "Zoe is the…is the healer, with her being the elemental of life, and all."

"Oh, is that what she does?" Mae let out a distracted huh as she began stitching Mordred's back up. Gwen had to keep from looking. "I never could quite figure it out. Never cared enough to ask either, I suppose. But that woman is an arse, if you ask me."

"Yeah. I'm coming around to that way of thinking." Gwen knelt beside the bed, facing Mordred, and stroked some hair out of his face. She had to try. Placing her hand on his bare chest, she felt his heart racing. It was struggling to keep his blood pressure up—she remembered that from one of her mom's favorite medical drama shows.

She dug deep. As deep as she could. Shutting her eyes, she took a breath, held it, and slowly let it out. Please, Ancients. Save him. Help me save him. Give me the strength to heal him—to save his life. I need him. I can't do this without him.

I want to save Avalon from all the death that's coming. I'll stop the monster who is nipping at its heels. I'll find a way.

But I need the monster.

I need him.

Please.

She felt something.

A presence.

Hope filled her heart.

And then the world fell out from beneath her.

Screaming, she fell into darkness.

When Gwen finally stopped falling, she…honestly didn't know what was happening or where she was. Or, when, exactly, she had stopped falling.

She was somewhere pitch black. Nothing was around her, no speck of light. It smelled vaguely like a cave, but not moist—it smelled like dust and rock and dirt. She had been falling, screaming her head off, and then she…just wasn't.

She was lying, face down, on something smooth and hard and cold. She assumed it was a stone floor. So, she was somewhere. The question was where. And why.

"Note to self," she muttered. "Don't pray to the Ancients. They're dicks."

Man, she hoped they took that as a jab, and not a real insult. Or else she'd probably wind up going back to falling, and that was way worse. Pushing herself up to her knees, she was distinctly glad to find that she had knees. And limbs. And fingers.

Lifting up her hand, she set it ablaze like a makeshift torch.

"Are you fucking kidding me?"

It was Arthur's tomb. She was on the floor next to the dais that held the sarcophagus of the dead king. Sighing, she rubbed her other hand down her face. She didn't really want to set her shirt on fire, she had just made it. The Ancients had brought her here. Why?

Or, maybe she brought herself here. She had been trying to use her magic. Maybe she misfired. But…why? Why the tomb? Why now?

Then it hit her. It didn't matter. She was hours away from the keep—hours that Mordred didn't have. By the time she flew there, it'd be the early morning, and he'd be dead. She wouldn't even be there when it happened. Tears stung her eyes. She didn't fight them. Sitting on the edge of the steps that led to the dais, she leaned back against the marble sarcophagus, and let herself cry.

Mordred was dying. And she had failed. She sat there and wept until she didn't have tears anymore. Until she was just too tired to cry. It had been a long, long day. Now, it had gotten worse. Why?

Because now she was alone.

Staring at the far wall, surrounded by the tombs, she choked up at the idea of bringing Mordred's body—or whatever would remain of him—to rest down here. How was she supposed to go on without him?

The question of whether or not she could kill him was pretty clear to her now. And it was a resounding no. It didn't feel real. In the absence of tears came numbness, and that was somehow worse. "What do I do now?"

"Risky thing, praying to them."

Gwen shot up to her feet so quickly she almost tripped, screaming as someone appeared right next to her out of thin air.

"Let's have some real light in here." The stranger snapped his fingers. The torches around the room that she hadn't seen in the shadows ignited into flame. She extinguished her hand as she studied the man, trying to figure out who he was. Or, what was happening.

He was old. Long, gray hair that maybe had once been curly, but was now just frizzy, was pulled back in a ponytail at the back of his neck. He was balding at the temples. He was dressed in a well-worn dark gray robe.

He pushed himself up to his feet with a pained grunt, the years clearly weighing on him. He was taller than her, which wasn't too hard, but definitely lacked the stature of Mordred or Galahad. He brushed off his robe.

At least he didn't seem dangerous.

An elemental, maybe?

But there was something about him. Something about the air around him. "I'm…gonna ask a really stupid question." She tapped her fingers on her leg. "Are you—" Every time she'd asked this question, she was wrong. "Are you Merlin?"

He chuckled, leaning his hip against the tomb of Arthur like it was nothing more spectacular than his dining room table. "You were bound to be right eventually."

Merlin.

The Merlin.

Maybe there was hope, after all.