Chapter Text
Not that I want to be a god or a hero.
Just to change into a tree, grow for ages, not hurt anyone.
Czeslaw Milosz
Merlin stands by the edge of the water and watches it turn still.
There is magic in the air around Avalon, there always has been. He takes some comfort in it now, and tries to pull a sense of peace. He can feel Freya here. He feels her comfort, her calm.
Reality begins to settle in, as much as it possibly could. Merlin thought the worst of it was watching Arthur’s eyes fall shut, he thought the worst of it was screaming until his throat was raw, he thought the worst of it was seeing Arthur off in the waters of Avalon.
But standing here, as the water grows still, it becomes clear to him that, no, this is the worst of it. The realization dawns on him that he is alone on the shore. That Avalon is not healing Arthur and giving him back. That there is no one here alive but Merlin.
This, here, on the Lake of Avalon, is the worst moment of Merlin’s life.
The sheer knowledge of it almost brings him to his knees.
Now, he realizes, there is nothing left to do but to go. Merlin has never walked away from Arthur, not once in the ten years since he has known him. He has followed Arthur everywhere, no doubt in his mind that it was the right thing to do. And now, finally, it seems that Arthur has gone somewhere Merlin cannot follow.
“Arthur,” he whispers into the air.
Suddenly, he feels the breeze pick up, and it wraps around Merlin. Leaves from the ground swirl around his feet and into the air.
Of course, Merlin realizes, Arthur is here. Just as Merlin can feel Freya, he can feel Arthur. He finds the smallest amount of solace in that.
“I must go,” he says. “Forgive me.”
Merlin turns and walks away from Avalon. He doesn’t say goodbye.
He goes back to the forest clearing, where he finds Morgana and collects her. He holds her delicately, lays her out gently and makes a bed of flowers around her. And he weeps.
“I’m sorry Morgana,” he sobs. “I am so sorry.” Though he knows it's too late. It’s much too late for so many things.
Merlin weeps for the girl he once knew, for the mistakes he made. He weeps for her, who was so drowned in her hatred for Uther that she could not look past it and see that Arthur loved her deeply, that Gwen cared for her, that Merlin desperately wished he could have found a way to help her.
He weeps for Arthur, to whom it never mattered whether Morgana was blood or not, but loved her as family anyway, though he had to pretend for years that he did not. Merlin knows and understands now that Arthur would have hidden Morgana’s secret, would have helped her, would have loved and protected her. If only. If only, if only.
He weeps for Gwen, who has lost so much in the short time Merlin has known her. Her father, her brother, her friend, her husband. The sole ruler of Camelot and she doesn’t even know it yet.
And finally, at last, and maybe for the first time, Merlin weeps for himself.
He came to Camelot a boy, completely and utterly lost. Yearning for a home, for a purpose, for something more than the too-familiar village of Ealdor. Too quickly he learned of his destiny from Kilgharrah, too quickly he became absorbed in it; in protecting Arthur, in ensuring he was building the Camelot he was destined to help create.
He wishes for a moment that he could be that boy once again. To see Arthur as the Prince he once was. He wants to wake up in his bed in Gaius’ chambers before the sun rises, and fetch Arthur breakfast. He wants to bring it to him and open those red curtains and turn around to see Arthur among his sheets, smiling.
Though, then again, Arthur never smiled in the morning. Not before breakfast.
He doesn’t stay for long after that, he knows Morgana would not want him to. He knows she doesn’t deserve it, but he cannot let her go forgotten.
Then, he doesn’t go back to Camelot. Instead, he lets his legs lead him through familiar forests. Once he’s close, he realizes he could have called Kilgharrah. Maybe. But there is something deep within him that tells him Kilgharrah would not, or could not, come now.
He comes to a small village, so familiar to him, and he goes towards a small shack that he once called home. He has not been here in a few years, a few too many. Arthur had been newly crowned and lost, and Merlin had sent Guinevere to these familiar walls. He knocks on the thin door and enters.
Hunith turns to him, startling at an unknown presence entering her home. Merlin realizes, only then, that it’s night. He wonders if he walked overnight. He must have. Hunith’s features soften immediately when she sees him, and then they turn to shock, and sadness, and Merlin can say nothing. But he knows his mother knows, and she drops the broom she is holding in her hands, and runs the short distance, enveloping Merlin in her arms.
And he collapses to the ground, bringing her with him.
When Merlin was a boy, he once found an injured bird in the woods by his house. He had cradled it in his hands and brought it to his mother, begging her to do something to help it.
Hunith had shaken her head, and all the while petting Merlin’s hair, murmured to him, “Darling, there is not much I can do. He is already too weak and to try to help him would only cause him more pain. It is better to make him comfortable, and let him pass in peace.”
Merlin had hated that answer. Because there should have been something that his mother could have done. She was the strongest person Merlin knew, even at that young of an age. To him, there was nothing his mother couldn’t do.
He had cried long and hard that day, for the fact that his mother could not save that small bird. For the realization that it is not always possible to do what you think you must. For the feeling of helplessness he had, the knowledge he could not make a difference.
“He’s dead,” Merlin chokes out, clinging to his mother’s skirt, and though he has for a long time been much larger than her, he feels so very small in her hands. “He’s dead, he’s dead…”
“My boy,” she whispers, tears in her own eyes. “My lovely boy, I am so sorry.”
And again, there is nothing his mother can do. She cannot mend his heart — Merlin thinks there is not much of it left, at this point, bled and shriveled and rotting. She cannot heal what is irrevocably broken. She cannot bring Arthur back to him. No matter how much Merlin’s heart aches. Squeezes. Constricts in his chest.
The pain is overwhelming and Merlin wants to scream; he wants to claw his own heart out of his chest and be rid of it. And Hunith cannot fix it. She cannot heal him. She is just a person. But at least she is his mother.
Merlin sleeps for three days.
There was nothing left. He has been bled dry, his life gone. He’s left as dry as the husk dolls he used to make when he was a child. He can think of nothing but the feel of Arthur’s limp body in his arms, the way the colour had drained from his face. He can’t — he can’t rid himself of it. It keeps playing over in his mind, even when he closes his eyes. His throat hurts from how he screamed to the sky.
In one of his waking moments, he relays a message to his mother that he cannot write himself. He can barely speak the words.
The King is dead. Long live Guinevere, Queen of Camelot.
Merlin enchants a bird to send the message directly to Gaius.
He cannot face Gwen on her coronation day. He knows he will regret it for the rest of his life.
The next two weeks pass in silence. Most days Merlin can barely find his voice, and so he sits in front of the fire and lets his mind go blank. Blissfully, painlessly blank. It has been years since he has allowed himself to not think. He finds, when he lets himself go, the pain that has manifested within him lessens, dulls. He could live like this, he thinks, quietly and blankly.
Hunith’s hands are gentle when they draw his attention. To bed, to food. On that first day, to the bucket of warm water she had brought to him, to wash Arthur’s blood off him. At night she tells him stories, ones she used to tell him when he was young, of the ongoings of the village in the years since he has last been here. Of what she does in a day. Merlin listens, because it’s all he can do.
He should expect it, really, when Gwen, Leon and Percival arrive. They find him where he sits in front of the fire. Merlin doesn’t have to turn around to know it’s them. He feels it.
“Merlin,” Guinevere’s voice finds him.
Merlin closes his eyes.
“We have come to bring you home,” comes Leon’s voice next.
He feels himself shake his head.
“Merlin.” Percival’s voice comes, stern and commanding and almost cruel, so very unlike him. “Gwaine is dead and we refuse to have his funeral without you.”
Silence washes over them all, the shock of the news spurs Merlin into motion. He turns around, slowly. Gwen and Leon are staring incredulously at Percival. Merlin almost wants to laugh at the look on their faces because he can picture their conversation before coming here. Leon and Gwen talking amongst themselves that they need to be calm and gentle when they speak to Merlin, to not be aggressive or force him to come with them. And then there’s Percival. A part of Merlin appreciates not being spoken to as if he could break. Even though he already is.
“Gwaine?” he croaks.
Percival nods. “Morgana.”
And with that, another part of Merlin’s heart shuts down completely.
“We already had a burial for Arthur,” Percival continues. “Even without the body.”
“There is no body,” Merlin spits, suddenly angry. Angry with the three of them for coming here, angry for them to demand he comes with them, feigned with kindness. Angry that they likely arranged something with his mother beforehand and that she did not tell him. Angry that Gwaine - Gwaine, oh god, Gwaine - is dead. Merlin closes his eyes again, which are watering and burning, and turns back to the fire.
“No body?” Leon questions.
“No.”
“But—”
“Not now, Leon,” Gwen says. Her skirt swishes against the floor of Hunith’s hut, and then she is kneeling in front of Merlin where he sits. She is dressed in a mourning gown, the same one she wore when Elyan died. (Elyan. Even that wound was still so fresh, how are any of them meant to survive this?) Her hair is tied back elegantly. A black cape around her neck.
“Come home, Merlin, please,” Gwen whispers. “You — you do not have to explain it all now. And you will be safe in Camelot, I promise you.”
Merlin’s eyes are wet and blank as he studies Guinevere’s face. Of course he would be safe in Camelot, what on earth would she mean? He blinks again. Unless…
“You know,” he realizes.
Gwen smiles, and stands, holding out her hand to him, “Come home.”
Merlin takes her hand, eyes spotting the Pendragon seal ring. Heart aching, body weak, he goes to her.
Too quickly they are ready to go. Percival, Leon, and Guinevere have mounted their horses, waiting on Merlin. They are giving him some space. Out of the corner of his eye, though, he sees Leon lay a comforting hand on Guinevere’s shoulder and say something that makes her give him a sad smile.
Hunith holds Merlin close again, her hands soft and gentle as they comb through the back of his hair. He wants to tell her that she should come with him, he doesn’t know how he is supposed to continue on without her comforting hand. But he knows she would say no.
Her home has always been Ealdor. She has always been a simple woman, who likes her country life, peaceful and idyllic, and her maternal place in the village. Where everyone knows her, and she knows them, and they never once judged the quiet woman living without a husband, and her strange son.
“I could stay here with you,” Merlin mumbles into her shoulder.
Hunith pulls back, and moves to press her warm palm to his cheek. “No, darling, you belong in Camelot. You always have.”
Merlin swallows, bile growing in the back of his throat.
“They need you,” Hunith continues, tears shining in her eyes. “And you will need them.”
Long ago, she had said similar words to Merlin, words which filled him with warmth and love. The same sentiment is here now, and it fills Merlin with dread, worry. How is he meant to go on? What would they need from Merlin now? What more could he possibly give them? He has already been shaven to the bone.
There is not much left to say between the two of them after that. Merlin embraces her, holding her close and pressing his nose into her shoulder breathing in her sweet scent. He longs to be a child again, when the only thing he knew was his mother’s arms. He will miss her, always, and he will write to her more, he tells himself.
The fresh pain of losing Gwaine overshadows the all-encompassing sorrow that is losing Arthur. To a point where Merlin almost welcomes it; but then he remembers Gwaine’s smile. His laugh, his jokes, and the warm comfort he brought by merely being in the same room as you. The way his hand felt when it would curve gently around Merlin’s side. And it, too, is almost too much.
Camelot is quiet when the four of them arrive. The flags are still lowered, and Merlin thinks he can almost hear distant sobbing coming from the villages. It is still a kingdom in mourning, he realizes; it has only been a little over three weeks since Camlaan.
He dismounts his horse when they all arrive, and a young squire boy comes and takes the reins from him. His eyes follow Merlin strangely, in a way that makes him uncomfortable. Merlin wonders how it is that Gwen knows of his magic, whether Leon and Percival know. Does everyone in the castle know?
Or, merely, everyone knows who Merlin is — who Merlin was to the King. That Merlin was the last person to see the King alive.
The thought of it makes sweat break out across the back of his neck. What must people be thinking of him now? The gossip among the servants in Camelot is constant, Merlin would know. Hushed voices and whispers and giggles among the serving girls are commonplace. What would they be saying about Merlin now that he disappeared for two weeks after the death of the King?
He doesn’t wait for anyone. He suddenly cannot stand to be in the courtyard, it is too open, there are too many eyes on him. He follows his long-familiar path back to his and Gaius’ chambers. He thinks he hears Leon calling out after him, but he simply ignores it.
There are very few people in the halls, a few serving girls who cower against the walls as Merlin blows past them. But again, anger rises in him. What do people know?
He bursts into his chambers and finds Gaius sitting at his desk, obviously concocting some sort of poultice, or potion, or draught. Something. It doesn’t matter. Merlin slams the door shut behind him.
“Merlin!” Gaius gasps.
“Who else knows?”
“Excuse me?”
“Gwen knows about my magic,” Merlin demands. “Who else?”
Gaius stands slowly, slower than usual. “To my knowledge, no one.”
Merlin tries to calm himself at this, he runs a hand over his face. He stares at Gaius and realizes how long it has been since he has seen him last. He remembers where it was he last saw him, and he crumbles, yet again.
He lets out a small whimper, like a child, and Gaius moves to envelop him in his arms.
“I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t save him,” Merlin whispers, tears running silently down his face. “It was my destiny to protect him and I’ve failed.”
“No, my son,” Gaius says, his voice deep and hushed, sending vibrations through Merlin’s skin. “You did what you had to do, and it had to happen this way.”
“How do you know that?” Merlin asks, desperately.
“Because I know that you would not fail.”
A funeral for Gwaine is held in the courtyard. It is quiet and simple, and Merlin thinks Gwaine would have hated it. Class and decorum were never his style, and Merlin thinks they ought to have all gone down to the tavern and drank until they hit the floor. Or they should have had a magnificent feast with pies and meat and cheese, and toasted to Gwaine’s name, telling stories and sharing laughs until the sun rose over the horizon.
He thinks Gwaine would have loved that more than lines of knights watching a cape burn.
Merlin stands in the back, rebuffing Gwen’s offer to stand at the front beside her. Merlin doesn’t want the eyes on him. He arrived back in Camelot only days ago and he has barely left the walls of his and Gaius’ chambers.
Instead, Merlin watches from beside Gaius as Leon lights the fire. It burns.
Afterwards, Merlin and Percival go to Gwaine’s chambers, to finally empty it of his belongings. When they finish, they sit next to each other on the edge of Gwaine’s bed and Percival tells Merlin what happened. How they got wind of a traitor in Camelot, and tricked her to send false information to Morgana; how Percival and Gwaine thought they could finally end Morgana once and for all. Merlin wants to tell him how ridiculously stupid that was, but he thinks Percival already knows that, by the dark look in his eyes when he relives the story.
“Morgana found us anyway,” Merlin says quietly.
“Is that…” Percival pauses. “The King… is Morgana to blame?”
“No,” Merlin shakes his head. “No.” I am, he thinks, in more ways than one.
“Is she going to retaliate? We haven’t heard any word of what happened to her?”
“She’s dead.” Merlin says sternly.
“How do you know?”
Because I killed her, Merlin wants to say. But he doesn’t think Percival would believe him. If Gaius is right, then the only people who know of his magic are his mother, Guinevere, and Gaius himself.
“Just trust me,” is what Merlin says instead.
Percival gives him a strange look but doesn’t press on any further. He has a small basket of some things placed on his lap. Gwaine did not keep much. There were a few clothes, but the majority of what the knights wore were able to be passed along to another, or fashioned into scraps for the kitchens. Percival himself was fiddling with a small dagger that must have belonged to Gwaine at some point.
“Gwaine didn’t own much,” Percival says. “Told me once he never had a place of his own until he got these quarters.”
Merlin swallows around the lump in his throat. He’s unsure if he can speak about Gwaine, let alone picture him as he was when Merlin first met him.
“Here,” Percival says, placing something in his hands.
It’s a small chain, on it a ring and a thick, crescent moon pendant, and Merlin’s heart lurches. He recognizes it as the simple chain Gwaine wore around his neck in Merlin’s earliest memories of him. He must have stopped wearing it often when chainmail became his staple instead.
“Something for you to keep,” Percival says, sounding a bit choked up himself. If Percival began to cry, there was truly no hope in the world for Merlin.
“It’s too much,” Merlin chokes out, running his fingertips across the pendant in his hand.
Percival only nods, his large hand coming to rest on the back of Merlin’s neck, companionable. The pressure of it reminds Merlin that he is alive. Unfortunately, uselessly alive.
The two of them sit together for a few more moments in silence. Eventually, Percival stands up, with the basket full of Gwaine’s last possessions. He leaves Merlin there, only after he gets Merlin to promise he won’t linger for much longer.
Merlin takes a moment to remember Gwaine as he knew him. His smile, his heart. The rare time Merlin actually went to the tavern with him to share a drink. He loved Gwaine’s stories — he had so many of them from his travels. Gwaine certainly had lived an interesting life before he finally settled in Camelot.
Merlin looks over the pendant, the smooth, soft metal, growing warm in his palm. He ties it around his neck, making sure his usual neckerchief covers it, so no one will ever see it. He thinks, maybe, he can keep Gwaine close to him this way. The weight of the pendant on his collarbone is comforting, just as Percival’s warm hand on the back of his neck had been.
I should have told him, Merlin thinks, not for the first time since he learned of Gwaine’s death. He remembers his last moments with Gwaine. If he had known it would be the last, could Merlin have told him the truth? Would Gwaine have accepted him?
Of course he would have, you utter dolt, Merlin chastises himself.
But then again, there is his age old friend that has been with him ever since he stepped foot on Camelot’s soil. The voice that tells him: No. You didn’t tell him because it wasn’t safe. It was never safe.
Merlin sighs, and stands from Gwaine’s bed. He turns to look at the empty chambers. What do Arthur’s look like now? Are they emptied out? Is Gwen still sleeping there, or has she moved to other rooms?
He sucks in a sharp breath at his own thoughts. He can’t go further into it right now, or else spiral deep into darkness. He leaves Gwaine’s chambers and returns back to his own rooms. Gaius is out, and Merlin is secretly glad.
Merlin crawls back into his bed. And he doesn’t think about how Gwaine’s chambers no longer belong to him, or how Arthur’s chambers could be lying empty, or filled with the action of Guinevere’s new reign. And how every single moment since he returned to Camelot has been filled with the never ending question of, “what am I to do?”
He doesn’t know his place. He doesn’t know what he is supposed to do, what he is supposed to be without Arthur. Without being by Arthur’s side, as he always has been. Sometimes when Merlin wakes up he is afraid he has slept in too long; he thinks that he needs to hurry, he needs to get Arthur’s breakfast before it grows cold, before Arthur wakes up. But then he remembers. He sits up in his bed and he remembers, he puts his feet on the ground and he remembers.
And then he spends all day remembering.
Remembering what he would be doing right now if Arthur was here. Remembering why it is that he is not.
Lying on his back, the pressure of Gwaine’s pendant pushes gently against his throat. He closes his eyes, and he pictures the fire in his mother’s home in Ealdor. And he lets his mind go blank.
“It is nearly noon hour, Merlin.”
Merlin’s eyes crack open; dry and tired. He rolls over onto his back and blearily looks up at Gaius where he looms in the doorway.
“It is time to get up, my boy, I have some food for you on the table.”
Gaius leaves the room. And Merlin remembers. He moves slowly, his muscles aching from laying down for so long. He gets into the main room, thinking he probably took longer to get up than Gaius would have wanted. There is a light soup and a slice of buttered bread waiting for him while Gaius works steadily on something in the corner.
When Merlin is finished eating, Gaius comes up to him and places a small vial in front of him. He can barely contain the groan he feels forming in the back of his throat. He doesn’t want to do deliveries.
“Gaius…” he groans.
“It’s a salve for Leon,” Gaius explains. “My knees have been bothering me today and Leon’s chambers are across the castle. Besides, it is good for you to have a walk every day.”
Merlin just groans again, lets out a childish whine, his forehead dropping into his arms against the table. But he knows it’s useless to argue with Gaius. The man is old, especially since Merlin has returned from Ealdor he has noticed. Gaius walks slower than usual, he goes to bed earlier. Truly, the least Merlin could do is deliveries for people in the castle so that Gaius does not have to be running about.
So after putting on a masterful pity fest in Gaius’ chambers, Merlin makes his way across the castle. He goes the long way, where the halls would be emptier in order to avoid people. He knocks on the door of Leon’s chambers and is beckoned in.
Leon stands from where he is behind a table when Merlin walks in.
“Merlin,” he says, a smile on his face. ”Is that from Gaius?”
“Yes,” Merlin says, moving in to put it on the table between them.
“Perfect,” Leon says, picking it up and turning the bottle over in his hands. “My shoulder has been bothering me ever since — since the battle.”
Merlin just nods.
He and Leon have never been very close. Yes, they saw each other almost everyday, and of all the knights Merlin knew, Leon was one of the best and kindest. But they never really had a chance to grow to know each other personally. Not in the way Merlin was with Lancelot, Gwaine, Percival, or even Elyan at times.
He cared for Leon, of course he did, and he knew Leon cared for him as well. But Leon was all knighthood and honour, and Merlin was the man who had committed treason by simply breathing in Arthur’s general direction. It had taken Leon a while to reconcile with that, Merlin assumes.
“It’s good you stopped by actually,” Leon continues. “The Queen has requested you come and dine with us in the Great Hall tonight.”
“Has she?” Merlin replies.
Leon’s eyes burn into his skin. Merlin can tell immediately that he doesn’t like the tone Merlin just used.
“She has barely seen you since you returned,” Leon explains. “Not since our tribute to Sir Gwaine a few weeks back.”
That’s something Merlin has noticed about Leon. That he refers to the dead as formally as he can. Sir Gwaine. Sir Elyan. The King. Never just their names, as if Leon didn’t once consider them family. Merlin hates it.
“Percival will also be there,” Leon continues. “Queen Guinevere has requested it. She would like to see us all.”
The knowledge that Percival will be there does help. “I’ll come,” Merlin says. “You can tell her I’ll come.”
“Good,” Leon says, carefully. “I’m sure she will be pleased.”
Merlin’s chest feels tight. “Yes, well, if you don’t mind, I — uh — have more deliveries to make for Gaius.” It’s a lie, he has absolutely nowhere to go, but Leon doesn’t have to know that. “I’ll be seeing you tonight, then.”
Leon just nods, and Merlin flees. He returns to Gaius and asks if there’s anything he can help brew for him. He needs a distraction if he’s going to be seeing Guinevere tonight. He has done everything in his power to avoid her as much as possible since his return. It’s cruel, and he feels the weight of his guilt on his heart, but he just can’t do it yet.
Seeing Gwen will make the life Merlin is living real. Sometimes Merlin feels so detached from the reality of it all. Like if he doesn’t see anyone, he can pretend that Arthur is just on a long hunting trip, or a visit to a neighbouring kingdom. But he knows, on some level, that it is not the truth.
But the truth of it all is still so difficult to face.
When Merlin arrives in the throne room, a table is set in the middle with four chairs around it, Leon and Percival are already there sharing a glass of mead together. They are laughing lightly at something or other and it makes Merlin stop in his tracks, because the last time he heard laughter was before Camlaan.
Percival smiles when he sees Merlin, which lightens Merlin’s heart ever so slightly, and he’s able to walk further and sit at the vacant chair left for him.
“Mead?” Percival asks, and Merlin nods soundlessly as a response.
The three men sit there for a few moments, talking about nothing in particular, nothing of importance, nothing Merlin will commit to memory, before the doors open. They stand, as they are used to, for the Queen to enter. The moment the door closes behind Gwen and it is just the four of them in the room, she immediately goes to Merlin, and envelopes him in her arms.
Even this, Merlin thinks, is strange. Because now that Merlin is experiencing this he realizes he hasn’t so much as hugged Gwen in the past three years since she became Queen. Merlin used to touch her all the time, a hand on her elbow when he spoke to her, a pat on the shoulder as they crossed paths in the corridors, he would hug her when she needed comfort. But he’s never hugged Queen Guinevere.
But if he should be hugging Gwen he supposes this is the time and the situation.
His arms wrap around her waist and he hugs her close. She still smells the same, of flowery perfume, though her dresses are definitely different from the simple smocks she wore in her time as a servant. She wears her mourning dress, still, her hair pulled off her face and worn long against her back.
“I’m so glad you came, Merlin,” Gwen says as she pulls back. She gives a small smile to Leon and Percival, before she waves a hand, inviting them to all sit down.
The food comes not long after that, placed down in front of Merlin by a serving girl. Another thing that has never happened to him within the walls of Camelot. He’s never been served, he has never not been a servant. In fact, now that he thinks about it, he’s never sat and dined with royalty, at least not before serving them himself. (There were times when he and Arthur would share a meal, like when Arthur needed help with a speech early on in his reign. But Merlin would always make sure the King was served first.)
He catches Guinevere’s eye as his plate is placed in front of him, and she smiles, an eyebrow raised in recognition. After everyone has been served, Gwen excuses the servants, and the four of them are left alone in the large room. Not even guards are by the doors on the inside, Merlin notices.
“That was really quite strange,” Merlin says to break the silence, causing Gwen to actually burst out with a laugh, before she covers her mouth in shock. Like Merlin, maybe she realizes that laughter is not a sound that has been heard recently in the walls of Camelot.
“Well, we may as well begin,” Gwen says, and they do.
Conversation remains light, and Merlin doesn’t bother to say much. He doesn’t feel that there is much to say, and it isn’t long before talk delves into matters of the court. Guinevere has a few questions that only Leon can really answer for her. Merlin hears that Gwen has been giving certain knights medals for their bravery in the battle. And, apparently, Gwen will have her first meeting with the full council tomorrow, including many of the Knights of the Round Table in attendance. After the four of them are finished dining, the round table will be brought out — probably for the first time since Camlann.
“There is actually a very important matter I wish to discuss at the council tomorrow,” Gwen says, her eyes falling straight onto Merlin.
“And what is that, my lady?” Leon asks.
“It’s currently a private matter,” she explains. “Between Merlin and I.”
Oh, Merlin thinks, dropping his fork onto the table with a startling clang.
“I don’t mean to put you on the spot, Merlin, but I’m hopeful we can talk just the two of us after we are finished eating here.” Gwen’s tone is very formal, but Merlin reads the gentleness that lies underneath it. The gentleness that has always lain beneath Gwen.
Merlin nods, hands moving to the Pendragon red handkerchief that came on the table to play with. He wonders, for a moment, if Gwen is giving him an opportunity here — to tell Leon and Percival about his magic. And Guinevere wants to bring it up at the council — wants to discuss Merlin’s magic with the council.
Merlin’s not stupid, but he feels pretty dumbstruck in this moment.
“We can talk just you and I,” Guinevere says. “Don’t feel pressured to speak of anything now, I just—”
“Haven’t seen me,” Merlin shrugs. He doesn’t feel put on the spot, though perhaps he should. Instead, he just shakes his head. “It’s alright, Guinevere.”
“There is actually a matter that I wish to discuss,” Leon says, placing his napkin on the table. “And I hope you will forgive me for being brash but… when we came here, you mentioned something about how there is no body.”
A shiver runs along Merlin’s spine. Leon really has nerve, doesn’t he? Wanting to talk about Arthur’s death at the dinner table.
“Leon…” Guinevere trails off.
“Forgive me, Your Majesty, but I think this is an important matter. Not only for all of us to understand what exactly happened to the King, but for closure of yourself.” Leon turns to Merlin. “Where is the King?”
“Is this an interrogation now?” Merlin questions him, grief-filled anger filling up within him.
“No, but perhaps you can forgive me for being so brash. But you see, you and Arthur disappeared for days,” Leon explains, cruelly and calmly. “And then Guinevere gets delivered a letter telling her that her husband is dead. And then there is no word from you for weeks. Merlin, you cannot deny how strange and suspect this all seems. We don’t know what happened to the King, there is no body, no way for any of us to mourn. He is just gone and we are supposed to accept your word for what happened — and still, we don’t even know what that is.”
Merlin glares daggers into Leon’s skin, he hopes the strength of it can hurt. “Arthur was struck by Mordred at the end of the battle. Arthur managed to strike back — Mordred is dead. I was told of a place that could heal him, and so we travelled alone together. I was taking him to the Sidhe at the Lake of Avalon to heal him.”
“And?”
It’s like a sword straight through Merlin’s heart. “We didn’t make it in time.”
“So then where is the King?” Leon demands.
“Leon…” Guinevere whispers.
“He is in Avalon. It is to be his final resting place.” The explanation is simple, and plain, and Merlin hopes it will be enough.
Leon shakes his head, huffing out a breath, “Arthur’s resting place was not something for you to decide. Your actions were foolish, Merlin. Gaius could have tried to help Arthur here, and if not, he could have died peacefully, not travelling alone with you.”
It hurts. Leon has never criticized Merlin like this, Leon has always been so kind, a friend, like all of the knights are to Merlin. He must be truly upset to be talking to him like this, Merlin realizes. But it mostly makes him angry. How is Leon to know what Arthur’s final moments were, how would he know if Arthur was unhappy? If he wasn’t at peace? How would Leon know the level of pain Arthur was in? No. Only Merlin knows that. And being selfish, he will take it with him to his grave.
“You made a horrible mistake,” Leon hisses. “You took Arthur’s final moments with Guinevere away from her, and she didn’t deserve that. What do you think you were doing?”
“I was trying to heal him,” Merlin says sternly.
“How?!”
“Magic,” Merlin says simply, because he doesn’t care anymore. Guinevere knows, Arthur knew, even Morgana knew in the end. In Ealdor Gwen assured him he was safe, so what is the harm in giving up? In completely surrendering. What would the worst of it be? Merlin being forced to leave Camelot?
And Leon, who is typically so full of composure, who up until this point in their conversation — if you could even call it that — had a retort for everything Merlin had set out before them all, was speechless. His mouth hanging open.
“Have you heard of the sorcerer who was at Calmann?” Merlin puts out. He looks around the table, Percival is nodding at him.
“It was me.”
Leon continues to be speechless.
“What?” Percival breathes.
“I am a sorcerer,” Merlin recites. “I have magic. I am magic. I was born with it, I was never taught it, it just is—”
“That was you in the battle?” Percival interrupts, eyes bright and impeding onto Merlin.
“Yes…”
“That was incredible,” Percival continues. “Merlin, that sorcerer — you — stopped hundreds of men with the raise of your hand. You made a dragon stop mid-attack and fly away.”
Merlin flushes, embarrassed. “It was nothing…”
“Nothing?!” Percival guffaws. “You’re telling me you single handedly ended a war, but it was nothing?”
“I—” Merlin starts and stops, he doesn’t know what to say. Because, yes, he supposes that is what he is saying.
“Did the King know?” Leon asks. Merlin looks up and meets Leon’s eyes, dark and unreadable and it fills Merlin with both fear and anger.
“Arthur knew,” he says. “In the end.”
“Arthur knew, and you didn’t heal him,” Leon says, a fact not a question. “I assume if you can speak to dragons you could heal a wound.”
Merlin sits up straighter in his chair. “Mordred’s sword was forged in a dragon’s breath. It was not a mortal wound that could be healed with simple magic. Avalon was supposed to do that, but as I said… we did not make it in time.”
A hush falls over the table. If anyone hasn't finished eating at this point, they do not finish now, all appetite lost. Merlin chances a glance up towards Guinevere, who is sitting at the end of the table. Her head is bowed, her hands in her lap. Unexplainable guilt rises in Merlin’s chest. Maybe Leon was right. Maybe he should have brought Arthur back to Camelot. He deserved to be with Gwen in his final moments, not Merlin, not his stupid, useless servant. Who had lied for years. Lied.
“You had magic all along,” Leon mumbles.
“Yes—” Merlin starts.
“So you’ve been lying. All this time, all these years we have known you, you have lied to us all. You have broken Camelot’s laws, and practiced magic, even under the time of Uther?”
“I think…” Guinevere begins. “That is enough interrogation of Merlin for this evening, Leon.” There are tears in her eyes and Merlin feels horrible, nothing else matters, because the last thing in the world he ever wants to see is Guinevere crying.
“My lady I am so sorry,” Leon immediately goes formal, his head dropping into his shoulders as a seated-bow. “I just wanted to protect you.”
“I do not need protecting,” Gwen says sternly, through gritted teeth. “I never have, and being widowed does not change that.”
Silence completely washes over the table, Merlin sees Percival calmly reach for his tumbler and take a sip of his mead.
“Merlin,” Gwen says calmly. “I care for you so deeply, you know that.”
Merlin isn’t quite sure he does, but he nods anyway.
“I am so pleased you told us about your magic,” Gwen continues. “You are safe here. And I want to make that a reality for everyone.”
The hair on the back of Merlin’s neck stands on its end.
Leon speaks up again. “My lady, you cannot possibly mean—”
“I’m going to legalize magic,” Guinevere states, and Merlin feels like he’s going to puke.
“I for one,” Percival finally says. “Support your decision, Your Majesty.” And though he is speaking to Guinevere, his eyes fall upon Merlin, who feels as though he could burst out into tears.
“Magic can be used as a weapon, yes,” Percival explains. “But it is all down to the individual. Such as a man can utilize a sword, a sorcerer can utilize magic. We know you, Merlin, perhaps we did not know all there is to you. But I know you enough to know that you are not evil, and neither is your magic. If the Queen wishes to legalize magic across the land, I support it.”
“I think it is dangerous,” Leon says, thickly.
“Magic is not always dangerous, Sir Leon,” Guinevere is quick to say.
“I — I agree with that,” Leon says, though Merlin isn’t quite sure he’s telling the truth. “But to come out of the blue to the council with this egregious declaration of support towards magic is almost certain to be met with criticism. Many of Arthur’s councilmen were also part of King Uther’s, and will almost certainly disagree with your stance, Your Majesty.”
“Then they will be dismissed!”
“You are being too risky,” Leon criticizes. “You have been the sole ruler of this land for only a month, and you are already wanting to turn Camelot’s laws on its head. You are asking for Camelot’s enemies to attack us, if you move forward with this— ”
“May I say something?” Merlin finally pipes up, sick of sitting and listening to people talk about magic like they knew anything about it.
“Much of what you have all said is true,” Merlin starts. “Magic is used by an individual to do whatever they wish to do with it — whether it is good, or evil, or whatever there is in between. Legalizing all magic within Camelot’s walls at a moment's notice would cause outrage, fuelled by close to thirty years of rhetoric passed down from an evil, mournful, pathetic man — Uther.
“I want to live freely,” Merlin states. “I have had magic all my life, it has always been a part of me, and I came to Camelot to find myself and instead I found—” Arthur, a destiny, friends, too much to name. “— I found many things. But I also hid a part of myself. And,” now that there is nothing left, “now it is time for me to be truthful.”
“I support you, Guinevere,” Merlin casts a fond smile towards her. “Not that words of support from a servant will mean much to the council, especially after they discover that I have been lying for close to ten years. But I support this decision nonetheless. I think you should be cautious, though. Leon is right, you cannot delve into this headfirst, you must take slower steps. We cannot cause war inside the Kingdom, it is too dangerous.”
“Merlin, I cannot let you spend one more day in Camelot having to hide who you really are,” Guinevere says. “It is not fair.”
“Start with the death penalty,” Merlin explains. “It will be less of a shock to the council, but it will accomplish what part of the main goal is — stopping those with magic from death, correct?”
Guinevere nods slowly. “Yes, that may work. Leon — what do you think?”
“I agree that it must be taken slow. Merlin’s suggestion is a good one.”
“Then that is what it shall be,” Guinevere explains. “But I want to make it very clear — the goal is to eventually withdraw the ban on magic completely. All individuals, no matter their ability, should be able to live freely in Camelot’s walls.”
The three men all nod.
“Arthur would have done the same,” Guinevere’s voice wavers, her eyes fill with tears though she has a bright smile on her face. “I know it.”
With the dinner conversation fairly sour after the various revelations, it wasn’t long before Leon was excusing himself from the table, bowing to Guinevere before he left.
“Merlin,” he pauses before leaving. “I hope you can forgive me for my behaviour tonight. As I’m sure you understand, it has been difficult for a lot of us lately…”
“Yes,” Merlin mumbles. “Consider it forgotten.”
Leon reaches forward and they grasp elbows, a friendly, solemn handshake between two old friends. “I’m glad,” he says. “And… I am glad to know your secret. I may want to have a few conversations in the future, because I have a feeling this would … answer a lot of curiosities.” There is a smile on Leon’s face now, Merlin wonders what memories he is thinking of.
Merlin smiles slightly at that thought.
Leon leaves with another slight bow towards Guinevere.
Percival is next, bowing towards Gwen, and then coming and pulling Merlin into a stiff hug.
“A sorcerer,” he laughs. “I can hardly believe it.” Merlin just shrugs in response.
“Gwaine would have been so mad he wasn’t the first to find out,” Percival laughs, though Merlin can see the pain behind it. He feels it himself. But Merlin can’t say that what Percival is saying is true. They don’t know how Gwaine would have reacted to this news, or Elyan. But that doesn’t matter now. Merlin nods, and Percival through the doors, suddenly leaving Gwen and Merlin alone.
Merlin can barely remember the last time he was alone with Guinevere in a room.
“Will you accompany me back to my chambers?” Gwen asks quietly. Merlin nods.
They walk slowly through the quiet halls of Camelot, Gwen’s arm linked through Merlin’s as they walk together companionly. They walk in silence, and Merlin is grateful that it is not awkward between the two of them, though Merlin can feel the weight of their unsaid conversations heavy upon them. There is much Merlin still needs to tell her, much he is afraid to tell her. And he figures that there are many more questions Guinevere may have about Avalon.
The two arrive at the doors of Arthur’s chambers, and Merlin’s curiosities from days ago are answered. She remains in Arthur’s chambers — which long ago became Gwen and Arthur’s, though Merlin cannot help but still refer to them as Arthur’s in his mind. And even now when they no longer belong to Arthur anymore (nothing belongs to Arthur anymore) he still views them as Arthur’s.
“Will you come in?” Gwen asks, quietly. “I still — I would still like to talk with you, if that’s alright.”
“Yes,” Merlin says. “of course.”
Merlin walks into Arthur’s chambers for the first time since he heard the words, I’ve always thought you were the bravest man I’d ever met; and he sees for the first time, the realities of the way in which Guievere has been living.
She puts on a brave face and a strong frontier, she always has. But Guinevere has had the ghosts of grief following her for a very long time, losing her father, her brother, Morgana at one point, and now her husband. Looking at her, beyond the mourning dress she has been adorned with recently, you would not know. Her front is strong, stable, and able to withstand anything that is thrown at her.
Looking around these chambers, it is the opposite.
It is, almost exactly, how Merlin remembers it being. Arthur’s desk, covered in scrolls from his daily meetings, a jacket, thrown half-hazardly over a chair in the corner of the room. It isn’t messy. No, Merlin never let Arthur’s rooms get messy. But it is most certainly a time capsule of the last moment Merlin was in here — a month ago — and absolutely nothing has changed. None of Guinevere’s belongings are visible, and Merlin wonders where she even keeps her belongings.
“Sit with me?” Gwen asks.
Merlin nods, going to sit down at the table where he served Arthur thousands of meals, where he sat with him to go over speeches, where they would sometimes sit and share drinks together after feasts.
“Would you like some water?”
“Let me,” Merlin interrupts, trying to get to the pitcher of water in the corner before Gwen could. She is the Queen, Merlin is the one who should be serving her.
“Sit down, Merlin,” Gwen laughs. “It’s merely a cup of water.”
So Merlin sits, and he watches Gwen go over to the corner and pour him a drink. She pauses, and Merlin watches her as she looks out through the window into the night sky.
“Night is the hardest for me,” she whispers. “I can be fine all day long, puttering away at this and that. And then once the sun goes down, I’m at a loss. Does that make sense?”
Merlin doesn’t quite understand. Every single moment he lives without Arthur is the most difficult, like opening up a wound every morning and bleeding himself dry. But this moment cannot be about him. So he simply nods.
“What happened to us, Merlin?” Guinevere sighs, taking the water she poured for him and placing it on the table, taking a seat across beside him. “There was a time when you were my closest friend in Camelot, especially in those years after Morgana left.”
“You became Queen,” Merlin explains. “And things I thought I could eventually tell you … became impossible.”
“Like your magic?”
A smile crawls across Merlin’s face. “Yes,” he says. “I always thought that maybe I could tell you, that you would have kept that secret for me. But the closer you became to Arthur, the more dangerous that would have been. I couldn’t ask you to keep that from him.”
“But I don’t understand, why did you keep it from Arthur for so long?”
Merlin stares at her incredulously, “Are you seriously asking me that? Magic has been banned in Camelot for close to thirty years.”
“That is soon going to change.” Guinevere says sternly, but not unkindly, “I don’t understand. Arthur’s views on magic were complicated. He kept it outlawed, yes, but he never went out of his way as Uther did to condemn it within the walls of Camelot. It was only when he was faced directly with it…” she trails off, her face contemplative.
Merlin sighs, “I couldn’t put him in that position. It wouldn’t have been fair.” A statement which is true, but partly hides the truth, which is, I was scared.
“What did he think of it? In his last moments, what did he say of your magic?”
Ice runs through Merlin like sharp daggers, and he cannot stop himself from immediately shutting down. Those last days with Arthur, those last seconds feel too intimate to share with Gwen. It was theirs. Arthur’s words, Merlin holding him, that was theirs, not Gwen’s.
That’s her husband, a voice in Merlin tells him, she has a right to know about her husband’s last moments.
Merlin shakes his head. Maybe it was cruel, but he cannot tell Gwen what it was like. Not yet. Not until he can think of the moment and feel like he will survive his next breath.
Gwen nods, an understanding passing between them. She reaches for Merlin’s hand, and Merlin lets her. “I am so glad you’re here Merlin, I—” her voice breaks. “I couldn’t do this without you.”
Merlin smiles, sadly, but true, and squeezes her hand back. “I couldn’t do this without you,” he admits. And he means it.
Gwen cries that night. Long, and hard, but silently, and Merlin holds her through it all. He looks around the chamber walls and memorizes every inch of them into his mind. He recalls every moment he had with Arthur here, with Gwen’s face pressed tightly against his neck.
Three Months After Camlaan.
Camelot falls into monotony. The Council, though initially wary of Guinevere’s suggestion of relaxing the laws around magic in Camelot, agree to revoking the death penalty. Apparently, it is well-known gossip that a sorcerer came and ended the Battle at Camlann.
In the towns, even down in the lower towns of Camelot where literacy is less common, there are pamphlets being shared, individuals sharing their voices on the good that magic can do. The injustices that have been brought upon them by the laws put in place by Uther. Guinevere writes a decree that these individuals will not be harmed, and those who harm them anyway will be charged with treason.
They wait another few weeks before they announce Merlin’s true identity. From the moment Merlin comes before the council, Leon and Percival standing strong at his side, and announces that he was the sorcerer at the battle, the news catches like wildfire.
If Merlin wasn’t receiving stares in the hallways beforehand, he almost certainly is now. Scullery maids, knights, and cooks alike whisper about him as he passes, and Merlin hates it.
The Council demanded that he be given recognition for his work at Camlann, the words of Lordship were tossed around, and Guinvere suggested it to him one night. Merlin vehemently shot the offer down. He never wanted attention. He’s never wanted reward, or recognition, titles, money, any of it. All he’s ever wanted for the past ten years was to be by Arthur’s side. And he isn’t.
So Merlin spends most days in his and Gaius’ chambers. He would prepare Gaius’ supplies for him, cutting and measuring, and go into the outskirts of the Kingdom to gather herbs and supplies. For all intents and purposes, one could say it was a peaceful life. Though Merlin wouldn’t necessarily describe it as such.
Merlin is hyper aware of things he never noticed before. Like the people who would stare at him in the hallways — he wondered if people always stared at him like that. He begins to notice the slow, methodical manner in which Gaius moves, like everything in him aches. He notices more and more the front that his friends put on in the day-to-day. Guinevere is aching for someone by her side in the throne room, Leon is faking propriety, and Percival looks like he doesn’t sleep.
Merlin doesn’t sleep, either.
When he does, he dreams of Arthur. He dreamt of Arthur in his life, so it was only natural that he would dream of him in death.
Merlin’s dreams of Arthur before Camlann were centered around his magic; he would dream of him telling Arthur the truth and all the possibilities that could happen. He would dream that Arthur found out by accident, he dreamed of saving his life and Arthur realizing the truth. Arthur would react differently: he would offer Merlin his hand — sometimes at the end of it would be Arthur’s sword.
Now, Merlin dreams of Arthur as they were. No longer does his mind come up with imaginary situations, of wishful thinking dreams or nightmares. He dreams of simplicity. He and Arthur sharing a meal in his chambers, dressing Arthur in his daily routine, or for a hunt. Typical things, mundane things, but when Merlin wakes it’s with tears in his eyes, yearning for his dreams to be reality.
Sometimes he dreams of the past, he dreams of Arthur finding out about his magic and sentencing him to the pyre. He dreams of Merlin getting him to Avalon in time and the Sidhe refusing to give him back, that it was all some terrible trick, a delusion to get Arthur in their clutches. And he dreams of years, and years passing, Merlin waiting for him, and finally Arthur rising out of the water and coming back to him.
He tries to make sense of what Kilgharrah told him, and he is afraid. Arthur will rise again. But how? Arthur will rise again. But when? How long will Merlin be forced to wait for him to return, under what circumstances? What will the state of Avalon be when he does?
And then there’s the secret that he is keeping now. One secret replaces another, it seems. Merlin has told no one that Arthur is meant to rise again, not even Gaius. It feels cruel to tell them, especially Gwen. Merlin is the one that is meant to wait, not Gwen, or Leon, or Percival, or any of the knights. Camelot should not suffer while it waits for its King. Merlin must take care of it for Arthur. Arthur will need Camelot strong and stable when he returns.
Still, Merlin wants to call for Kilgharrah, to demand answers from him. But he’s never gotten a straight answer in regards to prophecy from Kilgharrah — only ever thinly veiled truths of a destiny Merlin never fulfilled.
It’s early one morning, the sun is still rising through the windows, and Merlin is sitting at a table cutting herbs for Gaius, who has stepped out for his early morning walk. The work is monotonous, and draws Merlin’s attention from his ever wandering thoughts, when there is a small, quiet knock on the door.
The door opens, and Gwen steps inside. She is still dressed in her nightgown, a cloak wrapped around her body as well. She immediately looks on edge, slightly panicked, and Merlin sits up in his chair.
“Hello Merlin,” she says. “Is Gaius here?”
Merlin shakes his head, “No, he’s out on his walk, but he’ll be back soon. What is it?”
Gwen nods, coming into the room and turning to shut the door behind her. Merlin watches her back, as her breaths come in shakily. He stands up warily from behind the table where he’s sitting.
“Gwen?”
Gwen turns around slowly, wringing her hands together, and she gives Merlin a weak smile.
“What’s the matter?” Merlin questions her, moving closer. “What’s wrong?”
“You know how women have…” Gwen flushes, clearly embarrassed. “Their cycles.”
Oh. Merlin thinks his mother told him about all that when he was very young. He saw some blood on her clothes once and was worried, so she explained it all to him. He remembers being incredibly embarrassed and shocked and the moment he could get away he ran to Will’s and they talked about it all in hushed secrets and whispers.
“Yes?” Merlin replies.
“Well,” Gwen begins. “I have not had mine. Since Camlann. And I assumed that it was because of stress — that can happen sometimes, and you know, there has been a lot of stress placed upon everyone at the moment, but…”
Gwen undoes her cloak, revealing her nightdress underneath, she turns to the side and pulls the garment close to her stomach. There, underneath the fabric, Merlin can make out the ever-so-slight bump. Gwen is a very small woman, in size, but not heart nor personality.
Merlin feels as if his brain is short circuiting. He can barely make the connection himself. No bleeding, not since Camlann, Gwen’s growing stomach.
“At Camlann, would there have been… an opportunity for you and—”
“Yes.” Gwen interrupts. The answer was abrupt and short but very clear. Merlin nods. The two of them are flushing red, they don’t talk about this type of thing together. Not even before Gwen’s marriage to Arthur, and the two of them used to talk about everything.
But not—
Gwen suddenly gasps, her hand covering her mouth as if the reality of the situation is only hitting her now. “Oh my god. Pregnant.”
She rushes towards Merlin and he meets her in the middle, a shaking hand wrapping around Merlin’s wrist and bringing his hand against her stomach. Merlin almost jumps away at the touch, it feels too intimate to be between him and Gwen.
Merlin looks up into Gwen’s eyes and sees his own mixed emotions sitting there. The panic, the fear, the reverence, the remorse. Merlin’s throat seizes up and he tries to ignore those feelings right now. Those feelings are too overwhelming. The fact that he is the first one to find out besides Gwen, this piece of knowledge that was solely for Arthur, not him is almost too much to comprehend.
Merlin desperately seeks for a way in which to change the feeling that is settling in the pit of his stomach, the look that is on Guinevere’s face.
“Are we sure it’s Arthur’s?” he jokes.
Gwen actually laughs at that (thank god) and lets go of Merlin’s hand to swat at his shoulder, and Merlin actually lets out his own laugh (maybe even a real laugh) at that.
Arthur and Guinevere were not even actively trying to have children. Merlin, unfortunately, was privy to such knowledge as the King’s servant. Arthur was always so kind to Gwen on the subject, not wanting to put the burden of “hier-making” onto her too quickly. Instead, they had a blissful first three years of marriage, though Merlin knows Arthur received some criticism from the older Council members on the subject.
Merlin sees how Gwen is shaking. He takes her hand and sits her down in a chair.
“This can’t be happening,” she whispers. “Not now. It doesn’t seem fair.”
“No,” he responds. His voice so full of grief so sharp, it cuts him open every moment of every day. “Nothing about this is fair.”