Haven't I Given Enough?

by lifetheuniverseandeverything42

Summary:

5 times Merlin thought he’d hit his limit; plus the one time he said something about it.

Chapter 1: A bastard’s winter

Merlin was a child, no more than ten summers old, but smaller and thinner than all other children his age. As autumn bled into a harsh winter, he looked up at his wearied mother with a bright smile. She shook her head sadly, brushing a stray hair out of his blue eyes with a loving hand.

“I’m sorry, my sweet. The village leaders have the final say, they won’t increase our share – I’ve given you my portion as often as I can. There’s still not enough. The harvest was poor. Because your father left, they won’t give you any more. They say there’s not enough to spare… I’m so sorry, my love.”

She wrapped her arms around him and held him tightly, Merlin blinked away his tears at seeing her so distressed. He leaned back and looked up at her.

“It’s okay. I’ll be alright, mum.” He assured her softly, his heart full of love for her. “I have my magic.” He added in a whisper.

“I know.” She nodded. “I just hate to see them dismiss you, to see you go without because their hearts are hard and cold as ice.” She murmured sadly.

Later that afternoon, walking in the weak winter sunlight, Merlin picked his way along an icy dirt road. His arms wrapped around his aching belly, his head pounding, he walked the length of the village – watching with vacant eyes as every door closed in his path and every head turned away from him.

He wandered numbly to the barren caves nearby to Ealdor and curled up amongst the bare cold rocks. He lit a fire on the stone with a flash of his eyes and let the magic soothe him more than the flames ever could – he was too afraid of the pyre to find them very comforting.

“Forbidden a portion, unworthy of a share, bastard boy, doomed to not survive the winter, a lost cause, a hopeless case.” He muttered to himself, rocking in the cold, almost delirious with hunger. “Haven’t I given enough?” He mused aloud, his young voice surprisingly bitter despite his age. He almost resolved to stop helping his villagers, to cease secretly coaxing crops from the soil and calling needed rain from the sky – but he knew all that would ensure was his mother’s suffering. Anyway, it wasn't like he could tell the village elders of how much he actually contributed to the harvest each year, and more and more as he grew older and more capable with his magic, as all that would achieve was a march straight to the pyre.

He shivered and extinguished the fire his magic had conjured, even though its flames could never harm him.

He rested his tired head back against the smooth stone and gazed up into the darkness of the cave until sleep claimed him.

 

That winter was not his last. He survived to endure many more winters racked with hunger pains and shivering in those empty caves.

He was glad when he got to Camelot that no one knew about his father - any that asked, he lied and said that he was dead.

He didn't want to go hungry another winter... He knew that he could, if he must. But he didn't want to have to. Not anymore.

 

Chapter 2: A servant’s sickness

It had been some time since Merlin had arrived at Camelot: he was manservant to Arthur; apprenticed to his uncle and learning the ways of a physician; and he knew his destiny. He had purpose, work to be done and even a bed to sleep in. Despite the long hours and the prattish prince, he was happy.

Until a plague struck.

It was just a simple plague – if such a devastating illness could ever be referred to as such then the world was truly backward; but after countless magical attacks of famine and plague, Merlin was almost glad that no plot for the throne or Arthur’s demise was the cause of this.

He worked tirelessly with Gaius to treat the sick, every spare second gathering fresh water from the well or out in the surrounding forest to find necessary herbs for the soothing tonics and healing poultices the Court Physician needed to make.

Despite the plague having arrived in Camelot through the farmers to the traders and merchants, since most of the castle staff lived in the Lower Town the sickness had readily spread to within the Citadel and the knights, lords, ladies and servants that lived there.

Gaius had been firmly instructed by Uther to prioritise the nobility over any ailing commoners.

Merlin had watched with barely contained fury as they were forced to hand over precious draughts of medicine to lords suffering from no more than a headache (and some fear) while those in the Lower Town died in their droves. But he did nothing to stop his uncle. Instead he devoted all his energy, and his magic, to healing the townsfolk. He knew better than to cure them all outright, but chose to visit as many houses as he could with the smallest samples of simple herbs that could be mixed into a tea to ease the effects of the plague. He barely slept for days, thankful Arthur had allowed him time off to assist during the crisis, and crossed every threshold regardless of the sickness lingering within.

He thought his magic would protect him from the illness. He was wrong.

Within a week, Gwen was tending to him and helping Gaius as much as she could while Merlin lay soaked with sweat and with high fever. When the king heard the apprentice physician had fallen ill, he sent a messenger specifically to warn Gaius of the consequences of dosing his ward with any medicine intended for the nobles.

Gaius went before the Uther to plead Merlin’s case, explaining how helpful the boy had been with assisting – how many more nobles had been treated thanks to the boy’s efforts. Uther dismissed him with a parting suggestion to find a new apprentice. Somehow Gaius held his tongue, though inside he raged.

Merlin was in and out of consciousness but aware enough to watch as bottles of tonic that would ease his pain (and ensure his life) were poured and passed to what felt like everyone in the castle but him.

“I’m sorry, Merlin.” Gaius murmured late one evening, as he bathed Merlin’s forehead with a cool cloth. “The king’s orders are clear. I can’t spare even a few drops.”

“It’s okay, Gaius.” Merlin croaked out, between rasping breaths.

“You’re strong, Merlin. I know you are. Your magic will help you. You won’t die.” Gaius assured him in a low voice, before getting up and returning to his toil.

Merlin faced the ceiling and let tears blur his vision. His head was on fire and his bones ached.

“Haven’t I given enough?” He whispered.

 

It took him another week to get over the worst of it; he was up and about before he was fully healed to continue helping people – he knew the best places to find the required herbs, it didn’t matter if going out at night left him racked with chills.

Even after the plague was over and all the sick had either succumbed or recovered, and all the funeral pyres had burned themselves into ash, Merlin had moments when he had to stop his chores to sit down because his limbs were still weak and uncoordinated or his head was dizzy.

Arthur never said anything about his father’s command and how it had nearly led to Merlin’s death; but the first day after Merlin returned to his service he only called him an idiot twice (and gave him the afternoon off as a silent apology), so the warlock never held it against him.

Nor Gaius, who was laden with guilt and he apologised frequently until Merlin had told him fervently that he was forgiven and asked him to please drop the matter.

When news reached Camelot of plague in the border towns several months later, Merlin rode out to offer aid without a second thought.

Chapter 3: A whore’s duty

Notes:

Trigger warning for this chapter: mentions of sexual assault/non-con. It should be pretty vague, nothing explicit.

It was in the stables, he was brushing down Arthur’s horse – treating her to an apple from his pocket – when a shadow fell across him. He looked up to see a knight standing there, one of the newer ones, his name was Sir Derrick if he remembered correctly.

“Can I help you, sir?” He offered politely, standing up ready to assist. He tried to be nice to the new knights, most of them were young and living away from their families for the first time – and trying to survive Arthur’s gruelling training regimen.

“Yes I think so.” Answered the lord, with a slimy grin. “Though you needn’t have got up.”

He placed a firm hand on Merlin’s shoulder and shoved him roughly onto his knees.

Merlin felt his magic spark with alarm but pushed it down hurriedly. As scared as he was, attacking a knight with magic would be nothing less than a death sentence – even if it was in self defence.

Attacking a knights point blank, even with his fists, was liable to get him exiled at the very least.

He had to be here, he had to protect Arthur. He had to do nothing to save himself…

He remained kneeling and let his mind drift from his body, let himself ignore what was happening, what was being done to it. But one thought kept returning to him, riding on the back of a sense of helplessness he rarely felt.

“Haven’t I given enough? When will I be free? When will this be over? How much longer will I have to work in the shadows, unable to even defend myself from attack? Haven’t I given enough yet?”

 

He vomited into one of the stable buckets as soon as the knight had left. He cleaned himself and hurriedly rinsed both bucket and his mouth out at the well. Then he practically ran home for the night.

He never told Arthur what had happened. But he was glad when Sir Derrick was stationed at an outpost far to the north.

Chapter 4: A boy’s bath

He sat in the small copper bathtub, having dragged it – between hisses of pain and jolting spasms of agony through his body – into the relative privacy of his tiny room before magically filling it and heating the water. He undressed and got in, sitting in the water with his legs bent, his chin resting on his knobbly knees. He sighed, exhaustion filling his bones. Lethargically he began to wash, cupping handfuls of water and splashing them gently over his skin. Wiping away the crusted blood that still stained him. Carefully he inspected the newly cleaned wound. It was wide and jagged but thankfully not too deep. His hasty blast of magic while he ducked behind a tree, pretending to relieve himself, had healed him enough to survive the journey back to Camelot.

He had been sloppy; he'd missed the bandit aiming his sword for Arthur’s exposed back. He had only just managed to catch the strike with an outstretched tree branch he had quickly grabbed, but the best could do was deflect the blow towards himself – the tip of the blade had caught his stomach, he was lucky it hadn’t done more damage. Arthur hadn’t seen, no one had. No one questioned if he was hurt, the red of his shirt hiding the blood that his magic failed to entirely stem.

Now he wept. His tears mixing with the bathwater and his own blood. He was exhausted and still had to attend Arthur later this evening. He bowed his head and scrubbed at his face with one tired hand. Then his eyes caught sight of his torso reflected in the surface of the water. He froze.

He had not noted the scars he was gaining through his years spent in secret service of Arthur and his destiny. He had dealt with each wound he’d received at the time, then thought no more of them once they were healed. Now, exposed and bare, he took in the marred expanse of his skin.

His tears were frozen on his face, shock overriding despair.

With one fingertip he traced the bottom edge of the faded burn from Nimueh, tracked along various slashes from bandit swords, circled the puckered flesh of a healing arrow wound and stopped at the still-red line of his most recent injury.

“Haven’t I given enough?” He sighed quietly, watching the water ripple at his exhale.

 

He was dry and dressed within minutes and bringing Arthur his dinner – not retorting to any of the prince’s jibes about the uselessness of his manservant in a fight.

The next time he had a wash, he was careful not to look at himself. And the next time he stitched up a wound, barely a week later, he did so without first removing his shirt.

 

Chapter 5: A warlock’s burning

Notes:

Trigger warning for this chapter: some vague implied suicidal thoughts.

The poison of the serket burned him from the inside out. It felt like nothing else he had every experienced, like his blood was on fire and so was his magic. He could feel the poison creeping through his veins, leaving agony in its wake. A kind of agony that didn’t ebb or abate. His magic ached, it screamed and writhed trying to get away from the fire inside. All his life he had been afraid of the pyre, now he knew what it would feel like. Morgause had sentenced him to an even worse death.

He felt so helpless, bound with enchanted chains that he couldn’t escape. His magic flared and flickered under the attack from the poison. In gasps and sparks he tried to get it under control enough to break his bindings.

It didn’t work.

His magic swung haphazardly at the spells holding him but it was too afraid and in too much pain to work properly. It was like a small child being handed a huge axe and being told to cut down a tree. It was impossible but Merlin kept trying even as he burned within his skin.

His hair stuck to his forehead with sweat that dripped off him as he shook from the effort and he bit back cries.

Frustration, fear and hopelessness overwhelmed him as his every bone sang with pain. He couldn’t think, he couldn’t breathe. It was agony, it felt like he was dying. Probably because he was.

“Haven’t I given enough?” He screamed out to the silent forest.

Nothing around him moved, not even the leaves on the trees. It was as if time all around him stood still in deference to his suffering.

“Haven’t I given enough?” He yelled again.

Not a rustle in the branches answered him.

“I have bled for him and killed for him! I have run and hid and lied for him! Do I have to die for him as well? Is that what you want? Is that my destiny? Is this my fate?”

He didn’t know who his questions were aimed at. He didn’t know if anyone was listening. He didn’t know if this was the end – if his time had come. He had been living dangerously since he came to Camelot, his whole life had been lived on borrowed time. If this was his time, he would accept it. Even if he was terrified that each ragged gasping breath he took might be his last.

If it weren’t for Arthur, he would have given up. But he had information he needed to bring back to the Once And Future King. His destiny was not done and he knew it.

But, just for a moment, among the pain that fried his nerves and singed his magic, in the midst of the silence and hopelessness: he wished it was over. Not just that the searing pain would leave him, but that he could finally rest. Brain depleted of air from all his shallow hurried breaths, he imagined falling gently back into the soft soil and sinking down into it – letting it cover him, so he could sleep.

That thought, that image, shocked him into action.

He refused to dwell on it and instead he renewed his efforts to free himself. As the last drops of energy in his muscles faded, he thrashed in his chains and roared out for the Great Dragon from a hoarse throat.

 

“I have killed for Arthur, I have lied for Arthur, I would die for Arthur – it seems I must live for Arthur too.” He whispered to himself, as he pressed his hot cheek to the cool earth and darkness swam in his vision.

As consciousness abandoned him and the shadows rushed in, his last thoughts repeated like an echo: Haven’t I given enough? When can I rest? When does it end?

Notes:

Weirdly this is the only scene based on a canon event... I might change it - I had an idea for Merlin being burnt at the stake (until Arthur rescues him, of course). What do you think? Should I switch it?

Chapter 6: A man’s limit

Notes:

So in this chapter I am imagining that Arthur knows about Merlin's magic at this point.

It was a small and simple thing they were asking of him, that he was asking of him. Just risky. As usual.

Nothing he hadn’t willingly done before.

Yet somehow, this time was different. Something in him baulked at the task laid in front of him. Like a horse at the end of its tether, some part of him stopped dead and stamped defiantly.

“No.” He murmured aloud, interrupting Arthur’s lengthy instructions. He looked up and met his king’s surprised gaze and shook his head firmly. “No.” He repeated, every line of his body tensed like a deer ready to bolt or a cat ready to pounce - he wasn't sure which.

“Merlin?” Arthur questioned, confused in his tone. “Why not? It’s not anything difficult-”

“There are other ways to achieve this." He shook his head again, chin raised defiantly. "I am not risking my neck again for you. I am not risking the pyre again for you. I am not risking slavery and torture. I won’t do it.”

“Merlin.” Percival spoke softly. “It’s alright, we won’t force you to do it. You don’t have to.”

“It’s no different to what you've done before, Merlin.” Arthur commented, mystified but not critical - yet Merlin twitched.

“Well maybe I'm different. There has to be a line somewhere.” The warlock shrugged, all hard edges and sharp lines, the movement painfully jagged. “Why not here? Why not now?”

“Because I need you to do this now.” Arthur answered the rhetorical before any of his knights could stop him.

Merlin whirled on him, hackles raised.

"Haven't I given enough?!" He screamed at last.

Arthur recoiled from him, his mouth hanging open in shock.

The knights all stood still, many with their hands on their swords ready to defend Merlin from whatever invisible thing was hurting him. Their gazes darted between Merlin and the surrounding forest like they could protect him from whatever made him sound like that.

"Merlin." Arthur whispered but he didn't seem to hear him. "Merlin?"

The warlock turned his heavy gaze to the Once And Future King and all his friends saw the unshed tears in his eyes.

“I don’t want to any more. It costs too much.” Merlin whimpered, afraid of how broken he must seem to them but he couldn’t find the energy to pull himself together. He scrambled for his mask, for the willpower to pretend none of this phased him, but all he found within himself was ashes.

“Oh Merlin.” Gwaine sighed softly, not hesitating to bring the servant into his arms. Merlin hid hid face in the gap between armour and neck as the other knights exchanged worried glances.

“It’s okay, Merlin. We’ll find another way. It’s alright. You don’t need to do any more. You’ve done enough.” Elyan soothed and somehow they all ended up in a heap on the fall, all curled around Merlin at the centre – at their heart.

They held onto him while he picked himself up again.

They kept a hold as he pieced himself back together.

They didn’t let go as his tears dried on his cheeks.

They hugged him until he felt strong enough to pull away.

 

Arthur apologised as soon as they were safely back in Camelot (in the end they abandoned the mission, it wasn’t anything critical anyway) and Merlin forgave him before he had finished speaking.

He thought things would go back to how they were before after that - that everyone would forget about his outburst - but they never did.

Arthur made sure to check he was happy to do everything he asked of him, he tried to give him more time off. The knights took on any tasks he asked them to and always offered to help when they saw he was busy. They all watched him closer, asked if he was okay more frequently and with an earnesty he hadn't seen from them before - at least not when it came to his wellbeing. It wasn't that they suddenly cared me, just that they made sure he knew how much they cared...

It didn’t erase the years of hiding, of working alone, of fighting and bleeding and nearly dying for Albion on his own; but somehow it made things better, like it had all been worth it all along. Not for some great mystical destiny he had fought all those years, but for this - for the friends who shared his sorrows and held him when he fell apart.

Camelot was his home because it was where his family dwelled.

And for them he would do it all again and more – for them anything he offered was enough.

 

Notes:

I'm not really happy with how this final bit turned out, any suggestions on how to improve it are welcome.

Chapter 7: Bonus: A friend’s nightmares.

Summary:

How this story was originally written.

"Haven't I given enough?!" He screamed at last.

Arthur recoiled from him, his mouth hanging open in shock.

The knights all stood, many with their hands on their swords ready to defend Merlin from whatever was hurting him.

"Merlin." Arthur whispered but he didn't seem to hear him. "Merlin?"

The warlock turned his heavy gaze to the Once And Future King and all his friends saw the unshed tears in his eyes.

They were watching his eyes so closely they saw first hand the way they rolled back into his head as he slumped to the ground and his body spasmed like it had been hit by lightning though the sky was clear and blue.

As soon as his body hit the floor they were in motion, the Knights of the Round Table hurried into position around his limp form, swords at the ready, facing out in a defensive ring. Arthur was already kneeling at Merlin's side, pushing sweaty hair from his face and frowning in concern.

"This isn't natural." Gwaine muttered, glancing backwards over his shoulder at his unconscious friend.

"I agree." Said a sorcerer, who was grinning evilly as he stepped out of the shadows behind a tree.

All swords and glares were fixed in his direction at once.

"What did you do to him?" Arthur yelled, standing and drawing his sword also.

"The Druid Lord was right. He has given enough for your sorry cause. Let us see if he will choose to save you every time if he is given the chance to try again..." The sorcerer's smile was slimy.

"What have you done to him?" Arthur repeated in a growl through clenched teeth.

"Oh he'll be alright. Probably." The man shrugged, smiling coldly.

"Probably?!" Gwaine shouted, stepping forward with his sword raised. But as he moved the sorcerer vanished.

"Yes little knight, probably." Said the sorcerer, now leaning against a tree on the other side of the clearing. "If he can survive a hell of his own making, well, of your making, Pendragon -  among many others." His cold gaze swept across the group.

"What are you talking about?" Leon questioned desperately.

"He will live out the worst moments in his life."

The answer seemed to echo in the silence.

"For how long?" Percival whispered.

"Well that depends on a few things." Replied the sorcerer gleefully. "One," he began checking them off on his fingers. "How much torment has he dealt with that led up to that little breakdown earlier. Two, if his magic can stop fighting off the spell long enough for it to complete its work. Three, if he chooses the same choice each moment he has to relive - see, if he decides to do things differently, Pendragon, he will not wake as the man you know." With that the smirking sorcerer faded into the shadows of the trees.

"What does that mean?" Gwaine yelled angrily after him before turning to the king.

Arthur had already turned his attention back to Merlin, who was now twitching and shivering.

"We have to get him back to Camelot. Maybe Gaius can give him something to help." Arthur announced.

Orders given, the knights moved as one. The camp was packed up and horses readied within minutes.

Arthur sighed before picking up Merlin and carrying him to his horse - it wasn't that he didn't trust his knights to ride with him, but this was Merlin.

With Leon's help they both got into the saddle and them they were off, trotting as fast as they dared so as to not jolt Merlin around too much.

All of the knights kept in close formation, keeping one eye on the surrounding forest as they passed in case the sorcerer came back or some bandits attacked (which would be just their luck), and the other eye they kept locked on their friend as he began to mumble and jerk in his restless sleep.

Without a word they picked up the pace when Merlin began to flail and cry out jumbles of words that had their hearts breaking in unison.

It did not take them long to reach Camelot.

 

Merlin, meanwhile, was in a hell-scape of his own devising.

Images flashed across his mind in a jumbled sequence, no sooner had one moment played out did the next begin, there was no order to the scenes he saw. They all were from his life.

Times when he was beaten and whipped, starved and denied, betrayed and abandoned, stung, stabbed, shot, hit and drugged.

Within the darkness of his mind he cried out for someone to save him, anyone to save him from this nightmare.

Through every thought, in every replay, over every word of memory he heard, one line repeated over and over again. The words he had screamed to Arthur just before he collapsed into this... Torture. They echoed in his mind, the words overlapping into one angry, grieving, agonising roar. His own voice was muted. All his lips could say was those words, that cry.

Haven't I given enough?

Over and over he heard it. It lingered in the background as the scenes played, almost one on top of the other. The memories blurred into one endless loop of pain. He no longer knew who's fist had struck him, who had caused the emptiness in his belly, who was behind the knife in his side. All he knew was the pain.

He screamed.

 

Notes:

I thought about adding a scene when Freya dies - but I've got other fics about that so I left it out. There was also the scene where Merlin poisons Morgana. And when Lancelot dies. Let me know if you think I should add them in - also please leave a comment if you enjoyed this fic!

Series this work belongs to:

• Part 3 of My Lady, Albion