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I.
It happens on another night of another feast before another visiting delegation.
Merlin stands with the other servants and watches and listens and serves. Every now and then he looks up to the king's table and, when he is lucky, catches Arthur looking back at him. Invariably the prince's eyes seek his when things begin to get dull, or when his father is giving a speech that has been going on just a bit too long, or when he happens to overhear the whispers of noblewomen who are anything but discreet when discussing certain members of the royal family and their, uh, endowments; and Merlin is always happy to share the moment, whether what Arthur is conveying with a look is an exasperated just kill me now or a preening did you hear that, Merlin? And sometimes, when he is quick enough and Arthur is slow enough, he can manage to raise an eyebrow just so or mouth just the right word to make the prince lunge for his wine goblet to cover a laugh and, on most nights, that is the most excitement either of them have at events like this.
On most nights.
But tonight, she strolls in.
She is a stranger, but familiar in the way all with magic are to Merlin, stirring something deep and ancient up in his bones. She comes in: past the guards, through the great doors to the banquet hall, right into the middle of the feast, right in front of the king's table. Right in front of Arthur, and Merlin's panicked step in that direction falters when her eyes fall unerringly to him, one delicate eyebrow arching up, before returning to the prince.
She knows.
The king, in the middle of a drink, puts his goblet down slowly, brings gloved fingers together. The illusion of control even though he must know that he has none. "What is the meaning of this?" He asks. The good humor of the moment before is still fading from his voice.
But the sorceress ignores Uther, eyes only for Arthur. Her smile is deadly at its edges, a hungry leer, and Merlin abandons pretense, abandons any thought of his own safety, lunges forward towards Arthur, his blood running cold -
Only to be slammed back by a wall of magic as she raises her hand and utters a spell. "Mamera gyfylness eall bemeldian!"
Merlin picks himself up off the floor before the sheet of gold has even faded from her eyes, at the same second that Uther thunders, "Guards!" and lunges to his feet, hand seeking out the weapon at his side.
She laughs, the tinkling sound bitter and sharp, and is gone, vanished, before anyone can move.
There is clatter, commotion, people finding their feet, Uther yelling for the guards, yelling for the gates to be closed, as if any of that will do any good against magic.
But Merlin has eyes only for Arthur, slouched backwards in his chair. I've failed you, he thinks as he reaches the prince. I've failed you, I've failed you, please Arthur, please.
So when his fingers curl around Arthur's wrist and he feels the thready but persistent beat of Arthur's heart, the sting of tears in his eyes is relief.
II.
It becomes apparent that the spell is a sleeping spell. Prince Arthur is transported from the banquet hall to his bed, where he curls into the mattress, as content to sleep in as long as Merlin allows, just like any other morning.
Unfortunately, that's the only thing that becomes apparent. Unlike any other morning, the problem can't be solved with Merlin grasping his shoulders and shaking him awake; it can't be solved by the stream of sunlight through the window aimed unerringly at his bed or the tantalizing scent of his favorite breakfast at the table or even the promise of tormenting his servant through one more exasperating day. If Merlin tries all of these things, it is only out of his own growing sense of desperation, not because he actually expects any of them to work.
At times Arthur has the nerve to snore or sniffle in his sleep, turning this way or that to find a more comfortable position, grasping for his pillow. In moments like these, Merlin will sit at the edge of the bed and talk with more urgency, trying to draw him back into consciousness, daring to hope that if he says just the right words, Arthur will wake.
But the prat sleeps on, unimpressed.
And hours turn into days turn into a week.
Uther posts a guard by Arthur's bed, three guards outside Arthur's door, orders men to search all of Camelot for any trace of the sorceress. It is the hopeless game of a desperate man. He rarely visits his son, but when he does, his face is drawn and tired and angry, and he can stay only a minute before he must leave again, fists clenched at his side.
Merlin sees, because during the day, Merlin does not leave Arthur at all. He arrives bright and early every morning, earlier than he ever used to, and opens the curtains to let the light stream in. He keeps Arthur clean shaven, changes his clothes and bedding as needed, coaxes dribbles of water down his throat on the hour. And all the while he keeps up a stream of muted conversation, prattling on in that way that Arthur pretends to hate.
"I'll shut up any time you'd like, sire, just say the word," He sometimes teases, thinking he'd give up talking for a month if Arthur would just open his eyes and tell him to.
Gaius recognizes the formula of a sleeping spell but insists with a furrowed brow that there is a unique component to this one, something even he cannot reason out. It is ancient magic, he says, of a powerful sorceress. He fixes every potion he knows to combat sleeping spells all the same, at Uther's request, and Merlin dutifully ensures each makes its way down Arthur's throat. And he also adds his own touch: every single waking spell he has ever heard of and some he never had before, whispered to Arthur at his bedside, as quiet as he can so the guard, always there, always at the end of the bed, does not overhear.
The prince sleeps on.
At night Merlin reads, reciting the sorceress's spell to himself under his breath, turning the words over and over in his mind. He scours his book of magic, scours every other book Gaius owns, even visits the royal archive and noses through ancient legends. One makes him snort and shake his head, and so he relays it to Arthur the next morning, speaking quietly, practically a whisper. The guard might think it is nonsense or he might not, but either way, it is not for him; it is for Arthur.
It is a legend about a princess who was cursed to sleep until awakened by her true love's kiss.
"Don't worry, sire," He whispers to Arthur. "I'm not desperate enough to kiss you yet."
He imagines Arthur's indignant squawk, the way the prince would shove into him if he were awake to hear, and it makes him smile and then swallow hard against the lump that forms in his throat.
He hates to admit it, but god, he misses the prat.
Another day passes without any better leads, and then another and another; and so finally Merlin steels himself and goes to Morgana. She has not been to visit Arthur, but he knows why. It is the same reason that Uther never stays, the same reason that Gwen avoids his eyes when they pass in the hallway, the same reason that Gaius never scolds him about the not sleeping and only insists he eat breakfast every other day.
If Arthur is dying, it is a slow, agonizing death, and their helplessness in the face of it means there is nothing to talk about.
But there is now, and he sees in Morgana's eyes the glint of hopelessness - she is not Arthur's true love, any more than he is hers, and perhaps they all know it, know that any assumption otherwise was a childish game they've both outgrown - but Merlin also sees determination. She will at least try. She comes, she brushes the hair away from Arthur's face, she presses a chaste kiss to his lips.
Arthur sleeps on.
Finally, one night, Merlin goes to see the Great Dragon. He clutches the torch with a hand that still trembles a little as the Dragon lands, and recites the words to him carefully, not stumbling over even one.
The Dragon's eyes grow thoughtful. For a long minute, he does not speak. Then, he says: "What is done in public cannot be undone in secret."
"No riddles!" Merlin insists, all of his frustration and anxiety and rage spilling over into a shouted command. "Just tell it to me straight!"
The Dragon is unaffected. He has the nerve to look almost amused. "I have, young warlock," He contends. "Now it is for you to decide how much you are willing to sacrifice for your prince."
And then he takes flight, leaving Merlin no better than he'd found him.
III.
Merlin wakes the next morning to the first tentative rays of sunlight creeping through his window. He rubs sleep from his eyes, the now-familiar itching weight of his eyelids not seeming to have lessened from the total three hours of sleep he had allowed himself.
The Great Dragon's words still echo in his head as he dresses and slips silently out of Gaius's chambers into the hall. Now it is for you to decide how much you are willing to sacrifice for your prince.
But hasn't he been sacrificing for Arthur since the moment he arrived? Hasn't he given up his safety? His dignity? His own sanity, having to put up with the prat of a prince nearly every waking moment of his life here in Camelot?
(His heart, slowly but surely, as he has seen the man Arthur will become? The man Arthur already is, at his core?)
His feet trace the path to Arthur's chambers with less enthusiasm than ever before. The guards move aside without acknowledgement at his approach, used to his presence by now, and he steps through the doorway.
Uther is there.
Merlin hesitates, not wanting to intrude. For once, the king sits, Arthur's hand in his; and he looks aged beyond his years and so, so tired. Merlin rarely feels for Uther - Uther, who is blinded by his hatred of magic, who is cruel and violent and ignorant, who has killed many, many innocent people but sleeps better for it; and who has, beyond that, in what has increasingly become a very personal offense to Merlin, the power to crush the self-confidence of the most arrogant person Merlin has ever met, to leave Arthur feeling uncertain and hurt and small, to make him sincerely believe that his judgment is flawed and his character weak. But when Uther lifts Arthur's hand to his face, presses a kiss to his son's still fingers, Merlin feels the double-edged blade of sorrow sink deep into his own stomach. He sees for once the father Arthur longs for, and wonders why it is only when the prince will never know that the king ceases to be only a king for even one moment.
He clears his throat to announce his presence.
The king looks up at him and, for the barest of moments, Merlin sees Arthur in Uther's eyes. If they were to share one trait, of course it would be the ability to call Merlin an idiot with just a look.
But Uther simply lowers Arthur's hand back to the mattress and stands. "You have come to tend my son."
"Yes, my lord," Merlin says, with all the respect he can muster, and dips his head.
"You are a loyal servant," Uther says. "Prince Arthur is lucky to have you."
"It is my privilege to serve him," Merlin replies, and means it with every ounce of his being.
Uther looks again at Arthur, at his sleeping, peaceful face; and his hands clench at his side. "I assure you, when I find the sorceress, I will make her pay."
Merlin is not sure whether that is a promise meant for him or for Arthur, and thinks perhaps it is really not for either of them at all. But he says all the same: "I know you will, sire."
"Magic is a scourge on this land. It has taken so much from me," Uther grinds out. "And now it thinks to take my son as well?"
Merlin has no answer for that, but it seems Uther does not expect one. He stalks past Merlin without a second glance: grief pushed aside, rage once again handed the reins. And pity the sorcerer he does find, whether it is the one who set the spell upon his son or not.
And then it settles, deep into Merlin's bones, making his stomach somersault.
What is done in public cannot be undone in secret.
How much is he willing to sacrifice for his prince?
IV.
For the first time since the feast, since Arthur, since everything, he goes back to Gaius for the noontime meal.
The court physician is surprised to see him, but pleased. He loads Merlin's plate down with the least stale bread they have on hand and places a small jar of honey on the table between them.
"News of Arthur?" He asks, when he finally lowers himself down with exceeding care onto the bench opposite Merlin.
Merlin tries to summon up a smile, but finds that, even as his skin tingles with the knowledge and anticipation of what he is about to do, this most mundane type of magic is beyond his grasp at the moment. "He still sleeps."
Gaius shakes his head. "It is a shame. The king has ordered that the search for the sorceress be extended to the outer villages. I am afraid if Arthur does not wake soon, violence will be at hand."
Merlin bends over the bread, tearing off a piece and holding it between his fingers. Violence will be at hand whether Arthur wakes or not, once he acts. He wonders what Gaius would say if he knew.
Probably: You've done some idiotic things in the past, Merlin, but this surely takes the prize.
Probably: I am telling you, don't do this. Uther will have you executed.
Probably: Nothing is to be gained by your death.
But that's not exactly true, is it? Not if Arthur lives again. The hard part is the not knowing, the not being certain. If he just knew, for sure, that Arthur would be okay, that it would work, then he would go to his own death gladly.
Hasn't he proven that before? Hasn't he made that point over and over and over again?
"Merlin?" Gaius asks, ducking his head a little to try to catch Merlin's eyes. "Is everything all right?"
Merlin looks back up at him and manages a grimace that could maybe pass for a smile, if Gaius is feeling generous. "I'm just tired, that's all," He says.
"With the hours you've been keeping? Yes, I should think so," Gaius says. His eyes are still dark with concern. "But is that really all?"
Merlin drops the bread back onto his plate. He cannot tell Gaius; he cannot incriminate Gaius, any more than his mere existence here incriminates Gaius.
He can't even say goodbye.
It was selfish to come here. He bolts to his feet. "I better get back to Arthur."
"Merlin!" Gaius exclaims, surprised and confused and concerned. But he cannot find his feet faster than Merlin can make it to the door.
Still, Merlin pauses apologetically, his hand tight around the wood frame, and looks back at the man who has become like a father to him, who has cared about him and for him, who doesn't deserve it, and finally, finally manages the smile.
"Don't worry about me, Gaius. I'll see you later," He says. Lies.
If Gaius says something in parting, Merlin does not hear it, because he is already gone.
V.
He goes first to the kitchen.
He has not taken a platter up to Arthur in many days now, finally having acknowledged the pointlessness of such an action, and he gets concerned and suspicious looks in equal measure as he barters and charms and, in the case of the sausages still swimming in gravy, outright begs for the food; but in the end, he escapes into the hallway with all of the prince's favorite breakfast foods and only a few aching fingers where the cook's wooden spoon had struck true as he'd reached for some fresh fruit. Given the hour, Arthur should be very grateful about the selection.
He wonders if he will get a chance to tell him as much.
The guard that has been posted at the end of Arthur's bed today gives him a look that is past suspicious and on its way to being flat out accusatory, even though Merlin had never snitched even a bite of the prince's food before. Well - okay - he has, of course, but not in front of the guard. There is no point to such an action, not when Arthur isn't awake to know.
Merlin ignores him and puts the platter down on the table, which by now is so clean it practically glistens in the sunlight.
He dresses Arthur next: a plain red shirt that fits comfortably about his shoulders, a pair of trousers, belt not yet cinched, warm stockings. Arthur is far more compliant unconscious than he is when he is awake, and Merlin tells him as much, keeping his tone muted so as not to draw attention from the guard. The last thing he needs is to be sent to the stocks for impudence before he gets a chance to commit the far greater crime.
"Of course, sire," He says, as he settles Arthur flat into the bed again. "Don't let convenience to me keep you from waking. I know how you love to inconvenience me."
Arthur rolls onto his side, his cheek mushed against the pillow, his lips parted slightly. His golden hair is a mess Merlin has not bothered trying to untangle today, and his long eyelashes stand out against his pale skin, and his face turns unerringly up towards Merlin, like even in this deep and unnatural sleep Arthur knows his servant is there. It is breathtaking to think that this might be the last time that he sees Arthur's face like this, turned towards him not in rage and disgust but in simple and instinctive trust. It is almost more than he can bear.
But there is no more putting it off. If he is to be worthy of that trust, he must do what he came to do. Merlin swallows hard. Steps back, putting distance between them, takes a deep breath, and speaks.
"Sl¯æpe tô uppe!"
It is a simple command, a waking spell; one of the very first he ever tried, in fact. But it issues forth from him this time with all the strength and certainty he can muster, whipping through the room: unquestionably the language of magic, even to those unfamiliar with it.
For one horrible moment in the aftermath, everything is still.
And then Arthur's eyes flicker and open, cornflower blue and tided over in confusion, and Merlin's relieved, tear-soaked gasp of, "Arthur," is choked off as the guard surges forward, slams him into the wall, hollering for the others outside the door, and it is all he can do not to tumble into unconsciousness in Arthur's stead.
VI.
Merlin acting strangely is not exactly what Gaius would call an unnatural phenomenon. Merlin has acted strangely since the first day he arrived in Camelot. And not only because of his magic, although that is a question Gaius sometimes thinks even the universe posed without knowing the answer; but also his easy charm, his bright smile, his ability to stare danger and even death in the face without losing either, his utter lack of self-preservation.
Still, there are certain tells to Merlin's strangeness that he has become more adept at reading as time has gone on; and, while it is also not unusual for Merlin to do something decidedly stupid, Gaius still clings to the hope that there is some small chance he might be able to prevent it one of these days. And so, once he has managed to disentangle himself from the table where he'd thought he would be enjoying lunch with the ward he has barely seen since Arthur fell under the sleep spell, Gaius sets off after him.
But it would seem today is not the day he succeeds with that particular goal.
He knows as soon as he hears the commotion. He knows, suddenly, with the painful clarity of retrospect, why Merlin came home today, even for a minute; and it forces sharp, stinging tears into his eyes that he must blink away, because there are the guards from Arthur's chambers, four of them, and suspended between them, head lolling to his chest, is Merlin.
One of the guards sees him. "Physician," He calls as they pass. "The prince is awake."
Gaius stands frozen for a minute, watching the guards haul the closest thing he has ever had to a son off in the direction of the king's throne room, and his stomach flips with urgent, desperate need, and he feels the squirming of long-dead magic creep towards his fingertips, his lips.
He ruthlessly cuts it off. Swallows down the bile in his throat at the thought of abandoning Merlin to Uther and picks up his pace, in the direction from which the guards have come.
And finds that Arthur is awake. He is sitting on the edge of the bed, dressed, his head in his hands. Guinevere stands in front of him, her hands on his shoulders, speaking quietly. She twists around to look at Gaius when he enters, and her face is a study in all the emotions Gaius himself is feeling. Gaius looks back at her somberly, and then indicates with the tilt of his head that she should move to one side. She does, although she keeps a hand on Arthur's shoulder.
"How are you feeling, sire?"
Arthur's head tilts up first, and then slowly his eyes peel open: stark, vibrant blue under a forehead creased in confusion. Gaius shoves aside the last vestiges of sentiment and focuses solely on responsibility, stepping over and wrapping a hand around Arthur's wrist to take his pulse. It is pounding hard, but the rate is not alarming.
"Merlin?" Arthur asks faintly.
"He's not here right now, sire," Gaius says dully, glancing at Gwen, who looks away.
Arthur blinks: once, twice, and then his eyes focus on Gaius. He wets his lips, swallows experimentally. "The guards were," His brow furrows, as if he is trying to unravel a complicated puzzle. "They - Merlin?"
"Sire, try to focus," Gaius says. "Can you tell me how many fingers I'm holding up?"
Arthur's mouth sets in a thin, stubborn line. "I'm not an idiot, Gaius."
It's the most coherent thing Arthur's said so far, and still not reassuring. Gaius wiggles his fingers. "How many, sire?"
"Three," Arthur says, and almost manages to make it sound like it isn't a guess. But, although he has gifted Gaius an additional finger, he does seem to be regaining some of his sense, at least enough to ask clearly, "What's going on?"
"There was a sorcerer," Gwen explains. Her hand curls a little tighter around Arthur's shoulder when he drags his eyes to hers. "At the banquet. You've been asleep, Arthur. For a week and a half."
Arthur considers this for a minute, and then concludes: "Explains why I'm so hungry."
Gwen chokes out a laugh. "That's okay, my lord. Merlin brought you some food."
Something crosses Arthur's face, something like realization, and the prince bolts to his feet. Gaius is surprised, but less so when Arthur immediately sinks back onto the bed with a grimace, raising one hand to press against his forehead. But when he speaks, he says, "The guards - where is Merlin?"
Gwen looks at Gaius, and then away. Her eyes flood.
Gaius answers: "They've taken him to your father."
"Why?" Arthur demands. He is still shaky, uncertain, but he has all the indignant authority of a prince in his voice when he demands: "For what?"
The words are bitter poison in his mouth: "On charge of sorcery, sire."
VII.
In the end, it is the utter lunacy of the charge that helps Arthur to find his feet. And once he's on his feet, and he manages to stay on his feet for longer than three seconds, it becomes easier. His legs start to work out that they're supposed to hold up his weight and his feet start to remember that they need to move and his head - well, his head still hurts. The pain is sharp, as if someone has driven a spike through his temple. But Arthur is a knight, and a prince, and a Pendragon; and he will not be slowed down from the pursuit of justice by a headache, of all things.
Still, there is a small part of him that is glad that Guinevere rushes after him when he strides out of his chambers. It doesn't seem to take her much effort to catch up with him, and she certainly seems to keep pace with him easily enough, but, well, he has just awoken after a week and a half of sleep. Apparently. So he has the right not to dwell on that too much.
But when he makes it to the throne room, Arthur hesitates. Which is when he realizes for the first time that he is not wearing any boots, nothing but stockings on his feet; and that his belt is not cinched, although he takes care of that with a quick jerk, not wanting to risk losing his trousers altogether; and that he probably looks a mess and not presentable at all, and -
And then the doors swing open, and his father is standing there.
For a moment, they stare at each other.
Then, suddenly, his father's expression slips, and something flickers across his face that is foreign enough to catch Arthur off guard for a minute, to make him forget entirely what he has come for. And then Uther reaches out and clasps his shoulder, and there is such affection in the gesture that Arthur nearly melts beneath it.
"Arthur," Uther says his name quietly, reverently, wonder in his eyes. "You're awake."
And this is - really, it's too much. The temptation to bask in the glow of that look, to let it sink into the deep parts of him that starve for the reassurance that this is real, that his father may actually feel like this about him, may actually care, is so strong that Arthur almost gives in to it.
But then he remembers.
"Father," He says. "What happened? Where is Merlin?"
Immediately the veil falls back over his father's features. Uther squeezes his shoulder once, a harsh squeeze like that of a king to his knight rather than the soft touch of a father to his son, and then lets go. "The guards reported that the boy was doing magic in your chambers."
"That's ridiculous," Arthur insists, trying desperately not to think of the despair he had glimpsed in Gaius's eyes that had clearly conveyed it was not. "Merlin isn't a sorcerer. I would know."
"It seems you wouldn't," Uther replies flatly. "Because the boy has confessed to it."
At his side, Gwen takes in a shaky breath. Arthur doesn't look at her, can't. "There must be some mistake," He says helplessly. "Some explanation, surely."
The king's expression does not flicker. He says, "Under the circumstances, I had no choice but to sentence him to death by flame."
Numbness settles into Arthur's stomach, his chest. "Circumstances?" He asks faintly, as if any of them believe his father needs any special circumstances to condemn a sorcerer to burn.
"He likely was acting in concert with the sorceress who enchanted you," Uther replies. "Who knows what their endgame might be? While she is still at large, there is an even more pressing need to eliminate any compatriots she may have."
But no. Not Merlin. Arthur remembers - he remembers the feast, as if through a cloud. He remembers Merlin surging towards him as the sorceress began the spell, remembers the panic in his manservant's expression, the desperation.
"I will speak to him," He says, swallowing. "I will get to the bottom of this."
Uther studies his face for a minute, his brows furrowing at whatever it is that he thinks he sees. Then, he draws himself up to his full height. "You will not," He says: an edict, final. "You are forbidden from seeing the boy in advance of his execution."
"Father - !" Protest, hot and burning, surges to his lips.
"Arthur," Uther says; and if there is some trembling emotion in his eyes when he speaks, Arthur finds he wants none of it. Not now, not when his next words are, "I am very glad to have you awake and with us again. Do not sully that happiness by defying me." Disdain makes his words heavy, sharp. "Not over a sorcerer, of all things."
"Would I even be awake at all if not for him?" Arthur counters, matching his father's tone.
Uther frowns. "I have made my decision," He says. "And you will honor it." He steps away from Arthur, the matter settled. "I'm sure you still need to regain your strength. You," His eyes slide to Guinevere. "Escort Prince Arthur back to his chambers and see that he is fed. And for pity's sake, see to it that he is dressed properly next time."
There is more Arthur wants to say, infinitely more. But Uther ends the conversation with the ruthlessness of a man trained to detect weakness: he turns and walks away, knowing his son cannot hope to follow, not at the pace he is setting. And Arthur is left behind in silence, listening to the receding clap of his father's boots against the floor, feeling the whisper light touch of Gwen's hand against his arm, and trying not to acknowledge the shuddering catch to his own breath.
VIII.
At the doors to the dungeon, Gaius is turned away.
The king was very clear: there were to be no visitors for the prisoner. If an exception could not be made even for the king's son, who had stood blustering at the guards for nearly twenty minutes before at last, unable to hold himself upright any longer, he was drawn away by a tearful servant, then certainly no exception could be expected for the sorcerer's guardian.
Gaius climbs the stairs with a heaviness he has not felt in quite some time, and never so severely. This is the price that the Great Purge asked of him, as he stood by in silence and watched men and women and children - friends, his dear friends, and many of them innocents - sacrificed to flames that, as hot and bright and furious as they burned, could not quench the king's rage, not really. But never had it come for someone so dear to him, someone as close to his own son as any would ever be.
Gaius wonders if perhaps this is punishment for him as well, his just rewards for escaping the flames then.
But he ruthlessly does away with these feelings. He knows them to be unjust, not because Uther wouldn't - Uther, who is at his best hard and at his worst cruel and capricious - but because the harshest, the most exacting lessons have always been reserved for his heir.
This is a punishment for Arthur.
He thinks more often these days of the child Arthur had once been: as beautiful a tribute to the mother he would never know as magic could conjure, taking from her not only her looks but also her temperament, her fierce sense of fairness, her strength. Arthur, so sensitive to his father's criticism, questioning himself because the person who had gifted him his better nature was not there to encourage it, to defend and nurture it. Merlin has helped with that, has pushed Arthur to trust himself, to do the right thing no matter the consequences. No matter who he has to defy.
But defiance always costs, and that is a lesson Uther has always been willing to teach.
And still Gaius seeks him out.
He makes his request straightforwardly. "I would like to be allowed to see Merlin."
When Uther looks at him, there is a sharpness to his gaze that Gaius has not seen in some time. "I have forbidden visitors to the sorcerer," He says.
"I am asking that you make an exception," Gaius replies, his shoulders straight. "As my ward, the boy is my responsibility."
"If I were you, I would have care what you claim responsibility for, Gaius," Uther says. His voice is cold.
Gaius does not respond.
Uther turns from him, shaking his head. His eyes go to the window, outside of which Gaius knows construction of the pyre has already begun, even though he has not looked. Cannot stand to look. "Magic. Here. In my own house. With my son." With these last words, his voice trembles, and Gaius is struck again with horrible, unrelenting understanding. Magic has taken and taken and taken from Uther, but no price has been greater for him than to have to admit his helplessness, to have to face his fear.
Magic cannot be stopped by brute force alone, but it is all Uther has, and he is determined to try.
"I am only asking to see him, your majesty," Gaius says, although the words may as well be a whip for how they cut through him. "Please. If my friendship has ever been of any value to you, grant me this request."
Uther raises his chin. "Do not suggest that I do not value your friendship, Gaius," The words are flat, hard. "Notice that I have not asked you if you knew what he was."
Gaius folds his hands together behind his back. He will not deny Merlin, not now, not ever, but to spontaneously confess is foolishness he resists. It would do neither of them any good.
Finally, Uther says, "Likely the boy saved Arthur's life." It is no small admission, especially when the boy in question is a sorcerer. Gaius raises an eyebrow that the king cannot see, but does not speak. "And I know what he means to you. So I will grant you your request." Uther turns to him again, and Gaius sees, for a moment, something like pity. But it is gone the next second, and Uther continues, "But if he escapes, Gaius, you will take his place on the pyre. Do you understand? You will burn in his stead."
Gaius takes this threat (this offer, so sweet he can almost taste it) and tucks it away, a plan to be enacted at the last moment but one he is eternally grateful to have. He would burn a hundred, a thousand times, over for Merlin, to ensure Merlin's safety.
But he swallows it all down and says only, respectfully, "Thank you, sire."
IX.
Arthur stands on the balcony, his fingers clenched tight over the railing, watching the construction of the pyre.
He'd been just six the first time his father had insisted he attend an execution. Executions still happen more often than Arthur would strictly like, but they had been a constant then; as he had not yet been tall enough to see over the railing, he'd watched through the lattice work as the guards secured the man, a sorcerer who had been caught in one of the outer villages, to the pyre and set it ablaze. He could still remember the flip of his stomach then (not so terribly unlike the way his stomach still flipped when he stood by his father for executions now), the way he'd longed to bury his face in his father's robes and cry when the man had begun to scream; but even then, even at six, he had known that such behavior would have been unbearably disappointing to Uther, who had watched the execution with shoulders set and a grim satisfaction about his face.
Later, when his father was no longer paying attention to where he was and what he was doing, he'd sought out Gaius, who had given him something to settle his stomach and patted his shoulder with a wide, understanding hand. "It is no easy thing, what you have seen today," He'd said solemnly. "But you must try to understand that neither you nor your father have easy jobs."
Arthur is not thinking about Gaius, or what the court physician would say if he showed up now to ask for a similar calming drought. He is not thinking about the look in Gaius's eyes when he'd recited the charges under which Merlin was being held. He is certainly not thinking about Gaius's idiot of a ward, who had either come to Camelot with a knowledge of magic or learned it here, who had let himself get appointed to a role in the royal household, who had had the sheer nerve to practice magic here, in this very room.
For him.
To save his life.
Well - all right, then. He is thinking about Merlin. But he can hardly be blamed. It is what he has been trained to do, practically since birth. A battle plan never survives contact with an enemy, no matter how well-laid it may be; and, whether victory is achieved or disaster is suffered, there is something to be learned from how the plan fell apart. He has learned to analyze his failures as well as his successes with the same rigid detachment, because to not do so would be to be disloyal to his men, to his people, to himself. Understanding what had gone wrong gave him the opportunity to correct it in the future, to not make the same mistakes again.
And now, with the benefit of understanding, of a puzzle piece he'd long been missing finally slotted into place, he could see it. As early as their second meeting. "I could take you apart in one blow," He had said then, in laughing disbelief at Merlin's impudence; and Merlin, not intimidated, chin up and eyes blazing with a steady, easy confidence, "I could take you apart with less than that."
And from there - from there. Questions, all of them, unconfirmed, but seeming now to point to only one answer. How had become the refrain of his life since Merlin entered it, and now the answer: magic. Only that answer does not make sense, not really, because magic is evil, only ever corrupting, only ever destroying. This is the fact that Arthur has lived for as long as he can remember, as sure and steady as any he knows; and still it is a fact that crumbles to pieces when he asks it to reconcile itself with the Merlin that Arthur knows.
Arthur turns away from the pyre, unable to stand to look at it any longer. He paces back into his chambers, to the table where the breakfast Merlin brought him this morning still sits. ("Merlin brought it for you," Gwen had said to him when they'd finally returned to his chambers, her voice thick with tears. But of course he had known; Merlin is the only person who could have fixed such a platter, laden down with all of his favorites. It is knowledge no one else had ever cared to gain, let alone act upon.)
He picks up an apple, turns it over in his hand. There is no way around it: Merlin has betrayed him.
Magic, here, in his own chambers.
Performed on him.
But there is something else he cannot get around, and that is who Merlin is. A threat to him? A threat? No threat would ever act as Merlin has, enduring his moods, plying him with insufferable cheek, never intimidated or afraid, showing respect only when Arthur has actually earned it. And why? For what? How many times could Merlin have seen him dead simply by standing still? With the witch, Mary Collins? With Knight Gallant? With the chalice? With the unicorn, just a few weeks ago?
Merlin owes him nothing but gives him everything. Selflessness like this is incompatible with what he knows of magic, but if one vision must give, surely it is the one he cannot actually know himself.
Arthur puts the apple back down.
And then, in a fit of impotent rage, he sweeps the entire tray off the table and onto the floor.
"Temper, temper."
He whirls and finds Morgana standing there, her arms crossed, one delicate eyebrow arched upward. "Morgana," He says, not even able to summon up some cursory disdain.
"Gwen told me you were awake," Morgana explains. "Though I see your temperament has not improved any with your extended rest."
"It's not as if I had a choice," Arthur retorts.
He waits for the biting rejoinder, but it doesn't come. Instead, Morgana says, almost gently, "Gwen told me about Merlin as well." She pauses. "Do you believe it?"
Arthur looks away. "Do you remember," He asks instead. "When we were in Ealdor?"
"How could I forget?" Morgana replies.
He hears the faint bitterness in her voice, but he knows why, and it has little to do with his point. It is about after: when they'd returned home, Uther had been furious with them, so angry that he had ordered Arthur taken immediately to his chambers for such a fierce application of the rod that his back had twinged and ached for days following. When the guard had finished, under Uther's strict direction, his father's hand had curled around his shoulder and squeezed, the tips of his fingers digging painfully into fresh welts; and he'd said, "Listen to me closely, Arthur. If you ever defy me like this again, we will revisit this conversation every day for a week."
(He doesn't think of the after - he doesn't. He doesn't think of Merlin's touch as he tended to the wounds, careful and light and trembling with anger, such fierce anger, empty, impotent, but making Arthur feel better nevertheless, to know that someone could be so indignant on his behalf. He doesn't think about how Merlin brought with him salves and painkillers in the days that followed, forced them on him, unyielding in his insistence to his right to care, shutting down Arthur's half-voiced protest that it wasn't how these things worked, wasn't what his father expected of him, with a flat, "No one except Gaius knows I brought them, Arthur, so stop being such a child and take them," his eyes sparking with that dangerous glint that Arthur has never pushed to understand, not really, because -
Well, now he knows the because, he supposes.)
Well, at any rate. Arthur doesn't know what punishment Morgana received, because by tacit agreement they have never discussed such things, although he knows that Uther has always been kinder with her, at least physically; aside from the fact that she is a woman, she is also not his heir. But Arthur also remembers the haunted look in her eyes in the days following, and he knows that for Morgana, her weakness rests in her memories of her father, a man that Uther has never been above using against her. For Uther, weakness is to be exploited, no matter where it is found.
"The magic," He says, when the moment has passed, forcing them both back to the subject at hand. "That wind."
Morgana blinks, working to comprehend what it is that Arthur is pointing out to her. "But," She says. "Merlin's friend, William..."
Confessed, yes. "It's better this way," He had said.
On his deathbed.
Looking at Merlin.
Arthur draws an exhausted hand over his face.
"What are you going to do?" Morgana asks suddenly, urgently.
"There's nothing I can do," Arthur replies. "Father won't even let me speak to him."
"Of course there's something you can do," Morgana snaps. "He doesn't deserve to die!"
"He is a sorcerer, Morgana," Arthur says heavily. The words taste foul in his mouth.
"So what?" She demands fiercely. "He is also your friend."
And to that, Arthur has no defense.
X.
What feels like ages ago now, on only Merlin's first official day as Arthur's servant, Gaius had told him of Arthur, "He's under a lot of pressure." He remembers Merlin's response then, the childish whine in his voice. "That makes two of us!"
But Merlin has fairness ingrained his very being, dug in as deep as the magic. He is capable neither of giving praise that has not been earned nor withholding understanding that is deserved. And there are days now when Merlin's complaints about Uther's exacting standards for his son border on treason; but, as Merlin's very existence in Camelot is treason, Gaius rarely finds it in himself to offer any reprimand beyond telling him to speak a little quieter.
Arthur has never had anyone stick up for him before. Defend him, yes: to the death. But worry after him, take into account his feelings, seek to protect his spirit; these things are foreign, thoroughly unique to Merlin. And Gaius knows, has seen, the impact it has had on Arthur, the effect. Like Merlin has given him the freedom, at last, to be the person he was always destined to be. He knows Arthur will be a kinder king, a better king, a king who can perhaps see reason beyond his own prejudice and rage.
But Arthur is not yet king.
It is not a surprise to Gaius, not really, when Arthur draws him into an alcove almost the second that he emerges from dungeons. "Is he all right?" The prince demands, his voice hushed.
They are, really, as Merlin has grown so fond of saying, two sides of the same coin, given that that was the first desperate thought that Merlin had voiced as well when they had met at the door to his cell. Gaius shifts, shoves aside the memory of his ward's bruised face and desperate eyes, and says, "For now."
"Gaius," Arthur says. He looks over Gaius's shoulder, towards the hallway, making sure no one else is near. Bites his lower lip, giving in to a kind of nervousness that Uther would insist ill becomes royalty even though Arthur is really still just a boy. His voice is little more than a whisper. "Could he escape?"
Gaius looks at Arthur with disbelieving eyes.
"I need to know," Arthur says, his tone a bid at self-control, at putting on the role of strategist, leader. But his fingers have come up to curl around Gaius's shoulders, biting in their grip, undermining everything else in their betrayal of his desperation. "I can ensure his escape from Camelot, but Father has forbidden me entry to the dungeons. The guards won't let me in. I've tried." He leans forward. "Can he get out, Gaius?"
It's an endlessly complicated question. Of course the answer is yes: Merlin could escape the dungeons, could escape Camelot, could disappear and never again be found, and he could do it all on his own, without anyone else having to commit treason on his behalf. And Gaius had begged him to, just moments ago, in a hushed voice, his fingers curled through the bars around Merlin's. He knows telling this to Arthur would reveal even more of the truth about Merlin than the prince now grasps, about who Merlin really is and what he can really do.
But Merlin had refused. And his two reasons stood facing one another now, equally desperate, equally helpless. "I wouldn't do that to you, Gaius," Merlin had said, grasping without being told the price his guardian would have to pay for his escape. "And anyway, there is no point if I can't be here to protect Arthur."
"No point?" Gaius had protested, wishing he could reach even further into the cell, shake sense into the impudent child. "There is no point to you letting yourself be burned on a pyre!"
But the look in Merlin's eyes hadn't shifted, beyond the doubling of his regret. Once, in a fit of childish rage and hurt, Merlin had told him, "If I can't do magic, I might as well die." Now, it seems it has gone even further. It has become, If I can't do magic for Arthur, I might as well die.
"I'm sorry, sire," Gaius says finally, forcing himself to look into Arthur's eyes.
He wishes Merlin could see it, how Arthur's face falls.
It might be enough to change his mind.
XI.
Arthur doesn't sleep all night.
His body owes him this, traitorous as it was in its submission to the sorceress's spell, and he exacts the price without mercy. He sits, his eyes on the fire in his fireplace even though his mind is on the pyre, and thinks. Can't let it go, not for more than a few seconds, no matter how hard he tries.
He had thought - well. It's not a pleasant thought, the idea of never seeing Merlin again, but it is by far a superior one to watching him burn. And Arthur was willing to do it. Get him out of Camelot, far away, and then take the consequences after, whatever they were. He could ensure that there would be no proof of his involvement, which would not convince his father but would at least keep him from doing anything too drastic, from feeling that his defiance had to be responded to in public. He would recover from a beating, from a week of beatings if Uther so chose. He would even recover, eventually, from his father's harsh words and disappointed looks, just so long as he had the knowledge to fall back upon: Merlin, safe and alive, rather than reduced to ashes right outside his window.
After, when they had left the hallway and were ensconced in his quarters under the guise of Gaius checking him over to ensure his recovery was underway, the court physician had told him of Uther's threat on his life and of Merlin's response. And then Arthur had understood, of course; Merlin was an idiot, to be sure, and a sorcerer, apparently, whatever new levels of idiocy that entailed. But Arthur would never believe him to be a coward, someone who would let another suffer on his behalf when he could prevent it. Especially not Gaius.
But then Gaius had looked up into his eyes and said, "He only does magic in service to you, Arthur."
He has questions, so very many of them, but it seems somehow unfair to ask them of Gaius. And it is not Gaius's answers he wants, anyway.
Merlin is the one who owes him an explanation.
And so, it seems, he will never receive one.
Dawn breaks, light crawling through the window into his room.
There is a tentative knock at his door, and then a servant enters with a tray of food, surprised and alarmed to find the prince already awake. He has nearly forgotten how jumpy servants can be, how on edge. Especially when it comes to the infamous Prince Arthur and his morning snits. On more than one occasion Merlin had greeted his morning groan of, "I'm certain I sacked you last night," with a chipper, "You did, sire, but none of the other servants were willing to put up with you today, so I valiantly volunteered. No need to thank me."
(Just a month back, he had again encountered the servant who had been holding the target when Merlin first happened by, that useless but also thoroughly unwilling facilitator of moving target practice. Merlin, who had been at his side, had elbowed him firmly in the ribs, thus earning himself a sharp smack to the back of the head; but the servant, who had blanched when he saw them approaching, had been left baffled when Arthur had handed him some coin and a faint (neither embarrassed nor apologetic, thank you very much, Merlin), "You never collected your last paycheck, after all.")
Arthur lets the servant dress him silently, and nods his assent when the man dismisses himself with a promise to be back to collect the food tray later. Arthur eats with perfunctory efficiency, not tasting the food much, but understanding that he has to eat in order to rebuild his strength.
Especially if he is really to stand there and watch Merlin burn today.
The servant returns, helps him into his armor, and then leaves with the empty platter.
Arthur meets his father in the corridor. Uther rakes his eyes over him, looking for flaws, and then gives a sharp nod when he finds none; Arthur's flaws, as always, are on the inside.
They do not speak. Their capes, Camelot's colors, brush as they walk: through the castle, to the balcony, overlooking the pyre. A crowd has gathered below them, unusually somber and still.
Morgana arrives, in finest blue. Gwen is at her side. Neither of them look at Arthur.
Uther plants his gloved hands on the ledge. There is a hunger in his eyes that Arthur recognizes, a hunger that has never been satiated.
It's a hunger for blood.
He says: "It's time."
XII.
Merlin was six the first and only time his mother took him to observe an execution.
His mother's anxious warnings and firm scoldings had not deterred even a little what was a natural part of Merlin's essence. He levitated objects and charmed toys to walk and talk and keep him company and brought her flowers that he had transformed in his own small hands, and watched the world through eyes full of wonder, seeing the magic in every mundane interaction.
At the time, the Great Purge barely past, the standing order had been execution for sorcerers wherever they were discovered. And so, when the news came that a sorcerer was to be executed in a neighboring city, she had taken him.
He could still remember it: the jostling crowds hissing monster, their terrible fear, the way his mother's hand had tightened about his. The man, on the pyre; the guard, lowering a torch to the kindling at his feet. He could still hear the screaming, smell the scent of burning flesh.
Terrified, he had buried his face into his mother's dress and bawled.
She'd drawn him away then, out of the town square, away from the execution entirely. Dropped to her knees before him and put her hands on either side of his face, brushing away tears with her thumbs even though her own cheeks were wet with them as well. "I'm sorry," She had whispered. "My sweet child. I'm so sorry, I could think of nothing else to make you understand." She had drawn him close then, into her arms. "But I can't lose you, Merlin. I just can't."
He wonders briefly if his mother knows what has happened. But that's foolish; it has been only one day, and Ealdor is further away than that, even if Gaius had thought it wise to send word. He wonders then if she would understand: his mother, who in such short order had seen what Arthur meant to him, had let him return to Camelot in spite of the risk when just the request from her lips would have bound him. She had insisted upon his departure, in fact. "He needs you," She had said.
He wonders if she'll know how sorry he is to do this to her. This, the one thing she had worked so hard to prevent.
Mid-morning, the guards come and collect him. They lead him through the castle to the courtyard. Gaius lingers at the outskirts of the crowd, and Merlin looks at him and then away, biting his lip. Gaius wanted him to run, had begged him to run, likely still does not understand, even now. But Merlin can't do that. Couldn't do it, even if he didn't know Uther well enough to know that Gaius's life would be forfeit in his stead, even if he thought that everyone he left behind would be okay.
No. If he can't be here, with Arthur, then there is nowhere he belongs.
He lifts his eyes to the balcony, and his breath catches in his throat. Gwen is there, Morgana; Uther, with a hand raised, calling for silence as the guard leads Merlin to the pyre. But Merlin has eyes only for Arthur, a pace back from the railing, his arms crossed defensively over his chest, that pensive look on his face. Gaius had said he was fine, awake, recovering, and of course Merlin had believed him; but still it sets something right in his chest to see it for himself. If this is the only relief he will receive, to know that Arthur is fine and his sacrifice is not for nothing, then it is enough.
It has to be enough.
The guards begin to tie him: hands behind the post, tight enough to cut off his circulation. He thinks faintly he will probably not be able to feel his hands even before the fire reaches them.
Uther is speaking, something about the consequences of sorcery and how magic is a scourge on their land and how they must rid themselves of it wherever they find it. How Merlin is every bit as responsible for the near-death of his son as the sorceress who had cast the spell and, really, Merlin would have been offended about that if he cared at all what Uther thought of him. (But he knows there is no one who can earn Uther's esteem, not even the one person who deserves it the most, not even - )
Arthur's eyes meet his. And even across this distance, he can see the agony in them.
The guard steps back, and another approaches with a lit torch. Merlin looks away, looks at the torch, his heart in his throat. There is nothing but the hum of his own fear in his ears.
And then -
And then -
"Merlin!" Arthur's voice, cutting through the fog, the one voice Merlin is more attuned to than any in the world. "Run!"
XIII.
The words have barely left Arthur's mouth - spontaneous, desperate, but he can't stand here and watch Merlin burn, not when his blasted idiot of a manservant has the nerve to meet his eyes and look at him like that, like there is nothing in this world that matters more to him than Arthur - no, Arthur cannot allow it, not if there is something, anything, he can do to prevent it - when Uther whirls on him, battle-hard instincts making him quick to react, to push Arthur back one step, then another and another, until he is up against the railing. There is something in his father's eyes, something hard and sharp and furious, and something in the way that his hand flexes in the direction of his sword that makes Arthur understand.
For this defiance, no matter what Merlin does next, even if Merlin stays and burns, there will be no forgiveness.
"You would dare?!" Uther roars.
Below them, there is commotion, the people confused and alarmed and disoriented and scattering. Behind Uther, he sees Morgana surge forward a step, sees Gwen grab her hand.
"Arthur!" Merlin, below him somewhere, his voice as desperate as Arthur has ever heard it. "Arthur, jump!"
There is no time to think. There is only the time to trust his own instincts, to trust what he sees on his father's face and what he knows of his servant.
To choose.
It is less a jump and more of a fall, awkward and uncoordinated. Uther grabs at him, misses by less than an inch. And then Arthur is falling - falling - falling -
He is aware, in the hairbreadth of a second before he impacts cold cobblestone from heights he would be unlikely to survive, of movement; beneath him, a wagon appears, full of soft hay. He lands, and then slides off, onto his feet, adrenaline pumping through his veins.
"Seize them!" Uther thunders, and only then does Arthur become aware of the fact that Merlin has somehow freed himself from the pyre, is at his side, has closed his hand over his wrist. His eyes are wide and frantic, standing out against the livid purple bruises that color his face.
Merlin shoves him, breaking the stupor. "Run!"
Arthur obeys.
They go together: out of the courtyard, into the streets, the clatter of pursuing guards behind them. People scurry out of their way, watching with wide eyes as their prince and his manservant fly past. And Arthur knows, he knows, Merlin is doing magic behind them, making it clear that his sentence was perfectly just and that nevertheless Arthur had freed him, and he can't look back, can't bear to think of what he has done, not yet, not yet, not yet -
They make it to the city gates, which are just sliding shut. Arthur starts to falter, but Merlin growls, "I said run, Arthur!" with endlessly more authority than he has any right to put behind the command. Arthur looks at him, beside him now, keeping pace; he looks just in time to see the gold flash in his eyes, and then to stumble a step as the gate flies up again, sending one guard tumbling helplessly to the ground.
Merlin closes a hand around his arm and pulls. "Don't stop!"
They keep running.
They don't stop.
XIV.
They are in the woods before either of them slow.
Merlin is breathing hard, the air wrenching out of him in short, sharp, rapid pants. Arthur sucks in air to get a handle on his own breathing; he's done this sort of exercise his whole life, and could have done it much longer were it required of him, although his body is stammering a bit, still weakened from the extended rest. They're stopped now, though, so Arthur looks back the way they've come instead, dismay curdling his stomach. "Well," He says, hands flexing into fists at his side. "That was stupid."
Merlin looks at him helplessly. "I didn't," He says, still gasping for air. "Ask you to do that."
Arthur rolls his eyes, gallantly resisting the urge to point out that Merlin had been in no position to ask anyone for anything. "Sit down before you fall over," He orders instead, taking back his correct role in the chain of command.
And Merlin, for once in his life, obeys without argument, falling back into a seated position on a large rock. His breathing finally starts to settle down, and he says after a minute, "We have to keep moving."
"And go where?" Arthur asks, a little harsher than he means to. "In case you didn't notice, we just committed treason."
Merlin is silent for a few heavy seconds. And then he says, "This makes two times I've committed treason in the last two days, then. That has to be a record."
There is a note of reluctant humor in his voice, as if he's trying to find the positive in this situation. But there is no positive in this situation, and fury settles hard like a burning coal in the pit of Arthur's stomach. He storms over to Merlin, hauls him to his feet again, his grip harsh about Merlin's collar. "Don't you dare joke about this!" He demands. "You betrayed me!"
Merlin blanches, which only makes the bruises on his face stand out even more. But: "I didn't!" He protests, pulling away. "I would never betray you, Arthur!"
"How can you even have the nerve to say that?" Arthur barks a furious laugh. "You've lied to me, all this time. Deceived me. You have magic!"
"I'm sorry about that, Arthur. I am, I'm sorry, but you must know understand: I use it for you!" Merlin is practically pleading. "I only ever use it for you, Arthur, I swear it. To help you. To - to save you."
Arthur turns away, draws a hand over his face. "I don't need magic to save me," He says.
The silence that follows is almost hurt, even though of the two of them Merlin is years away from having the right to feel hurt.
Arthur drops his hand to the pommel of his sword, as if he has not already rendered the threat moot by the mere fact that Merlin is still alive instead of a pile of ashes at the base of a pyre. "At least tell me when you learned it," He says, not trying to keep the bitterness out of his voice.
"I didn't learn it," Merlin replies. "I've always had it. Since I was born."
Arthur scoffs. He's not a fool. He might not know much about magic, but he does know, "That's impossible."
"It's the truth."
There's more he wants to say, but he doesn't get the chance.
Because there, in front of him, quite out of nowhere, the sorceress has appeared.
XV.
For a moment, it is as if time has frozen.
Arthur's fingers rest against the pommel of his sword, but they make no move to curl around it. He just stands there, looking at the sorceress, spellbound.
And Merlin stands behind, looking at both of them, fear like a toxin in his blood, slowing his every thought to a crawl.
Not again.
This cannot happen again.
Arthur snaps out of it first, drawing the sword with less grace than is his usual, dropping into a crouch. Merlin has come to admire Arthur's skill, his ability to size up an opponent in a moment, to suss out weakness and exploit it to his favor. But if there is weakness in this sorceress, it is not for Arthur to exploit, to defeat.
Merlin steps forward, closes a hand around Arthur's bicep, thrusts him back, fully ignoring Arthur's indignant squawk. It has always been his lot to protect from the shadows, to hope he can do enough without anyone knowing; were the situation not so dire, he might have had time to indulge in the thrill of being able to actually stand between Arthur and the danger for once, to make known his claim of protection over the prince with his head lifted high. To say, in a voice that is so low and dangerous and authoritative that it is almost not his own, "You keep away from him."
The sorceress is tall and beautiful, with dark hair and dark eyes and a smile that seems, now, almost fond. "I mean your prince no harm, Emrys," She says.
The name pricks at his skin. He has to make an effort not to look back; he doesn't want to see Arthur's face, his reaction, not in this moment. "You'll forgive me if I don't believe you."
She cants her head to one side, as if acknowledging his point. "There is nothing to fear now," She offers, as if this is somehow a counter. "You have passed the test."
"I solved your riddle days ago!" Merlin snaps, feeling magic surge in his veins at the fierceness of his emotion. "In the meantime, I could have been killed!"
"No, I don't think so," The sorceress says, her voice low and thoughtful, her eyes straying from his face. Although he cannot see Arthur, Merlin knows she has pinned him again with her gaze. "And anyway, you have both passed the test. As I believed you would."
"Don't look at him," Merlin insists, stepping again into her eye line, stepping again between Arthur and the threat. Yes, this is something he could get used to. "Address me. Tell me who you are."
Her expression is almost dry when she looks at him again. This, now, is a look he is familiar with: it is an expression that says mind your betters, boy. He lifts his chin, daring her to express the sentiment aloud. Things are in the open now, and he will be happy to demonstrate just who has more power. Again, magic stirs in his veins, tingles at the tips of his fingers. With the exception of Arthur, he has nothing else to lose; and, if all he will ever be allowed to have of Arthur again is the assurance of his physical safety, well, he will cling to that with all that he is.
But after a moment, the sorceress steps back. Her face softens; her head dips. "I will not be able to explain to your satisfaction now, Emrys," She says. "But what is Fate, really, save the workings of Chance?"
She's as bad as the Dragon. "No riddles," Merlin says. The same words he last threw at the Dragon, but he says them now with more authority, more deadly calm. "Just tell it to me straight."
"But what would Magic be if everything about it were plain?" She counters with a smile.
And then, holding out a hand, eyes spinning brilliant gold, she says, "Edhwierft!"
And the world fades.
XVI.
Merlin slams back into his body.
There is no other way to describe it. It is as if someone has taken his very essence and hurled it across a great distance, disintegrating in an instant the him that existed there before. His hands tremble, the pitcher he is clutching rocking forward, its contents licking hungrily up the sides in a bid to escape. Luckily, it is half empty, saving him the embarrassment of scrubbing perfectly good wine off of the stone floor, which Arthur would have ensured -
He blinks.
Blinks again.
"Dozed off for a moment?"
The question startles him, and he nearly spills the wine again. Carefully, he adjusts his hold and turns to look at Gwen, who is standing next to him with one eyebrow arched up in delicate admonishment. "What?" He asks, feels the reflexive clumsy smile. "Me? No, of course not."
Gwen hums, clearly not believing him; but there is amusement sparkling in her eyes. She reaches out and takes the pitcher from him. "Steady, Merlin. Arthur's watching."
Merlin's eyes shoot up, panicked realization clawing into his chest as two realities collide into one.
The feast.
This feast.
The one that started everything, the one that -
That never happened?
But then his eyes find Arthur's. And in Arthur's eyes, as the bafflement fades in step with his own, he sees it, feels its weight echoing back into his own chest.
Knowledge.
Arthur reaches out and curls his fingers around his wine goblet, sliding it across the table towards him. His fingers tremble ever so slightly as he lifts it to his mouth, takes a sip. Then he puts it down again, pushes it away from him, like the drink has sullied his stomach rather than settling it.
Uther leans towards him then: cheerful, amused, wanting to share a joke. Arthur's face pales when their eyes meet, but he admirably doesn't flinch back, even though the memory of how Uther had last looked at him - had never looked at him, now? - must be fresh in his mind. Instead, Arthur dredges up a smile, and then a warm chuckle, and if no one but Merlin notices how Arthur's throat works up and down, bobbing as he wrests back control from his emotions, well, that is really nothing new.
But what is new, and in a way that leaves Merlin's stomach churning with panic and dread, is the way that Arthur's eyes do not seek out his, not even once more, for the rest of the feast.
XVII.
More than anything, Arthur longs to escape the feast, to go and close a hand around Merlin's arm and haul him out of here and back to his chambers. To be forced to sit here and endure such banality while hanging over their heads is a reality from which neither of them will ever again be able to escape is torment.
But Camelot's heir knows better to indulge selfish whims when there are eyes upon him. So he laughs and drinks and acts as if all is fine, all the while avoiding Merlin's gaze, because if he looks at his manservant, he knows - he knows - it will all go out the window.
Finally, when the evening grows late and the party begins to break up - finally, then, Uther leans towards him. "You look pensive, Arthur," He says. It is not a rebuke yet, in part because his father's eyes are sparkling with the effects of too much wine. Arthur looks into them and tries not to think of how they looked last time he held them, how they glistened with rage and anger and hatred and fear. "Is anything the matter?"
"No, Father," Arthur says. "I'm just a little tired."
Uther smiles magnanimously and claps him on the shoulder. "Go and get some rest, then, son."
If there is irony in this being his dismissal, given the way he supposedly left the table last time (and yet, apparently, no time - but there is too complex a thought to have now), Arthur does not acknowledge it. He mutters a polite, "Thank you, sire," and stands, collecting his servant with a sweeping glance. Merlin puts the serving pitcher he has apparently reclaimed from Guinevere down on the table, sidesteps a swaying intoxicated guest, and follows.
The silence is deafening. Usually when they leave the banquet hall, Merlin has something to say: an observation, a joke, a relieved sigh. Today, Merlin follows almost submissively, a half-step behind Arthur, proper and polite in a way that he never is; and, as much as Arthur longs to break the tension himself, he finds he cannot. There is a heavy lump in his throat and pressure behind his eyes. What was pressing before is quiet now, hanging between them rather than exploding around them; and he knows what he must do, no matter how much it hurts.
He cannot let the future they apparently never lived happen again.
In his chambers, Merlin undresses him in the same weighted silence, removing his circlet, his cloak, his armor, his shirt, his trousers. He takes exquisite care, takes his time, knowing too the conversation they must have, this knowledge that they must give voice to. It comforts Arthur, in some ways, to know that Merlin is as reluctant as he is.
But it is unavoidable.
Merlin helps him into his nightshirt, smooths down the fabric against Arthur's shoulders. Arthur is beginning to suspect that he is the braver of the two of them, because: "Sire, I - "
Arthur holds up a hand to stop him. It feels to him as if the air has gone out of his room; he cannot do it. He cannot hear Merlin's apologies, cracking soft in the space between them, cannot look into his desperate eyes and hear again I only ever use it for you, Arthur, I swear it.
He can't.
He won't.
He turns and strides onto his balcony.
The night air is biting, especially given his light attire. A breeze nips at his bare knees, teases at his hair. He leans against the railing, the cool stone. Treason; he'd committed treason. Not even an hour ago, and yet, now, he supposes, not at all. And, while he'd barely had the time to think about the consequences of his actions, he'd nevertheless been sure he would never be here again, to see this, to look out over his country and know it was still his. Arthur wishes he could reach for that rage, the anger he had felt in the forest when he had first confronted Merlin, but how can he now? It is drained from him, leaving behind only a terrible weight. He had made his choice. They both had. Even if the choice is undone now, it still sits there, heavy pressure against his chest, no less real for all that it seems it never happened now.
Magic, again wreaking havoc on his life.
Merlin steps out after him: again, standing a pace away, demure; but Arthur can feel the emotion, raging just below the surface.
Everything with Merlin has been below the surface, for so long. He realizes that now.
"You should go," He says finally. Means to say it harshly, to leave no doubt for either of them that this is the best, the only, route available to them. But he can't. If these are to be his last words to Merlin, he can't. "You shouldn't stay."
Silence, so long he nearly cracks. And then, Merlin says, in a trembling voice, "Is that what you want, Arthur?"
Arthur has to swallow hard against the lump in his throat. He looks at the courtyard, at the spot where the pyre had been constructed. The pyre on which Merlin would have burned. "It doesn't matter what I want."
"It does to me," Merlin says.
The words buzz through him, making his resolve tremble.
"It will not be safe," Arthur says, after a while, closing his hands around the railing. He hates the words, hates them, but, "If you stay. You will not be safe. Surely if we've learned anything..." He lifts a hand, lets it fall.
"No, I suppose not," Merlin agrees, after a moment's pause. "But then, how will that be any change, really?"
There is, even now, a faint undercurrent of humor to the words. Arthur longs to give in to it, to let it be. Merlin, still here. Still his.
Instead he says, very cautiously, "It will be a change." He widens his gaze again, away from the courtyard; Camelot sprawls before them, and he looks without seeing, knowing he should be hungry to look at her, to revel in what he still has. But his mind is on the loss. "Because I'll know."
He doesn't need to elaborate further. He knows Merlin knows what he means. If he knows, if he holds this terrible knowledge in his hand, then everything will change between them. It will have to. Nothing will be the same ever again, not really.
For a while, neither of them speak. Each heartbeat draws Arthur closer to the horrible truth: Merlin is going to leave. Merlin did not trust him with this secret before, and there is no reason why he should trust him now. He is struck by the realization that this is the greater fear to him, the greater danger. The threat of magic at his side pales in comparison to the threat of ever again being without.
Merlin steps up beside him. He puts a hand on the rail, curls long, slender fingers about it. He breathes deeply. "Arthur?"
Arthur braces himself, nods.
"I hope you will believe me when I say this," Merlin says, his voice soft and sincere. "There is nowhere on this earth that I would rather be than by your side."
Finally, finally, Arthur dares to look at him again. Merlin is looking away, out over Camelot; his face is drawn and wary, but he can see the spark of hope in his manservant's eyes, the slight upward tilt to his lips. He looks, and thinks that at last he understands.
Why chase after the illusion of affection when the real thing is right here?
"Really?" He says, and pushes away from the railing. "Even though I'm a," He draws the word out, injects as much sarcasm as he can hope to muster in a moment like this. "Prat?"
Merlin's eyes lift to his, bright and sparkling with amusement. "Well, sire," He says, making even this sound like an insult and a term of endearment in one fell swoop. "Believe it or not, I suspect there's still hope for you. As long as I'm around to help you, of course."
The End.