Merlin scrubbed at his face, trying to control the tears, and keened when Arthur choked on the words to scold him for being a mess. He pressed his hands helplessly to the gushing blood around the blade transfixing Arthur and wished desperately he could fix it, that there was any way he could fix it, that he could take the wound himself, anything to. . .

Emrys, it is time, a feathery voice murmured, and Merlin startled, eyes shimmering with power but hands refusing to leave Arthur's body, we will take him, said the last priestesses of Avalon, and Merlin crumpled, clinging weakly to Arthur, now half-unconsious, as they pulled him away, until it is time.