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It was bandits; it was always bandits. Arthur had gone out into the forest surrounding the city, as he tended to do when he needed some fresh air and time away from his responsibilities as king. He only took Merlin with him this time, something the servant had griped about for nearly an hour that morning. With words of how often they came to trouble in the forest, and how hard-pressed to defend themselves they would be if they were ambushed, he had tried to convince his king that he should take a few of his knights with him. Arthur dismissed his worries, confident enough in his ability with a blade to defend them both. He sorely wished that he had listened.
Now, here he was, mouth agape in shock as the man he thought he knew everything about killed a handful of thugs with merely a raised hand and a flash of golden eyes. A fear like no other, the fear of magic that his father had been sure to put in him, coursed through his veins, and he took a cautious step back. Merlin could kill him with just a thought if he wanted to, could snap his neck, break his bones, bleed him dry, leave him begging for the end, and he wouldn’t be able to do anything to stop it. Arthur would be absolutely helpless, completely at the mercy of his lover’s whims.
His lover. Merlin was his lover, his best friend. He had been for years. Arthur trusted him with all his darkest secrets, all his doubts and fears. He was Arthur’s rock, his closest advisor, and he held the king’s heart in his hands. How long had he been hiding this? How long had it been since Merlin went behind his back and learned magic? How long had his servant been betraying the kingdom, the man who loved him? Merlin was the only one who had stuck by him through thick and thin, the only one he could count on. He had been there, by his side, through Morgana and Agravaine’s own betrayals, through his father’s death. The man had seemed so kind-hearted and loyal, going beyond the line of duty for his king. Had that all been a lie?
Rage built up in Arthur’s chest, crashing through him with all the force of a hurricane. It burned like a forest fire, howled like the wind. It consumed his every thought, blinding him to the world around him. He tightened his grip on the pommel of his sword and stared at the man—the sorcerer—before him. His eyes had faded back to blue, but all Arthur could see through the red haze that clouded his sight was gold. Gold that corrupted, gold that killed, gold that tore families apart and sought to destroy peace. Gold that had ripped the single most important person away from him. How fitting it was, that his vision swam with the colors of Camelot in the face of her greatest deception.
The sorcerer fell to his knees before the king, and Arthur growled out, “I trusted you.” His voice wavered and broke, but he refused to believe that it could be from anything other than anger. Arthur raised his sword, fully intending to behead the snake right here and now, but he hesitated for a moment; Camelot’s laws were clear. He should tie up this traitor and drag him back to the castle, where he would be sentenced to the pyre in front of the court. The sorcerer should burn where all of Camelot could watch, a warning to others to not cross their king. He had lowered his sword ever so slightly, when suddenly a memory from long ago fluttered to the forefront of his mind.
Arthur had still been recovering from the bite of the Questing Beast, a miracle in and of itself. Merlin had visited him, seeming troubled, and had the audacity to insult him right to his face, calling him a prat. Their friendship had been so new back then, but Arthur had already become accustomed to Merlin’s ways, and he’d accepted that Merlin would never treat him like royalty; he would treat him like a friend. And then, the servant had said the strangest thing, giving Arthur a glimpse as to just how deep the other’s loyalty ran.
He said, “I’m happy to be your servant, till the day I die.” It had been spoken in such a solemn, somber tone, and when Arthur looked at him, astounded, he could see just how serious he was. This wasn’t some jest, wasn’t part of their usual banter. Merlin’s eyes blazed with sincerity, the hint of sadness in their alluring depths only serving to further confuse the prince. A wisdom that Merlin usually kept hidden had shone brightly that day, and it was one of the very first times Arthur had seen it. He had come to see that wisdom, and rely on it, more and more as the years flew by. Casting a look at the sorcerer at his feet, he felt his fury increase tenfold.
How could this have happened? How could he have fallen so far? Or perhaps, the sorcerer had always been wicked, and Arthur had been too stupid to see it. He thought of all those times that he had seemed oddly knowledgeable, and now it all made sense; he had been traitorous from the very beginning. Lip curling in disgust, and his untamable wrath controlling his movements, Arthur brought the sword down. He didn’t see the resigned, heart-broken look on the sorcerer’s face, nor did he see the tears that ran down his cheeks, blinded was he by his own. He didn’t hear the sound of a head separating from its body, didn’t feel the blood that sprayed from the wound, for his ire had deafened and numbed him to the world.
Turning on his heel in one sharp movement, Arthur walked back to Camelot, leaving the sorcerer’s body to rot in the forest.
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Percival’s quiet anger was unsettling. He never had been a man of many words, preferring to speak with his actions. His kind and intelligent soul was plain for anyone to see, if they bothered to look past his bulky frame. He was a strong fighter, a loyal knight, and Arthur was thrilled to have someone like him at the Round Table. The seething glares and looks of malcontent were starting to become a problem, however, and Arthur struggled to make sense of it. He knew that Percival had known the sorcerer for the shortest time out of all of them, but even so, he had watched as they became close friends. The large man teased the sorcerer endlessly, treating him like a little brother, and he was fiercely protective. Then, when Lancelot died, the two of them had grieved together, mourning the loss of such a noble man and good friend.
The part that puzzled Arthur so was that the anger was directed at him, and not the traitorous servant. When the news of what happened had been announced, Percival had said nothing, done nothing, and yet Arthur could feel how furious the man had been with his king. Why was he not upset with the sorcerer? Arthur wasn’t the one who had learned magic in secret, he wasn’t the one who had betrayed Camelot. He had simply done what the laws of the land decreed, even if he had cut a few corners. Perhaps that was it; Percival was upset with him for not bringing the sorcerer back to be tried properly.
Arthur apologized to Percival a few days after this realization. He told his knight that he knew he had been wrong, that regardless of his crimes, the sorcerer should have had a trial and been burned at the stake, not beheaded out in the woods. True to form, Percival said nothing after the apology, and Arthur headed back to his chambers, feeling rather pleased with himself. He didn’t get very far, though. A wordless shout of rage that he recognized to be Percival sounded from the armory, and a cacophony of crashing metal and falling objects rang through the air. Figuring that, now that he had apologized, Percival’s anger towards the sorcerer had come to the surface, he decided that it would be best to give him some space.
The armory had been cleaned up by the time Arthur revisited it later in the day, but although his loyalty remained steadfast, Percival’s silent, withering glares of malcontent were also there to stay.
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Elyan’s own protective nature made him quick to anger, and when discovering the fate of the sorcerer, he had been furious. He hadn’t said anything directly to the king’s face, but once when Arthur was walking past the knight’s chambers, he had heard him yelling to Guinevere, ranting and raving about the unfairness of his actions. What his knights got up to in their free time was none of his concern, but Arthur found himself hurt, and more than a little angry. Elyan was one of the most supportive men he knew, always sticking up for others and defending them and their decisions, so to find out that he was complaining about his king behind his back felt like a searing wound.
How dare Elyan say that Arthur was wrong to kill the sorcerer? The laws of the land were known to all who lived there, including the sorcerer himself, and yet he had still decided to learn magic. His death was his own fault, not Arthur’s. Elyan’s outrage didn’t make sense; the two had been friends, and the sorcerer had been among those who had saved Elyan when he had gotten into trouble, but he had turned against them all. Despite that, Arthur continued to hear his knight’s criticisms whenever he thought the king was out of earshot. Why was he so upset that the sorcerer was dead?
Seeking answers, Arthur had brought the matter up with Elyan. A look of pure disgust had crossed the knight’s face before he had the chance to hide it, and he had walked away, shaking his head in disbelief and muttering under his breath about foolish, ignorant kings.
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At first, Gwaine’s wrath was explosive. He hadn’t even waited until they were in private; as soon as Arthur said that he had killed the sorcerer, Gwaine had stood up in a flurry, screaming obscenities at his king. The others at the Round Table were too startled by the news to calm the other man down before he could do something stupid, and he had come right up to Arthur, yanking him to his feet and socking him in the nose. Arthur had punched him right back with enough force to send the knight reeling and called for the guards. Once Gwaine had been wrangled to his knees on the floor, still shouting and practically foaming at the mouth with rage, Arthur had ordered him to be taken to a cell.
Ordinarily, one who had attacked their king in such a way would be put to death, but Arthur just couldn’t bring himself to do it. The sorcerer had been Gwaine’s first and closest friend, the two of them being nearly inseparable, so the reaction made sense. Of course, the knight would be hurting; he probably felt the betrayal almost as acutely as Arthur himself did. To have someone you trusted so dearly stab you in the back as if it were nothing was not a wound so easily shrugged off. A few days in the dungeon to cool off and come to terms with things would do Gwaine some good, and then they could all try to carry on as normal.
As expected, Gwaine was much calmer when he was released in three days’ time. He was quiet, subdued, and although that was vastly different from his normal behavior, Arthur hadn’t given it much thought, too busy working through his own fury and sorrow. Gwaine attended meetings, patrols, and training as usual, but he no longer joked around with the other knights. He kept to himself, rarely saying a word, and he even seemed to be losing a little bit of weight. Every night he went to the tavern, and that in and of itself wasn’t unusual in the slightest, but once when Arthur had gone to mingle with his people, he saw the knight drinking alone in the corner.
Gwaine was a rowdy drunk, always making loud, callous comments and starting fights, and he had told Arthur that he firmly believed that beer tasted better with company, so why was it that he was by himself? Arthur made his way over to him but stopped short when he saw the dead look in the knight’s eyes. His normally well-kempt hair was slick with grease, and he had dark bruises around his eyes showing that he hadn’t been sleeping. He seemed a shadow of his former self, and the king wondered what could have caused such a drastic change, and why he hadn’t noticed it sooner. He sat down beside Gwaine and asked him just that, but the only response he received was a half-hearted growl as the knight stood up and staggered off, leaving Arthur confused.
The next day, Gwaine was nowhere to be found. Annoyed, Arthur had gone to his chambers, intending to drag the undoubtedly hungover knight to training by his precious hair if he had to. Upon arriving, however, the king saw that the chambers were empty, and all of Gwaine’s belongings were missing. After asking around, Arthur determined that no one had seen him leave, and no one had been told of his plans. He had just vanished, as if into thin air. No matter how much time had passed, no matter where they searched, Gwaine was never seen again.
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Leon was his First Knight, and he had known Arthur for much longer than any of the other Knights of the Round Table. He fully expected the other to be a little bit upset that Arthur hadn’t done things properly, but he knew Leon would understand and support him anyway. He was not at all prepared for Leon to adamantly refuse to believe that the sorcerer was just that, a sorcerer. The knight insisted that the other had a kind heart, that he cared far too much about Arthur, Camelot, and her people to ever betray them. Leon just wouldn’t listen when Arthur explained that the traitor had used magic openly, right in front of him. Arthur wouldn’t lie about this; he wouldn’t make up some elaborate cover story. Surely, Leon had to see that.
In time, the knight finally accepted that Arthur wasn’t lying. However, he then rejected the very notion that the sorcerer had been evil. He had known the man since almost the very beginning, and he had never given them any reason to believe him to be anything other than pure of heart. Leon claimed that there wasn’t a treacherous bone in his body. Saddened by his close friend’s confusion, Arthur tried to tell him that people who intended to stab others in the back always acted like they could be trusted. He even brought up Morgana and Agravaine, and how they had seemed loyal right up until they had revealed their true colors.
Despite Arthur’s best efforts, Leon would not be swayed this time, refusing to accept anything other than what he believed to be the truth. It became a point of contention, until things between them eventually got so tense that they could hardly stand to be around the other, only spending time together when absolutely necessary.
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Next to the sorcerer, Guinevere had been Arthur’s closest council. He could always count on her to voice her opinion on a matter, and to be bluntly truthful when she disagreed. Her input was invaluable to the king, and he had come to heavily rely on it over the years, Recently, though, she had changed. Guinevere only spoke when spoken to nowadays. When asked for her opinion, she would give it in a feeble voice, and she never defended it anymore. The change was startling and troubling, and Arthur resolved to figure out what had caused it. He visited all her usual haunts, but Guinevere always seemed to have left just before he arrived. If he didn’t know any better, he would say that she was avoiding him.
After many attempts, Arthur finally managed to corner Guinevere in the castle courtyard. The sun had set, and everyone had long since gone home, leaving her to sit by herself. As he approached, he heard her sniffling quietly, and with a jolt, he realized that she was crying. Sitting down next to her, he put a gentle hand on her shoulder and asked what was wrong. Guinevere yelped at the sudden contact, scrambling to her feet and backing away slowly. Arthur reassured her that it was just him, but instead of calming down, Guinevere’s fear only worsened. Confused, the king asked again what was bothering her. With a wordless shake of her head and a terrified whimper, the servant had simply fled towards her home.
A few more weeks had passed before their paths crossed again, but Arthur had seen Guinevere out of the corner of his eye every now and then. Each time it happened, she would seem completely fine, if not a bit downcast, right up until she noticed the king nearby. Whenever she saw him, she would tremble with fright and leave as soon as she could. When they finally ran into each other again, Arthur blocked her escape and demanded to know what was going on. With quiet words laced with fear, she had asked him to move so that she could continue to do her work.
Arthur would not budge, though, and asked her once more. He mentioned that she was always so sad and scared these days, and he wanted to know why. With a sudden, fiery rage, she shouted at him. She screamed that she was upset because he had murdered his lover, his best friend, in cold blood, when the other had done nothing wrong. Arthur argued that the sorcerer had been a traitor, and it was like the wind had been taken out of her sails. With tears in her eyes and a wavering voice, Guinevere told him that the sorcerer had been loyal to a fault, and that the only traitor here was Arthur himself.
Guinevere slipped past Arthur, and he let her go. She continued to avoid him at all costs, and he never cornered her again. About a month later, she and Elyan came to him, telling him that they were leaving; they were going to move to Ealdor and open a smithy there. Arthur didn’t stop them.
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Growing up, Arthur had come to see Gaius as a father figure, the physician always taking care of him and treating him like family. He remembers when he would get lonely as a child, his father being much too busy to spend time with him, so he would go and see Gaius and watch as he worked. The bond they had formed was close, and Arthur cared greatly for the older man. He knew that the sorcerer’s betrayal would hit him the hardest, even harder than it had for himself. The two had been like father and son, and the loss would devastate Gaius.
As expected, the physician was heart-broken, and yet, he was also oddly accepting. Arthur was grateful that his decision wasn’t being questioned, but once the grief wasn’t as near and fresh on his mind, Gaius’ disapproving eyebrow made an appearance. That look of disappointment never failed to cow Arthur, and he only wished he could understand. His heart hurt for the older man, knowing that he had lost his son, but he had seemed to comprehend why Arthur had to do it. That son had been a sorcerer, and Gaius new the laws better than anyone. His sudden despondency was confusing and not at all appreciated.
Arthur wondered if, in addition to his grief, the physician might be struggling without an extra set of hands. The sorcerer had often been helping Gaius, whether it was something like making deliveries or going out on a several days’ journey to retrieve some rare herbs. Gaius was an old man; he couldn’t be expected to do everything on his own anymore. Arthur decided to appoint him an apprentice, not only so that he would have some help, but so that he would have someone else to look after and distract him from the recent loss. The new apprentice stayed in what had once been the sorcerer’s room, which had long since been cleared out, and the physician seemed to be faring a little better.
That is, until two months later, when Gaius fell gravely ill. His apprentice was at a loss for what the cause could be; the physician was old, but he had been in perfect health, always making sure to take good care of himself. It was almost as if he had just lost the will to live. After another month during which Gaius got progressively worse, he passed away peacefully in his sleep. The last thing he ever said was an assurance to the sorcerer that he would be joining him soon.
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It had been six months since Gaius’ death, leaving him completely without a family. Eight months since Elyan and Guinevere had moved to Ealdor and cut off all contact with the king. Ten months since he and Leon had a conversation that didn’t end in bitter words and hateful glares. Just over eleven months since Gwaine disappeared without a word, having left behind no clue as to where he might’ve gone. One year since Percival had last spoken, to him or to anyone else, and had shut himself off from the world. And it had been one year since Arthur had made the biggest mistake of his life and killed his best friend.
It took him much too long to figure it out, so blinded was he by his anger, but he had finally realized what an idiot he had been. Merlin was the most loyal, honest, selfless person that Arthur knew. He was kind and brave, intelligent and trustworthy. He always put others first, even if it was to his own detriment. Arthur wasn’t sure how long Merlin had lived in the shadows, protecting Camelot and her king, but throughout all that time, he had never once asked for recognition. Who knows who much he had lost, how much he had sacrificed, to protect those he loved, and yet never seeking anything in return?
And Arthur had killed him. He had killed him in cold blood, without evening listening to what he might have to say. His lover had saved him from those bandits, using his power with the intent to protect rather than to kill. He hadn’t betrayed anyone; he was just defending the man he loved. Merlin could’ve fought back, could’ve easily incapacitated Arthur, but instead he had kneeled before his king, peacefully awaiting whatever punishment Arthur deemed fit to give him. And rather than think things through, Arthur had slaughtered him in a childish fit of rage. He was a fool. A stupid, ignorant fool. He murdered the love of his life, his best friend, and in doing so, he had lost everyone else that he cared about.
Of the Knights of the Round Table, only Percival and Leon remained, and that was only because of their loyalty to Camelot; they certainly didn’t stay for Arthur, and for how often they interacted with him, they might as well have not even been there. Guinevere, Elyan, and Gwaine had all left, none of them being able to stay after what Arthur had done, and Gaius was dead, killed by a broken heart. They were all gone. All of his friends were gone, and the blame resided solely with him. He had destroyed everything with one swing of his sword, and now, he was all alone. He had no one left.
Arthur’s tears had long since dried up, and he drifted through his days feeling like a ghost, an outsider in his own castle. He watched his people laugh and smile as if all was right with the world, as if their king hadn’t ripped everything he cared about to shreds. Every night he lied in bed, staring at his ceiling, mourning what had once been, and when he managed to get a few hours of sleep, he dreamed of the happier days when they had all still had each other. Upon waking, he would remember what he had done, that he had killed his shining light, and the grief and guilt would bear down on him anew.
The ban on magic was eventually lifted, and magic users were welcomed back into Camelot. Sorcerers and Druids alike became members of the staff, and then members of the court, and the people sang praises of the king who had brought peace to their land. Schools of magic were started, to teach awareness of the art, and to teach the art itself. A Court Sorcerer was appointed, and people from all corners of the kingdom came to her, seeking her wisdom. Magic flourished throughout the land, making animals stronger, and the crops grew quicker and healthier.
Some small part of Arthur had hoped that all these changes would alleviate the crushing guilt that consumed him, and after he learned from the Druids just who Merlin had been, he hoped that bringing magic back to Camelot would bring the man himself back. Merlin was Emrys, after all, and Emrys meant immortal, so surely now that magic once again thrived, he would return. Merlin was supposed to guide Arthur, to help him unite Albion. The king couldn’t do that on his own; he needed his lover by his side. But then, Arthur recalled the peace treaties he had been working on with the neighboring kingdoms, and a cold feeling of despair settled over him.
Merlin had done his job. Through his death, magic users were free, Camelot prospered, and Albion was closer to reaching peace than it had been for the first time in many, many years. By killing Merlin, Arthur had completed his journey to becoming the Once and Future King. This should’ve brought him joy, for he had not destroyed his kingdom when he destroyed everything else that mattered. Instead, it only brought him a deeper, more agonizing sorrow. Merlin had fulfilled the prophecy, so he had no reason to come back. Arthur would never see his lover again.
This pain was too much; Arthur couldn’t bear it. He didn’t care about his destiny, didn’t care about Albion or Camelot. If he could go back and spare Merlin, he would do it in a heartbeat, even if it meant that his kingdom would fall into ruin. He would give it all up, if only he could undo what had been so erroneously done. He pleaded with the gods, with the Druids, with the High Priestesses, but they could not, or would not, turn back time. And so, Arthur lived on alone, with his misery and regret, with the all-devouring guilt, for there was nothing he could do.
It was just too little, too late.