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Arthur ducks, avoiding the flailing sword of another warrior, as determined to rob the Prince of his life as Arthur is to keep it. But where his blows are unsteady and imprecise, Arthur’s are a polished, deadly nightmare.
The nameless man meets his end on the broad side of Arthur’s sword; dousing the warrior Prince’s shoes in scarlet tribute.
No time is wasted on recovery or glory; this is no duel. Wherever a man falls, another takes his place. Arthur runs the next attacker through with little preamble. This enraged body falls against him, pushing down on his blade to the hilt. Arthur looks down in shock as the man laughs around a mouthful of blood.
Arthur pushes him to one side, dragging his sword free in disgust.
#
“Are you saying they can’t be killed?”
Uther was, it seemed, going to be reluctant as ever to believe the perfectly reasonable explanation presented to him.
“No,” Gaius said carefully. “They die. They just don’t stay dead.”
Determined to be part of the evidence, their prisoner took a leap toward them, bellowing wordless anger. The chains around his wrists kept him tethered to the back of the cell. Gaius took a step back; Arthur took a step forward in case intervention was required. Merlin flinched and looked unhappy.
“We know he should be dead,” Gaius continued. “He has several large sword-shaped holes in him.”
“I put two of them there myself,” Arthur said, in a familiar appeal for approval.
“So it is magic,” Uther said, and even though it wasn’t a question, he still managed to sound a little surprised.
“So it would seem,” Gaius said, maintaining a low, calming tone.
“Do we know from where they came?” Uther asked.
“Indeed, Sire,” Arthur answered. “They bear the colours of the kingdom of Rhydian. It would not be the first time King Meddyg has meddled with magic to try and undermine Camelot. Although,” he considered, scowling down at the angry, spitting soldier. “Never so shamelessly.”
“Indeed,” Uther said. “If he is acting with such little care he must be getting desperate. He is an old man, and weak, yet still he insists on trying to claim Camelot for himself. If he is desperate, he will be sloppy.” Arthur felt Merlin’s eyes slide toward him as his own closed in resignation. “Arthur, the throne room in half an hour; we must plan our attack.”
Arthur didn’t even bother to argue. For all that he could be accused of thinking with the tip of his sword, he was a positive peacemaker compared to his father and his constant knee-jerk reaction of barrelling headlong into war. Once his father had swept out, followed by the diminishing sound of Gaius’ objections, Arthur left the cell and turned to Merlin.
“I’m afraid I might have to take you with me,” he said, once the door was locked behind them. At Merlin’s confused look, he smiled and made to clarify. “Meddyg’s kingdom is a good two days from here. I would appreciate your assistance. And your company,” he added.
“Well, you’re not seriously going!” Merlin said. “You can’t! If they can’t be killed, what good is it to ride into the middle of them?”
“I imagine it would be easier to argue with the castle than with my father,” Arthur said.
“Arthur, you’ll die,” Merlin spelled out. “All of your men will die. And then, if I manage to get back to Camelot before these things catch up with me, I’ll have to tell the king and then I’ll die, too. There must be another way.”
Arthur cracked a weary smile and placed a solid hand on Merlin’s shoulder. Merlin tilted his head, leaning his temple heavily against Arthur’s arm. This was still new, this careless contact. It was intimate and inappropriate and, as much as it made Arthur nervous, he liked the way their lines were blurring.
“There’s always another way, Merlin,” Arthur said. “And if you and Gaius stopped wasting time and maybe consulted one or two of those books of his, you’d stand a chance of finding it.” He raised his eyebrows, looking pointedly at Merlin and waiting for the moment when his jaw would lock in determination and he would set to the task.
Merlin’s eyes set and he excused himself, tripping over his own feet as he rushed to consult the numerous tomes for something helpful. Arthur straightened his clothes and readied himself to confront his father.
#
Bodies slam into Arthur; some in attack, others rebounding from blows or collapsing in defeat. Every body felled is a step closer to the tower and the balcony from which King Meddyg watches the battle. He looks pathetic from here; a crooked, unimpressive creature, overwhelmed by the expanse of dark grey stone.
And yet, in his frail hands he holds the destinies of countless men. Arthur struggles toward him, progressing across the battlefield a body at a time, robbed of precious energy with every block and blow. But he persists, he will prevail, he will make it through to the sorcerer and he will do that which he must.
Another opponent hits the ground and Arthur is eighty yards or so from the castle doors. He glances up to the balcony and his eyes widen. The King is no longer up there alone.
#
Arthur considered Merlin and Gaius, his chin resting against steepled fingertips. His father was a dead end, of course, so cooler heads convened.
“So, you don’t know the precise nature of the magic involved,” he surmised. “But you believe you know how to stop it.”
“Indeed,” Gaius confirmed anxiously. “The spell seems to restart constantly, starting again each time the men die, like he’s taking more…life from outside of time. So it’s continuous. Either Meddyg is casting the spell himself, or he has a sorcerer. Either way, you must find out who is casting that spell and either have them remove it, or…”
“Kill them, and it will stop,” Arthur said, leaning back. “So be it,” he said. “We will march to war. My father will be pleased, at least. You’ll come with me,” Arthur almost-asked Merlin, reaching out to smack Merlin’s hand where he was chewing on a barely existent nail.
“You’d never get there without me,” Merlin said. He spared a glance at Gaius, who was looking particularly concerned.
“We leave first thing,” Arthur told them both, pushing himself up to standing and nodding respectfully at both of them. “I’ll go and break the news.”
#
Arthur struggles out of the throng, leaving behind the men on either side, feeling his heels grind into bodies as they die, as they cool, as they glow and come back to life.
What possible reason could there be for Merlin to be in the tower, to stand opposite his enemy? How has he come to this; facing off against a sorcerer, high out of Arthur’s reach, screaming words that Arthur is too far away to hear?
Arthur runs, dodging attacks and ignoring cries as he struggles toward the tower, desperate to reach his friend. Arthur focuses so hard on the above, he fails to note the hand of a dead man before it finds his ankle and sees him come crashing to the ground.
And that’s when it happens. There’s a moment of something deeper than silence, a moment when all sound is sucked from the world.
Then blinding light fills the world, and the tower explodes.
#
Most of the staff came out to see them off. The king watched them leave from a balcony, too far up for Arthur to see if his impending death bothered his father one bit. Gwen shared awkward goodbyes with both himself and Merlin. Arthur still looked on her with immense fondness, but he’d forgiven himself for believing himself in love, even if only for a while.
Usually, Morgana would disguise her own fears behind playful teasing, before passing him a favour or pressing her hand to his in a gesture of support and communication of the love that a lifetime of living as brother and sister had inevitably bred.
This morning, however, she had no time for him at all. She all but ran to Merlin’s side, laying a restraining hand on his horse’s neck. Merlin leaned down to hear her and Arthur looked on curiously as they spoke in hushed, concerned tones. Merlin’s brow tightened, first in confusion, then concern, before a familiar placating expression took its place. Arthur stiffened as Merlin reached out and took Morgana’s hand, squeezing it in a clearly comforting gesture. Despite the words he shared with her, her expression didn’t calm at all.
“You won’t!” She said, pulling away from Merlin’s hand, despite how he resisted. “And it will be us who must endure it!”
With that, she ran, hurrying from the square and toward the shelter of the castle, pursued by Merlin’s call of, “My Lady!” With a last, conflicted gaze toward them, Guinevere went after her. Merlin made to dismount but was stopped by Arthur’s own interruption.
“Merlin,” he called out, confused but far from aggressive. “We do not have time.”
It was Arthur’s turn, then, to be conflicted, as Merlin looked at him like a scolded puppy. But Merlin obeyed almost immediately, nudging his horse into step.
Arthur shot him a questioning look but all he received in response were averted eyes. He signalled his knights and, as a unit, they departed.
Arthur hated secrets.
#
They enter the throne room to rapturous applause; all noblemen, courtiers and dignitaries have gathered to congratulate the victorious knights on their glorious success. Arthur doesn’t acknowledge their applause.
His heartbeat pounds like a caged bird thudding against his chest; yet to calm enough to let him sleep or form a clear thought. It roars in his ears like a waterfall.
His father is waiting at the end of the impossibly long room; standing before his throne with open arms and a wide, satisfied smile. Pride is etched into his every feature and he beams, delighted with the tales of death and destruction that Arthur has brought to lay at his feet.
“Arthur,” he says, before his son is halfway to him. “Welcome home, my son. I knew you had triumphed when our visitor in the dungeon died. All that remained was to see you restored to Camelot and now my joy is complete. Hail, the victorious knights of Camelot!” He raises his arms, encouraging the approving crowd.
“Hail!” they cry. “Hail! Hail!”
And then he is standing at his father’s feet. Morgana is nearby, her gown vivid in the corner of her eye. He doesn’t turn to look at her.
“Thank you, Father,” he says, as it seems he must say something. “We are relieved to be returned.” There is, then, genuine compassion in his father’s gaze.
“But of course, you’re exhausted,” Uther says. Arthur dreams of being dismissed but his hopes are quickly stripped away. “Before I let you to your rest, you must tell me; how did you come to effect this success? Are the King and his sorcerer dead?”
“In faith, Sire, I cannot tell you exactly. We had help. Meddyg and the sorcerer were one and the same.” Each word brings new weight to him; he has never been so tired, nor felt so close to falling where he stands. “We were fighting his guard when someone or something caused his tower to explode. His castle, his body, the spell - everything was obliterated. The magic died with him.” Arthur breathes, his chest heavy. “And his soldiers returned to death.” He sways and wonders vaguely if it is strong enough to be seen.
“Perhaps the strain of you killing so many of his soldiers was too much,” Uther says. “What matters is that you were victorious, Camelot is safe once more and here you are, home. There will be a feast! As soon as your men are recovered.”
“Not all returned, Sire.” The words are out of his mouth before he thinks them. “I have lost four men.”
“A great tragedy,” Uther said, his face falling in genuine regret. “They shall be honoured! Their sacrifice will be lauded as the great glory it is to die for such a cause.” Uther returns to him, strong hands clasping Arthur’s sunken shoulders. “A great celebration will be held for your four brave knights.”
“Three knights,” Arthur corrects. “And one other.”
“For those three, then,” Uther agrees. Sparing a clap on the back for his son, he turns to address the assembled masses. Arthur’s eyes slide sideways, where Morgana stands, with Guinevere at her side. Morgana seems to be shaking, but it could just be him, as she holds his gaze for an eternity. Her jaw bumps, held in royal composure, but her eyes are growing in glitter.
Guinevere scans the crowd, her head bobbing as she frantically searches the sea of faces for one in particular. When she finally looks to Arthur for an answer, all he can do is shake his head. Gwen throws a hand to her mouth, stifling a cry of dismay that is drowned by Uther’s dismissal of the court. He passes Arthur and murmurs some honest confession of pride or congratulations that Arthur can’t possibly hear. He only knows that Gwen is turning into Morgana’s embrace and they are descending to sit where they stood as the room empties.
Morgana opens her mouth momentarily, waiting for a question or something, anything that can be said, before she gives up, shaking her head and pressing her closed mouth to the top of Gwen’s hair.
Arthur doesn’t pretend he has anything to say. The only sound is Gwen, who makes no effort to control her weeping. She cries openly, sobbing and grasping at Morgana’s dress as they rock gently in a pool of creased silk.
In the periphery of Arthur’s vision, a perceptive old man crumples into a chair, his head finding the cradle of his hands and his voice finding the quiet, plaintive moan of a broken heart.
Arthur turns his eyes to the legs of the throne before him. They are worn and chipped where errant heels have caught them countless times. He is dimly grateful for the waterfall in his ears. If he listens to it, he can barely hear them lament and furiously envy their grief.
#
Everywhere he wanders, Arthur finds ghosts. Each room is a finely decorated box of memories, every wall a sounding board for Merlin’s laughter. Even the courtyard is an arena for the start of a hundred adventures and a thousand more that will never now come to pass.
He pauses for mere moments in his chambers. It is the worst place he could think of being. Every piece of cloth is something Merlin touched. Everything not bolted down is something Merlin has knocked over.
He walks for hours in search of somewhere Merlin has never been and somehow he can’t find it. Merlin is scratched into every brick, so he settles for somewhere that, at least, Merlin never wanted to go. The council chambers are empty; today there are no battles to plan, no men to send to their deaths. Merlin has still walked this floor, but infrequently and reluctantly. He is, perhaps, less likely to haunt Arthur here.
It is only once slumped in his father’s chair, chin resting on his hand as he bites his nails distractedly and stares into nothing, that he starts to realise it hasn’t made a difference. Merlin is still there. Disjointed thoughts meander through his mind and he cannot say if it is their design or his that stops them solidifying into the shape of laughter and the touch of skin on skin. He has no idea how long he sits there, he doesn’t notice how dark the room has grown until the door creaks open like an apology.
“Guinevere,” he says, dropping his hand and pulling himself up a little. Something else should be said, he knows it. “Are you…” what word could possibly suffice? “Are you well?”
“Thank you, Sire, I am…” she pauses, squeezing her hands together. “In truth, I feel as bad as I ever have.”
He nods. No apology could be enough, and the platitudes he could offer stick in his craw. She wrings her hands, moving toward him with feet that drag a little.
“I can’t stop crying,” she confesses. “And I still keep expecting him to just come around the corner and tell me it’s going to be okay…”
She pauses, and Arthur wants to echo her, to tell her what Merlin would. But he isn’t, by nature, a liar. Nothing is okay. They exist in silence until Guinevere fills it.
“Arthur,” she says softly. “I know you’re not really one for tears, being a big tough knight and everything…” she’s trying to jest, lightly, as if there’s still humour in the world. “But I worry.” She rests her hand on the arm of his chair and crouches beside him. “I know you haven’t slept. And you haven’t spoken to anybody about what happened. I know how much he meant to you, you must be hurting so much.”
“You think I deserve to mourn him?” Arthur asks, as much as anything to stop the flow of her words. He regrets it instantly.
It takes her a moment to assimilate the implication, before a shocked hand darts out to grab his wrist, too thickly wrapped with fabric to feel her warmth.
“It wasn’t your fault!” She insists.
“Why was he there?” Arthur asks. “He shouldn’t have been anywhere near the battle. He should have been safely within these walls, with Gaius and Morgana and you, where he belonged. But I took him there.” He feels dimly shamed by her distress; the way her heart seems to ache with sympathy for him. “I cannot grieve for Merlin,” he hears himself say, in a voice devoid of anything. “I killed him.”
Her tears start anew and he turns away, staring into a dark corner.
“Arthur, please,” she begs. “It isn’t true, nobody blames you. He wouldn't.”
She straightens, reaching out to touch his cheek, and he almost winces at the warmth he doesn’t deserve.
“Merlin’s gone, Arthur,” she says. “Please don’t make me lose you as well.” She rests her forehead against his, a gentle, reassuring pressure, and he closes his eyes.
His throat is tight and full, a ball of grief threatening to defeat him. She’s kind, and true, and if he breaks down in her arms nobody else need ever know. Arthur swallows, teetering on the edge of falling apart, when her lips meet the corner of his mouth.
Arthur throws himself out of the seat, easily wresting his arm from her hand, coarse fibres scratching at the soft skin of his wrist. He turns his face away so quickly it sends white-hot darts of pain through the back of his skull.
He briefly catches sight of Gwen’s alarmed expression as he strides to the window to stare out into nothing. He doesn’t need to see her to know that her mouth is opening and closing for want of something to say; an excuse, a rebuke, an apology. The silence stretches and becomes ever harder to fill. With ruthless intent, he doesn’t assist. His mind screams at her to leave until she moves, the chair whining against the stone floor as she uses it to push herself to her feet.
“Arthur, I’m…”
“Please leave me alone,” he says.
She’s delicate as she leaves, as quiet as she can be and if Arthur weren’t already a constant, roiling body of guilt, he’d be ashamed to have caused her further pain.
After the door has clicked shut behind her, Arthur lifts a hand and violently wipes away any trace of her kiss. He lifts the other hand to his lips, pressing so hard the flesh of his fingertips turns white.
#
They have a feast for his knights and he makes grand speeches in their honour. But down in the town a fonder celebration is planned, for the young man so many knew and loved.
Morgana tries fruitlessly to persuade him to attend, finally leaving with Gwen when he proves immovable.
Arthur finds himself in the physician’s rooms. The outer chamber is blissfully empty when he arrives, relieving him of the pressure of having to talk to Gaius. Arthur is left alone to explore Merlin’s room, walking with a confidence he doesn’t feel, channelling 20 years of trained bravado into ten steps of unobserved stroll to Merlin’s door.
Everything within is exactly as it was; a mess, first and foremost. Piles of junk threaten to topple if Arthur stares at them too hard and the windows are inexplicably dirty. Arthur carefully avoids the unmade bed, unwilling to risk the smell of it for reasons that have nothing to do with cleanliness.
Arthur tuts disapprovingly at the litter on the floor. Twigs, leaves, scraps of paper and ash catch on his toes and crunch underfoot as he surveys the damage. He would have had to have words about the state of Merlin’s quarters. If Merlin were alive to hear them.
A foot of one floorboard is considerably less mucky than the rest, except at one end, where it is punctuated by a highly unsubtle line of gathered dirt. Arthur wants to assume that whatever Merlin has stashed in this incredibly obvious hiding-place cannot possibly be that important if he would make such a pathetic attempt at disguise.
He pries up the board without a lot of difficulty. Some small bags of foul smelling, unidentifiable nonsense sit casually upon a nondescript, heavy-looking book. He shuffles though a dozen possibilities and settles on the likely possibility that this is Merlin’s diary. Merlin is… was just the type to keep a diary, writing down his every thought and feeling.
But these can’t be Merlin’s words. They aren’t even the words of one person, he realises, as a brief shuffle through the pages reveals at least half a dozen distinct sets of handwriting. The words are elegant and strange; he can’t read half of them, can’t pronounce most of the rest and understands only a handful of sentences.
At least on a few pages he recognises the shapes of the letters, he can attempt to follow the words and he wraps his lips around them, forming the sounds they might create. His lips tingle as the words kiss his tongue and he knows what they are without knowing what they do.
It’s fascinating how he isn’t really angry. He is barely even surprised. There is magic in Merlin’s life. He reads magic; perhaps he practises it. Maybe he has saved Arthur’s life a hundred times. The thought that he could have used it to threaten Arthur is dismissed as soon as it is born.
Arthur turns to the end of the book. The last few pages are blank and those before are filled with writing that is fresh; the pages as yet unblemished by age and dotted with fewer stains, less distress, and a familiar hand. They are easier to read, though clearly written in a giddy sort of haste. Pronunciation and explanations annotate the passages. It makes some sort of perverted sense. There is magic about Merlin. He is magic.
He was magic. He is dead.
Arthur knows he should be furious, but he is only angry that the magic didn’t protect Merlin. Perhaps, then, the magic truly is evil.
Arthur closes the book, presses his hands down hard upon the cover and feels the dents and patterns in the surface press grooves into the weathered surface of his skin.
“Sire?”
He is pulled out of his reverie, moments or hours after it began, and looks up into pupils that are distantly concerned, but mostly tired.
“Gaius,” he acknowledges, spreading his hands wide over his treasure and pulling it subtly toward himself. “Forgive the intrusion.”
Gaius shakes his head vehemently, so sharply that Arthur spares a moment to fear for his old bent neck.
“There is no trespass, Sire,” he insists. “I cannot…” there is no more, simply a sigh before he shuffles across the room. Arthur cannot help but be surprised. Gaius doesn’t shuffle; he is not an old man, weighed down and beset by illness or infirmity. He is the doctor; the physician who heals them all and keeps them filled with wisdom. He is the friend with whom the young prince plays, hiding in his rooms and getting under his feet, taunting him to make him huff and see his eyebrow lift in the face of his fondness for the royal nuisance. Gaius is the one who pokes a broom under the table to flush out the giggling child and chase him half-heartedly with sparkling, playful eyes. When did he get so old?
“I think it will be some time before I pack these things away,” Gaius says tiredly. “There is so much else to do. But if there is anything you would like to take…”
Arthur drags the book closer, though it is already half-hidden beneath his jacket and pressing too hard into the flesh of his stomach.
“I don’t think there is much here I want,” he says, making no mention of the wicked tome. “But thank you.”
“He’s still here,” Gaius says, with such sudden confidence it makes Arthur’s back straighten. He doesn’t reply, so Gaius goes on. “Merlin chose to dedicate himself to you. It was his decision, his desire to protect you. Because he loved you,” At that, Arthur does turn his head, just a little, in the direction of what are, at least, sweet words. “If his spirit remains in this world in any way, it will always be at your side.”
“So I shall never have any privacy,” Arthur says, without malice. Gaius sighs with a small smile.
“I am sure he knows when to turn his head,” he assures the prince. Feet shuffle slowly over the gritty floor and Arthur doesn’t flinch when Gaius’ hand presses down to smooth his once-unruly hair, nor when he leans down and presses a slow, firm kiss to the top of Arthur’s head.
He leaves, almost silently, but Arthur doesn’t move for hours.
#
Arthur watched Merlin poke nervously at the fire until most of the knights had gone to sleep or were far enough away not to overhear.
“So,” he said slowly, causing Merlin to hesitate mid-prod. There were all sorts of subtle ways to try and extract the information he wanted from Merlin. Arthur was not subtle. “Morgana.”
He sat quietly and let Merlin go through various states of indecision.
“She had a nightmare,” Merlin said at last, pushing a small pile of ash from side to side.
“Oh no,” Arthur said sarcastically. “Nothing more boring than someone else’s dreams.” Merlin gave him what only just failed to be a withering look.
“She dreamt that this would go badly,” Merlin explained. “That we wouldn't all return.”
“Well, that’s very possible,” Arthur said. “Can’t say I love our odds myself. Anyone in particular for the chop?” Merlin didn’t meet his gaze. Instead, he pouted sadly at the flames, the flickering light catching the lines of his cheekbones. Arthur pretended not to notice. “Was it me?” he asked. Merlin wrinkled his nose non-committally and Arthur’s brow tightened. “Was it you?”
“She wasn’t sure,” Merlin said, sitting up straight and tossing his stick down casually. “But it’s not like it matters, it was just a dream. It’s not going to come true just because she said it out loud.” Arthur stared at him with his mouth open. “I’m not even going into battle,” Merlin said lightly, patting his own knees and pushing himself to stand.
“No, you aren’t,” Arthur confirmed, scrambling up to meet Merlin on his feet. “You’ll be nowhere near the battlefield. You'll stay at the camp. And if anyone comes by, you’ll hide.”
Merlin looked surprised, and Arthur considered that he was, perhaps, coming on a little strong. But Merlin had become vital to him, particularly in recent months, and with every flirtatious comment, every unnecessary touch, every lingering look, it was getting harder to pretend otherwise.
“It was just a dream, Arthur,” Merlin admonished carefully, his voice tinged with confusion. A smile crept onto his face, one of those knowing grins that was easily as infuriating as it was charming. “Are you worried about me?”
Arthur puffed for a moment.
“I would rather not give encouragement to Morgana’s delusions,” he said. “And the worst thing you can take into battle is a defeatist attitude.”
“Right,” Merlin said, tilting his head back to look at Arthur sceptically. “Well, you don’t need to tell me twice. I’m no warrior.”
“But you also never do what I tell you to do,” Arthur said. Merlin shrugged, unable to argue. “I won’t see you on the battlefield,” Arthur pressed. “You swear.”
“You won’t see me!” Merlin said. “I swear on your honour.”
Arthur screwed up one cheek while Merlin lifted the flap to his tent.
“I don’t think you can swear on someone else’s honour,” he said. Merlin shrugged one shoulder.
“Take it or leave it,” he said. Arthur took it.
#
Under the swell of the full moon, Arthur rides to the middle of nowhere; a place open beneath the sky where he knows magic has been used for this very purpose. Twice he has defied his father’s will to be here. Once directly and now by refusing every law of the land. He knows what occurs here; how it contradicts everything his father holds dear, and how he hopes it can be reproduced.
He recalls dozens of candles, flickering alive on every surface, and adds the few he brought himself. The equipment is next, as per the instructions carefully laid out for him. Finally, he presents the book and opens it to the page he has studied time and time again, so much so that the instruction, the words are all but ingrained into the very depths of his mind.
His hesitation is perfunctory, for all that he knows he should not and cannot do this, he also knows just as well that he will. He peels his cuff back and unwraps red fabric from around his wrist to place it carefully into the bowl of innocuous looking items that combine to make something terrible.
He whispers the words, then he says them aloud.
He changes his pronunciation, he says them slower.
He takes the mixture apart and puts it back together.
He shouts the words over and again.
He grips the edge of the altar and screams until he vomits.
“Just talk to me!” he croaks with the last of his voice, turning his face to the sky. “Whoever you are! Gods, demons, fairies! Please!” he cries, as loudly as his strained throat will allow. “Just give me five blessed minutes, please! You can have anything, I’ll give you anything.” His shoulders sag and his head falls forward, his voice cracking. “Just give him back to me.”
The wind breathes through the courtyard, quashing half a dozen flames and sending others dancing, but it doesn’t slow. It doesn’t signal any approaching magic. It doesn’t whisper words of love or promises of comfort. It is just the indifferent wind.
Arthur straightens and retrieves his sword from his pile of belongings. Stone-faced, he brings the blade down upon the collection of useless items that had been his last hope. He slices at candles and sends them to die on the dirty, wet floor. The bowl smashes beneath a heavy blow, sacrificing its magical brew to the stones. The sword descends over, and over, and over, until he hasn’t the strength to lift it again.
When all that remains is shards and scraps and gouges in the stone, he stops. He packs up his belongings, sheaths his blunted sword, and bends to retrieve the fabric from the debris, holding it in a tight, shaking fist as he leaves.
In the empty chamber, those candles spared his fury are, as one, pinched out.
#
Gaius dies.
He diminishes every day, as if everything takes longer and is more tiresome. Day by day he grows smaller, quieter, less willing to share his wisdom with the world. He doesn’t speak much to anyone, least of all Uther; he is just a silent figure in the court, his features creased and tired. Then one day he doesn’t come to court at all. Arthur finds Guinevere crying into his cold hand. She turns into Arthur’s touch and he holds her until she is done.
Morgana is next to be lost. Something has been holding her together, although for a year it has been medicine and Gwen’s patience maintaining a fragile balance. With neither the quiet support of Merlin nor the dulling effects of Gaius’ potions, the madness of her nights consumes her. She loses more of herself to fear, then to power as magic, quiet as a cancer, gestates within her. She loses her mind and it is, in a way, a mercy when she leaves. Had she stayed, there would have been bloodshed. And that is the last they hear of her for years.
Uther grows ill; broken-hearted by the loss of his ward and tortured by his loosening grip on his world. His friend is gone. His ward is lost to the magic that never gives him peace. And his son… his son is so distant from him now. Arthur does his duty but can’t manufacture joy, even to satisfy his father’s desires. Uther’s anger and paranoia eat him from within; leeching his energy and wearing him out. He will not trust any physician but Gaius and his stresses, his eccentricities leave him open to infections, palpitations, disorders of the blood and spleen, to curable illnesses allowed to rot.
Arthur knows that Uther can’t rule much longer. And Arthur will need to ascend to his destiny. Which also means that he will need to marry.
He has no desire to court fine ladies or make a political match. He needs someone he can trust, and who won’t expect too much from him. So he asks Gwen to marry him.
He doesn’t claim to be in love with her. And he knows her heart truly belongs to a knight who vanished years ago. But to each other they are all that’s left of better days; the glory of unappreciated youth when life only seemed horribly complicated. So she agrees.
They are married and crowned the same day that Uther dies.
Tradition dictates that Kings and Queens do not share a bedroom, but that the Queen has her own luxurious quarters where her husband will come to her to fulfil his husbandly duties, to take his pleasure and to give seed to heirs.
Their wedding night is the first and last Arthur spends there. One night together and their union is consummated; a true marriage in the eyes of the law, and yet he feels unfaithful to a ghost. It’s awkward and wrong and it wipes away what remains of the last person to touch him. He will not go back to her and if, as is likely, she has not conceived on their one unfortunate meeting, the kingdom will go hungry for an heir.
He knows his rejection injures her, so he adds the guilt to the ever-growing pile on his shoulders, and changes nothing.
#
“What about you?”
“What about me?” Arthur asked, pausing in making ready for bed.
“Well,” Merlin said. “I promised you I’d be careful. What reassurance do I get?”
“Unfortunately, I can’t exactly excuse myself,” Arthur said with a wry smile. “Drawbacks of the job.”
“Ah, see,” Merlin said, shaking his head and teasing Arthur. “I have to make all these promises but you can just ride off into eternal glory and leave me alone without a care.”
“You wouldn’t be alone,” Arthur said.
“I’d be out of a job,” Merlin said. Arthur pouted at him.
“I’m sure Morgana would find a use for you,” he said.
“I don’t want to be useful to Morgana,” Merlin said. “I like being useful to you.”
Arthur scrunched his brow.
“Who said you were useful to me?” he asked. Merlin huffed laughter, but his expression was nervous as he looked away. The playful atmosphere dissipated.
“She’s spooked you, hasn’t she?” Arthur said. Merlin didn’t respond, and Arthur moved into his space, gently taking his wrist to hold his attention. “Merlin, at the risk of being hypocritical, it was just a dream.”
“I know,” Merlin said. “I do know. It’s just…” he shook his head. “Please don’t do anything stupid. More stupid than usual,” he added, the sarcasm comforting Arthur a little. Merlin turned his hand over in Arthur’s so they held each other’s wrists like a vow.
“I have no desire to die,” Arthur said. Merlin nodded, his brow still tight. “And I do care, Merlin,” Arthur added, softly. “I care very much.”
Merlin held his gaze, and the world burned down to the two of them again, at the expense of all other interests. Their borders blurred, Merlin tilted his chin up, and when Arthur kissed him he received it gladly.
#
Another year passes and Lancelot returns. Ironically, he has heard that they are married and he wants to wish her well, hoping to have the flame of his ardour finally laid to rest by seeing her happily settled with her Prince. Instead he finds her lonely and sad, and apparently in need of a personal guard.
Arthur doesn’t blame her for taking Lancelot as her lover. All he asks, in plain terms, is that she is not so unsubtle as to make a fool of him. She is so sweet; she blushes at the suggestion and it almost makes Arthur smile. He feels like a father giving his blessing.
She deserves to be happy, and nobody is above the weaknesses of the flesh.
#
Gentle kisses gave way to hunger, a release for repressed fears of mortality. The weeks they’d spent dancing around their new normal dissolved into urgency and relief. Merlin buried his hands in Arthur’s hair and dragged him down to the floor.
#
A young man comes to work in the stables. He’s slim, dark-haired and brown eyed, and much younger than Arthur, but as far as the once and future King remembers, he’s 21 years old and standing on a battlefield.
He’s a good enough worker, but there’s a glint in his eyes, the hint of something that could be rebellion. He readies Arthur’s horse and makes playful, sarcastic remarks about Arthur’s endurance that are just shy of innuendo. His fingers brush Arthur’s unnecessarily when he helps his King on and off his horse, and he stares at Arthur’s mouth when Arthur speaks to him.
Arthur rides more, escaping in the early morning without knights or guards, despite their best attempts to dissuade him.
One morning, Arthur sits on a bench in the stable while the boy pulls off his muddy boots. He stays on his knees, hands moving boldly up Arthur’s thighs, and because Arthur doesn’t stop him, quietly opens Arthur’s trousers and puts his mouth on Arthur’s cock.
Arthur’s eyes close, his head falling back against the stable wall. Nobody’s touched him softly in years and his skin is alight with sudden hunger. He gets hard so fast it almost hurts. The boy sucks him in deep, his throat tight and wet and warm.
Arthur’s head is full of rushing water, his nerves aching to be touched again. He slides his hand into the boy’s hair, hips lifting to thrust into his welcoming mouth. The boy moans around him, surprised and pleased, and Arthur’s desperate and indelicate and so starved he’s already close to the edge. He keeps his eyes screwed shut, teeth sinking into the heel of his own hand and catching on the fabric bunched around his wrist. The young man chokes a little when Arthur holds him in place and comes down his throat with a broken, muffled moan.
The boy gasps for breath when Arthur releases him, then rests his forehead on Arthur’s thigh and shakes as he strokes himself frantically. Arthur opens his eyes after a moment, to stare at a sliver of blue sky through a hole in the stable roof and listen as the young man comes with ragged breaths.
Arthur cards his fingers through the young man’s hair, but he doesn’t look down.
#
Merlin filled Arthur’s senses. With his face buried in the crook of Merlin’s neck, it was impossible to smell, to taste, to know anything but the exquisite new-old scent that surrounded him. Arthur didn’t know that he knew what Merlin smelled like, or how familiar the subtle perfume had become.
The word perfume feminised him altogether too much, for all of Arthur’s teasing. Merlin smelled like old, worn leather and the grease he used to keep it supple. The scarf about his neck that was currently getting in Arthur’s way smelled of the physician’s rooms and the hay of the stables. But there was a spot, just beneath his ear, just shy of where messy curls obscured his skin, that smelled of sweat and effort; unclean skin and unclean thoughts.
Arthur swallowed it; the wetness of his lips kicking up the scent until he could taste it. Arthur was hungry, his body heavy over Merlin’s, but the hand in his hair and the other on his shoulders weren’t pushing him away. Merlin’s breath was a series of gasps, so close to Arthur’s ear, fragments of agreement and half-born pleas.
Arthur realised he had been teasing the knot of Merlin’s scarf for some time, distractedly trying to remove it. Merlin’s hands found Arthur’s backside and squeezed, pulling Arthur up into the cradle of Merlin’s hips and forcing him to drag his face free. Arthur gave up on the scarf, instead dedicating himself to Merlin’s mouth and other, less complicated garments.
“Is there a trick to getting that scarf off?” he asked, his lips brushing Merlin’s with every word. Merlin’s eyes were glassy and distracted as he licked his lips and tried to focus.
“Maybe if you’re not used to dressing yourself,” Merlin said. Arthur grinned and reached for the hem of Merlin’s tunic. Merlin hurried to help him, pulling it off and over his head. Arthur ran his hands over Merlin’s pale skin, marvelling at how much darker his own seemed; how weathered and dry his hands; hardened and callused with abuse. He had never thought of his hands as particularly large, either, until pressed to a body they could so easily surround. He brought his head down to Merlin’s chest, pressing open-mouthed kisses to his sternum.
“Arthur,” Merlin whispered, repeating himself for an age before his pleas reached a somewhat occupied mind. His hands found the back of Arthur’s skull, his fingers twisting into Arthur’s hair. For all of Merlin’s usual quiet confidence, he seemed unsure of himself now. “What should I do?”
Arthur looked up through hooded eyes, above lips still occupied with the taste of sweat-kissed skin. He held Merlin’s pleading gaze as a wealth of responses paraded through his mind. He smiled.
“What do you want to do?” Arthur asked, carefully.
“I want…” Merlin whispered. “I mean… will you…” He swallowed, willing Arthur to understand.
“Are you sure?” Arthur asked, half confidence, half hope.
Merlin didn’t hesitate.
“Yes.”
#
A strange smell in the dungeon grows stronger and stronger until it is intolerable. The rotting corpse of a huge, scaled creature is uncovered in a cavern below the castle. It is pushed off its rock into the abyss below. A massive chain rattles for an age as the body drags it down. Finally it jerks with a sickening crunch that marks the moment the pieces of putrid flesh and skeleton break free and fall. Arthur has the cavern sealed.
He’s taking a meal with his wife when she tells him that a stable boy asked her about Merlin. He simply looks at her. She looks lovely - almost radiant, perhaps with the joy of having her lover close. Perhaps she is growing another man’s child.
“He said you called him by that name when you were instructing him in his duties,” Gwen tells him, and if there is disbelief in her manner, he doesn’t see it.
Had he? Was it when the King was instructing him in his duties, or when Arthur was finding excuses to visit him in his quarters in the middle of the night and fuck him with spit for slick and a hand held over his grinning mouth? Arthur doesn’t recall.
“I told him the truth; that he was your old servant, and a good friend to us both.” Arthur looks away. “I still miss him, all the time,” Guinevere continues. “I wondered if you still thought of him.”
Arthur doesn’t answer.
“Arthur,” she says, kindly, as she does all things. “Husband.” Arthur looks up at her. “It’s been years. Merlin wouldn’t want you to live like this. He’d want you to forgive...”
His cup clatters across the floor as he gets up and leaves the room.
The boy is out of the castle by morning, and Arthur never thinks of him again.
#
Arthur was achingly hard, his cock straining against the fabric of his sleeping clothes. He pressed down against Merlin, who arched up into the pressure, whimpering against Arthur’s mouth. Arthur rolled his hips, dragging them against each other to take the edge off his own urgency.
They could easily come like this, he was sure. And it was probably more sensible, given their precarious position, less than 30 yards from the other tents. But Merlin had asked so nicely.
“Turn over,” Arthur whispered. Merlin shuddered at the instruction, looking up at Arthur through glazed eyes.
Merlin nodded, his throat bumping hard. He shivered, and Arthur moved back enough for Merlin to disentangle himself from the knot of their limbs and do as he was told, stretching out his long limbs as he turned halfway onto his front.
Arthur followed him, hooking his thumb underneath Merlin’s waistband and pushing down to reveal the pale, smooth curve of his hip, his thigh, and off his ankle. Sometime, Arthur thought, without questioning the inherent intention of repetition, when they were behind locked doors and far away from battles, campfires and curious knights, he would explore every inch. He’d come to know the very taste and scent of each handspan. But for now, he pressed kisses to perfect shoulders and into the hollow between them. He pushed Merlin’s leg forward, bending it at the knee and pressing his body into the hollow left there for him.
Any lingering concerns that he had for Merlin’s well-being or suspicion of reluctance were assuaged by the eager way that Merlin pushed back against him. His fingers tightened on Merlin’s hips, but the sensation was divine and he didn’t have the strength to stop his movements completely. He made a slightly undignified sound and croaked out a little strength.
“Merlin, we…” he took a steadying breath. “We need something, or this will hurt you.”
He could almost see, “I don’t care,” forming on Merlin’s lips, before he saw sense. He twisted, his shoulders leaning back against the floor.
“There’s oil in my pack.”
Arthur grinned.
“I knew you were good for something,” he said, reaching up and over Merlin’s chest to rifle through the pack above his head. Merlin laughed, blue eyes sparkling as Arthur turned to him, looking down upon him with his prize clutched in his palm. “I suppose you’re good for a few things,” Arthur said softly.
“As if you could function without me,” Merlin replied. Arthur didn’t have much of an argument, so he kissed Merlin instead. Without any substantial conscious intervention, his hand moved, teasing at the entrance to Merlin’s body without pressing in.
Merlin whimpered into his mouth and Arthur chose to take pity on them both. Merlin rolled forward again when Arthur released him, pressing himself back against Arthur’s chest as Arthur poured the oil into his hand.
“Tell me to stop if it’s too much,” Arthur whispered, smoothing his hand along Merlin’s tense, smooth thigh. Such a sentence was an open invitation for Merlin to mock Arthur’s arrogance, so it was a testament to the situation that he let such an opportunity slide.
Arthur pressed his middle finger against Merlin's body, making a few gentle passes before pushing it inside, watching Merlin’s face for signs of upset as he added a second. But Merlin just breathed, and blushed, and moved his hips in little desperate motions as his cock leaked onto the blanket beneath him.
“Arthur, please, please,” he whispered. Arthur slicked himself, his neglected cock jumping in relief at the contact, and he brought himself to the edge of Merlin’s body. He forced himself to concentrate on not rushing or pushing Merlin too far, too fast, but it wasn’t easy when the pressure surrounding him was so welcome and divine.
He was careful, as delicate as he could be, guiding himself slowly and listening to changes in Merlin’s hitched breaths that might indicate pain he wasn’t willing to admit. All he heard was quiet control, Merlin alternately stiffening and relaxing against him as he breathed.
Then Arthur was inside him; sliding in to the hilt, his hips flush against Merlin’s backside while Merlin shook and pressed his forehead against the floor, his mouth open around silent exclamation. Arthur froze, his face pressed to Merlin’s shoulder, eyes closed and heart pounding.
Merlin reached down, his hand covering Arthur’s at his hip.
“Move. Please,” Merlin said softly, his hips shifting restlessly. Arthur laid a kiss on his shoulder and obeyed his master’s instruction. He kept his eyes on Merlin’s face and began to move; a shallow, slow roll of the hips to acquaint him with the intrusion. Arthur didn’t know what experience Merlin had, and he was happier not knowing. The idea of others seeing Merlin like this disagreed with him.
His hand slid from Merlin’s hip to caress his stomach; fingers tracing the lines where his muscles clenched and released, then spreading wide over his ribs. Arthur’s thumb brushed over the sensitive point of a nipple and Merlin arched back, gasping and burying his head in the crook of Arthur’s neck.
Arthur repeated the action much more deliberately, and Merlin arched and moaned, throwing his hand over his own mouth to stifle the sound. Arthur’s mouth settled on the side of Merlin’s neck, and he rocked his hips as gently as he could, resisting the temptation to thrust too hard, too fast, or too deep. Not that Merlin seemed to mind when he did. Merlin whimpered and his hand darted back, reaching for Arthur’s hip and digging his fingertips into Arthur’s flesh. Arthur obeyed the wordless invitation and thrust harder into the shaking, grateful body beneath him.
Merlin’s hand disappeared from Arthur’s hip after a few minutes, but Arthur batted Merlin’s hand away and replaced it with his own, stroking Merlin’s cock with a slick hand and a confidence he hoped would be appreciated. He wasn’t disappointed; Merlin writhed, caught between the sensation of Arthur inside him and the tightness of Arthur’s hand, and then his every muscle tensed at once, his fingers leaving bruising divots in Arthur’s thigh as he came.
Arthur pressed his forehead hard against Merlin’s back, gritting his teeth against the glorious pressure that was almost too much for him to take, with Merlin’s come on his fingers and his name a broken, stilted chant on Merlin’s lips. And that was all Arthur needed to follow him. Holding Merlin with a hand splayed low on his stomach, Arthur thrust erratically into the still-convulsing heat. His teeth grazed Merlin’s shoulder and he tumbled over the edge; everything flashing inexplicably gold when he lost himself, still buried inside Merlin, still twisted together like a single, heaving, sweating body.
Merlin hissed in surprise when Arthur pulled out, bending into the soothing hand that Arthur rested on his hip.
Then Merlin turned in his arms, his long limbs wrapping around Arthur as if they belonged there and his lips finding Arthur’s in a slow, lazy kiss. He let Merlin rest on him, bringing his own arms up to surround him and smiling against his mouth. Arthur knew all too well that they couldn’t stay like this for very long, but for now, he could forgive the indulgence.
#
He’s not a bad king. He is fair and reasonable; kind, mostly, and courageous. He is a decent king, just as he is a decent man, but he is nothing extraordinary. He is not the exceptional creature of promise. Not a legend.
While the kingdoms are not united and Albion does not exist to be named, he must continue to fight to keep the land that is his own. He marches out to battle with his men, protecting his borders from insurgents, losing men left and right. The sadness, the regret, never lessens. But he does it anyway, that is what a king does. Killing seems to bring him respite and he wishes he had the conscience for that to bring him shame.
His advisors beg him to send his knights without him, but their pleas fall on deaf ears.
Every time he fights, he wonders if it will be his last. He loses two fingers to a giant’s axe - the infection takes the feeling in half his arm. But he survives.
An enemy tries to besiege Camelot and he takes a clay pot of boiling oil to his face. His peripheral vision on one side is ruined, and rope-like scars on his face and neck pull his skin tight when he moves. But he survives.
He runs in first to every battle, hefting his sword with weakened limbs and against overwhelming odds, straight at the biggest and most violent opponent, daring them to meet him blow for blow.
But he survives.
#
Merlin pulled the pauldron over Arthur’s shoulder in the dawn light, securing it into position with a couple of well-practised tugs. That was the last part, save his vambraces, and so anything else was just procrastination, unnecessary polishing. Arthur watched him with a small, indulgent smile pulling at his lip. He didn’t speak, didn’t interfere or interrupt while Merlin picked at him. He let it go, until Merlin finally looked up at him.
A pretty blush crept up over Merlin’s cheeks.
“That took even longer than usual,” Arthur mocked, without substance. “Are you actually getting worse?” Merlin grinned, sniffing laughter and smiling more as Arthur returned it. Arthur’s smile was the first to fade as he became distracted by the lines of Merlin’s face. Perhaps he had never before let himself look too long at the dips and curves, mountains and sharp turns, or the way the light fell against impossibly thick eyelashes. Or perhaps it was more intimate familiarity that left him transfixed by the swell of lips that he had tasted.
“I’ll get better with practice,” Merlin said, feigning nonchalance. “Just see that this isn’t the last time.”
“You know I can’t promise you that,” Arthur said kindly. Merlin nodded, but his smile didn’t return as he brushed imaginary dust off Arthur’s shoulder. “Nobody will die today, if I can avoid it,” Arthur added.
And then Merlin’s smile did return, although it didn’t really make it to his eyes. Arthur glanced down, smiling at the messy knot of Merlin’s scarf. He reached up to pull it straight as Merlin turned away and his fingertips ended up catching Merlin’s jaw in an unintentional caress. The soft, surprised breath Merlin released was evidence enough that it was far from unwelcome. So Arthur pulled him closer, and kissed him softly.
Merlin moved with him, sighing against Arthur’s mouth and allowing some of his tension to leave him. Merlin’s neck was smooth under Arthur’s callused fingertips as they traced Merlin’s throat down to the mangled knot of the necktie.
Given how stubbornly it had refused to yield the previous evening, it was almost miraculous how easily the edges pulled away from each other under Arthur’s less frantic attention. The knot released with a single crooked finger, falling to rest over Arthur’s hand.
Arthur could have stayed there forever, with Merlin’s hand in his hair and Merlin’s mouth on his, and Merlin’s heartbeat racing under his thumb, had it not been for the cries of rally from Sir Leon, calling the troops to ready themselves for the final push.
Merlin pulled away, eyes still half-closed and cheeks flushed. Arthur’s stomach squeezed in a way that had nothing to do with battle nerves.
“I have to go,” Arthur whispered, though he made no attempt to move.
“Arthur…” Merlin said after a moment. Arthur waited for him to continue, but instead Merlin shook his head. He noticed the scarf on Arthur’s hand and smiled.
“I suppose there was a trick to it,” Arthur said softly as Merlin retrieved the fabric. Merlin gave a small sniff of laughter, but he didn’t take the scarf back. Instead, he flattened it and folded it and wrapped it around Arthur’s wrist, securing it with a small knot. Without a word, he reached behind himself and picked up Arthur’s vambrace, sitting it over the favour and tightening the straps in a swift, familiar pattern.
“Thank you,” Arthur said.
“I want that back,” Merlin said casually. Arthur simply gave him a curt nod.
“As you wish,” Arthur said.
“And I…” Merlin said. His mouth opened and closed a couple of times, before his lips pressed together and he turned his face up to meet the prince’s expectant gaze. “I’ll wait for you.”
Arthur smiled.
“I should think so, too,” he said, tilting his chin as if to tease Merlin with the threat, or promise, of another kiss. There were words on his tongue; the best last words one could say to a lover, but they stayed behind his teeth.
“I’ll see you soon,” he said, instead.
#
There are whispers of a druid uprising and he rides to Caerleon to meet them. There is magic to be quashed, although he’s never had the heart for it. Rumours abound. Some say that Morgana is with them, an enchantress now, driven cruel and mad with power. Others say it’s a trap. Strongest of the rumours is that Mordred leads the druids, but Arthur cannot believe he leads anyone. He is a child, all of eight years old, precocious and powerful but hardly a leader of men. Then again, perhaps he is in his 20s, fully-grown and strong enough to raise an army. Perhaps Arthur hasn’t noticed decades drift by.
Guinevere kisses his cheek when he leaves, her eyes filled, as they always are, with that same excruciating sympathy that should surely have turned to hatred by now.
Arthur rides out with his men beside him; still his friends, still loyal. Some of their sons have joined him, too - freshly 18 and full of hope and devotion. They follow him without question and he leads them due west.
They make camp on the second night, and when every man is asleep, Arthur leaves them and walks alone through the darkness until the blackened, broken outline of a castle hoves into view through the mist.
Nobody, it seems, saw fit to live here after the battle that robbed them of their entire male population. Nobody cleared the dead, and their skeletons litter the landscape, long rotted free of flesh. Such good fertiliser might have given life to a riot of flora, yet all that grows is patchy, ugly grass and moss. Perhaps there was too much magic in their flesh for anything good to grow from it.
There are bodies to the left and right of him as he retraces steps he swears he only made yesterday, perhaps, or a week ago. His wounds still weep.
And yet, thick moss grows here on the walls of the long-abandoned tower; weeds creep over boulders that stayed where the blast of final battle and magic backfiring sent them crashing to the earth, a moment or a lifetime ago, in an explosion so powerful it obliterated everything in its range.
The King of Camelot sinks to his knees on rough ground where he remembers being a prince, and a man, and whole.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “I’m sorry that I brought you here. I’m sorry that I failed you.”
He peels back his cuff and unwraps, for occasion incalculable, the red fabric from his wrist. Merlin’s scarf is little more than a rag, now, torn and frayed, colour worn brown and dull. It’s stained with Arthur’s blood, with years of sweat, and with traces of a spell that didn’t work. Arthur remembers it when it was the brightest red; vivid beneath his fingertips, utterly unwilling to be parted from Merlin.
“Morgana told me what she saw. She saw my heart stop, and knew that only you could save me,” he says. He shakes his head, tears finally refusing to be withheld. “I don’t feel saved, Merlin.” his voice shakes. “And Gaius…” Gaius is dead and there is a lump in Arthur’s throat. “Gaius said you’d stay close, but you left me.” He holds the scarf to his face, presses it hard against his eyes as ten years of tears sink into it.
“I don’t want to do this anymore,” he sobs. “I don’t want to be alone. I don’t want to be without you.”
He’s weak, suddenly, dizzy, and tips forward onto his hands and knees. The scarf hits the soil, touching the ashes that had once contained magic. Words rise, unbidden, on Arthur’s lips, words of a spell he lacked the skill to cast but, once recited, sat dormant in his mind.
This is a sacrifice. The world shifts.
He opens his eyes to sunshine and a battlefield, to undead warriors bringing down their foes and his friends, just as they were in the days before the demise of glory. Locked in the grimace of combat are faces he knows to be dead, bodies he has seen committed to dust.
And in the midst of it, he sees himself; young and strong, his skin bright with passion and belief. Perhaps this is madness, his mind has finally broken. But he watches himself, so full of promise, run a soldier through and move to the next assailant.
But if this isn’t madness…
He struggles to his feet and throws open the door to the tower. He takes the castle steps three at a time, his joints screaming and his heart pounding like the drums of war. Behind him, cries of pain and screams of rage billow up, as softly delivered threats and the dense stereotype of maniacal laughter begin to reach his ears. He doesn’t know he’s been drowning until he hears the voice that is like air.
“No,” Merlin says, as Arthur reaches the top of the stairs. “This is for Arthur.”
Fire meets between king and sorcerer and there is, just for a moment, a pause.
Arthur lunges forward, reaching out for a body he knows he’ll never touch again.
And the tower explodes.
#
Merlin woke with the largest and most welcome breath of his life. He turned and spat a mouthful of mud into the churned up grass beside him and coughed through the fire that was screaming through his lungs. His left arm screamed with pain.
“Merlin, Merlin!”
Arthur threw his sword to one side, skidding to his knees to meet Merlin in the mud.
“Arthur, are you ok?” Merlin asked.
“Am I okay? Am I okay? Merlin, I just saw you fall off a tower!” Arthur said, his face ashen.
“Oh, yeah,” Merlin said, looking up to where the remnants of the tower now stood. He hissed, grabbing at his arm. “I think I might have broken something.”
“You’re lucky that’s all you did,” Arthur said, reaching out to grab Merlin’s elbow, as gently as his frantic state and shaking hands would allow. Merlin tried not to wince. “You could have been killed,” Arthur said, his voice shaking. “What the hell were you doing up there? You promised me you would stay away.”
“Technically I promised you wouldn’t see me,” Merlin said. Arthur looked slightly murderous at that comment, and Merlin strived to look cowed. “I’m sorry, Arthur,” he said softly. “I was just trying to help.”
Arthur shook his head, his eyes darting over Merlin, checking for other signs of injury. His chest heaved with laboured breaths.
“Arthur, I’m okay,” Merlin said softly.
“I saw you fall,” Arthur said, his voice a frightened whisper. “I thought… I thought I’d lost you.”
Merlin gaped at him, feeling a pang of guilt at being the cause of Arthur’s distress, even if for good reason. He shook his head.
“There was someone else up there,” Merlin said hurriedly. “He shielded me, pushed me over the edge. He was…” Merlin frowned at the smouldering remains of the tower as Arthur looked out across the battlefield.
“I can’t see any of ours missing,” Arthur said. “Whoever they were, they didn’t survive that blast.”
Merlin’s stomach clenched. He hadn’t seen his saviour and would never be able to thank him for his sacrifice.
“Did you do it?” Arthur asked him. “Did you destroy the tower?”
Merlin was exhausted, and found himself staring at Arthur too long without an answer. Immediately he regretted it; surely Arthur’s next question would be how and that would call for a substantially bigger lie than if he had just thought to shake his head instead.
“Sire!” Arthur turned as the call came from the far side of the battlefield.
“Regroup!” he called over his shoulder. “I’m coming.” He turned back to Merlin, and shook his head. “We’ll talk about it later, and you will not lie to me, understand?” Merlin gave a short nod. “Let’s get you back to camp and warmed up. I’ll wrap that arm until Gaius can take a look at it,” Arthur said.
Together they got to their feet and Merlin was relieved to discover that he could stand quite comfortably on his own. He looked sideways at Arthur, who still looked haunted.
“I’m starting to think you might like having me around,” Merlin said carefully, smiling faintly and attempting to lighten Arthur’s mood.
“I thought you were dead,” he said. “I thought… Merlin, you can’t leave me like that. Don’t you ever leave me like that.”
“I don’t intend to leave you at all,” Merlin said honestly.
Arthur stopped, turning to him and holding him up with a firm hand to the back of his neck.
“You broke your promise, Merlin, how can I trust you…”
“I swear,” Merlin interrupted, his fingertips scratching at Arthur’s chainmail, searching for purchase. “On my mother’s life.”
Arthur relaxed a little, Merlin’s earnestness finally getting through. He pulled Merlin’s head forward to press their foreheads together, his thumb pressed against Merlin’s cheekbone. Arthur’s face was creased with restrained emotion, of fear just barely under control. His breath kissed Merlin’s lips and the sorcerer suddenly wasn’t so worried about freezing to death.
“We should go,” Arthur said, eventually, pulling back and propping Merlin up, making a gallant attempt to sound something vaguely like his normal self. “Can’t have you getting sick and fobbing off your duties,” he added with forced levity.
“That’s me,” Merlin agreed. “Always trying to dodge my destiny.” He smiled to see that a little colour had returned to Arthur’s cheeks, although Arthur's expression was still tight with concern.
There would be troubled times ahead, with painful healing of broken bones and bruised ribs. There would be difficult conversations, hard truths and new normals to navigate. But they were alive, and together, and Arthur’s arm was strong and tight around Merlin’s waist. They were safe.
The End.