By Evelyn Johnson
Arthur, King of the Britons, lay dying in Merlin’s arms.
The boat creaked around them, its gentle movements a stark contrast to the hellish Camlann battlefield. Arthur’s torso bled profusely, staining his tunic through the hasty bandages Merlin had applied. Mordred’s blade pierced too deep. Even with all his power, Merlin could only slow Arthur’s demise.
The wizard looked up at the fast-approaching Isle of Avalon. With a wound so grave, the only place where King Arthur’s life could be preserved was on those magic-laden shores.
Arthur sucked in a pained breath. “Merlin…”
“We’re almost there, my king.” Merlin looked into Arthur’s half-closed eyes and did his best to smile. “Just a bit longer.”
The agony written on Arthur’s face brought an ache to the wizard’s heart. When he first met the boy, Merlin treated him as a student, dispensing counsel and advice so Arthur could fulfill his royal destiny. But now?
For all they’d done together, Arthur could have been his son.
The boat scraped against the bottom of the channel. Merlin hefted Arthur in his arms, grunting as his aged muscles strained under the king’s weight. He stepped carefully into the shallows, water tugging on the hem of his robes as he marched toward Avalon’s peaceful sands.
Clouds bundled overhead, plunging the flourishing glade before them into a deep, rich dusk. Flowers stretched skyward. Birds sent lilting tunes through the trees, their feathers painting bright colors in the foliage. Magic thrummed in the air, resonating with the power inside Merlin.
The King of Briton coughed.
Merlin knelt in the soft grass and extended a hand into the magic-ridden air, feeling it course over his fingers and slide across his palm. He closed his fist and opened it.
It wasn’t enough.
“Is it possible?” Arthur asked weakly. “Can I be healed?”
“I had hoped so, but…” Merlin swallowed the lump in his throat. “Not even the magic of Avalon can undo the damage of Mordred’s blade. It is, however, enough to preserve you.”
Arthur’s bloodied brow knotted.
Images floated before Merlin’s eyes. He tilted his head, trying to interpret them.
“I see a day far in the future,” he said slowly, “when there is medicine like none we have ever known—strong enough to seal this wound and save your life. Wizards will be few, but those who remain will be able to help you where I cannot.” A light smile touched his face. “They can heal you.”
“And you can… preserve me?”
“With the magic of Avalon, I can transform you into living stone. You will not bleed, breathe, or die. You will simply exist until the day when your life can truly be restored. Someday, a wizard will find you here. Someday you will return.”
Silence settled over the glade.
Arthur’s eyes fluttered closed.
Merlin shook Arthur’s shoulder. “Not yet. Don’t die.” Desperation crept into his voice. “Let me save you.”
The king moaned. “I wish… to stand…”
Merlin hooked his arm under Arthur’s shoulder and pulled him up. Arthur sagged against him.
The sooner he became stone, the better.
“Facti sunt lapis,” Merlin muttered, stretching out his hand. Magic thickened in the air around him, drawn by the words of the spell. “Tueri vitam, prohibere sanguinem, donec libertatem.”
The enchantment gathered around Arthur. Already, the king’s battle-soiled boots faded into a solid gray.
“If this is the last time I shall see you, Merlin”—Arthur shuddered as the stone rose past his knees—“I want to thank you.”
Merlin fought the tightness in his chest. He wanted to say they would see each other again, that this wasn’t goodbye, but the lie died on his tongue. He gently squeezed Arthur’s shoulder, keeping one hand on the spell. “For what?”
The spell edged past Arthur’s belt, slowly sealing his gaping wound.
“For everything.”
Merlin swallowed and stepped back, hand still extended, allowing the king to stand supported by his stone legs. The spell moved higher, transforming his chest and arms to rock. Arthur straightened his posture as his shoulders solidified.
He lifted his head as the enchantment crept up his neck. His eyes, dim with pain, cleared as they met Merlin’s teary gaze. A sad smile twitched at Arthur’s lips.
Then he was stone.
Merlin choked, gripping Arthur’s hardened shoulder. Memories coursed through his mind: Arthur’s triumph at the Stone, his coronation, their many adventures in Camelot, and the hollow scream ripped from his throat at Camlann. Merlin’s king, friend, and son stood, locked out of time.
A storm swirled deep within him—knowledge, sadness, and hope.
“Hail,” Merlin whispered, “to Britain’s once and future king.”
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