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Merlin isn't keeping an exact track time. He's seen civilizations rise and fall. He's witnessed horrors and kindness. He's watched various groups be oppressed and killed by others. He's seen the aid others will extend to those in need. Through all of this, he hasn't forgotten the fear and hatred people feel towards the unknown, the different. This is why he continues to hide his magic.
Yet, sorcery hasn't been persecuted since Uther's reign. Sure, he's heard religious figures condemning it, listened to common folk spitting on its practice, but he didn't recognize the signs for what they were. He didn't notice the first systematic witch hunt until it was too late to help.
Those witch trials only ended after eight years. They took over 300 victims.
And it was only the beginning.
Smaller trials began popping up throughout Europe. Accusations of sorcery, consorting with the devil, eating children, cursing others, and more led to neighbors pointing towards neighbors, family betraying family. The magic hatred spread and continued.
Nearly two hundred years after the Valais Trials, a full millennium waiting for Arthur's return, Merlin is hunkered down inside a small apothecary in Bamberg. He chose this profession because the connection to healing and medicine settles a little of the constant ache within Merlin's chest whenever he thinks about Camelot. He'll never get back the chambers he shared with Gauis, but the scent of herbs hasn't changed in all these years.
A year ago, witch trials started here in Bamberg. The death toll and rate is unlike any previous witch persecution Merlin has ever witnessed. He's been trying, gods help him he's been doing what he can, and it's not enough. The screams haunt him. The charred bodies are burned into his memory with the oh so small ones scarring him most.
They burned children.
He heard them plead, their small bodies producing so much sound as they sobbed and tugged at their bindings.
The crowd, the government, sneered at the begging guilty with no remorse. No one stepped forth to stop this madness, either believing the asininity or fearing that they themselves would be accused if they tried to save children.
Merlin himself could only intervene so much. If he reveals himself to save one person, he wouldn't be able to save the next victim they haul out. He can not predict who will be targeted. And, no matter how much wrath curls within his hands, twists his guts, and fills his mind, he can not eradicate an entire government.
Somedays, he lies awake wondering how much Arthur would hate him if he killed everyone involved, from perpetrator to bystander. He stares at his ceiling wondering if slaughtering the city would make him no longer the man Arthur knew.
He ignores the incessant whispering in his mind that claims it's already too late. That, in spite of Arthur's last wish for Merlin not to change, there is nothing Merlin could do against the torrent of time. That Arthur wouldn't recognize his soul after a thousand years.
Merlin instead does what he can for those accused, which is to disappear those who he can or ease the passing of those he can't. He intervenes to the point of risking himself. It's still not enough.
Even more, lately Merlin has noticed a decrease in customers. More wary eyes are watching him. More whispers follow his steps. The church has knocked on his door more than once asking him to come to service, though it seems more as if they are demanding than asking anymore.
Living as long as he has, he learned not to stay in one place too long. He knows which clues indicate he should depart before misfortune befalls him. While he can age himself at will, he's odd. He doesn't conform to local customs, he doesn't practice newer religions, he doesn't marry or settle down, and his accent is hard to place. He contains more knowledge than a commoner or peasant should possess. Due to this, he's been subject to scorn more often than he can count. He's too odd to truly fit in.
While all of the signs point to him needing to depart for his own safety, he hesitates. What of those he could save? What about those he can help?
Before he decides whether to leave, there's a knock on his door, his apothecary door. Being a physician, he can not ignore the knocking in case it's a patient that needs him. This is a lesson Gaius taught Merlin. Gaius often scolded him for his lack of self-preservation, yet the old man was still proud of him. Even though it often came at great costs to Merlin, Gaius supported him through every ill-advised heroics. After all, Gaius was similar in that regard.
When Merlin opens the door, Niko blinks up at him with teary emerald eyes and his tiny fists clenched at his side. His lip wobbles.
Merlin drops to his knees, his hands falling upon the child's shoulders. “Niko? What's wrong? What is it?”
The kid shakes his head, his breath hitching.
“Is it your sisters? Are they alright?”
Niko shakes his head as a sob escapes him.
“Oh, bud,” Merlin murmurs as he pulls the kid into a hug. “I'll grab my bag and we'll go. Okay?”
Merlin feels Niko's head nod against him. The warlock releases the kid so he can run inside. Niko stands upon the doorstep, his hitched breaths audible even as Merlin plucks up his medicine satchel.
Merlin's eyes fall on his to-go bag, a blaring sense of wrongness ringing through his brain when he purposefully glances away from it. Regardless, Merlin can't leave like this. Niko needs him. Merlin will check on the siblings and leave as soon as they are okay.
Maybe Merlin could even take them with him and away from this damned place. Physicians are needed everywhere and Merlin could provide for three children on that income. The budget might be a little tight in rural areas, but Lucie would enjoy a quieter area. Runa would be glad to have help caring for her younger siblings, a task that fell on her young shoulders when their parents died two summers ago.
With his satchel in one hand, he holds his other hand out to Niko. Niko grasps it tightly, emerald eyes blinking away tears with a determined set of his jaw. He pulls on Merlin, ushering him until they are running.
Zipping through alleys, Merlin is barely able to yank Niko to a stop before the kid runs into a group of men. A group of men that appear to be waiting. Most of them are in guard uniforms, but one man is in finer clothing indicating his higher status. Merlin warily eyes them as he nudges Niko behind him.
“Apologies,” Merlin murmurs. “He's worried about his sisters. We didn't mean any harm.”
A few of the men snicker at this, sharing looks. Merlin's eyes narrow and flicker between everyone. He settles his gaze on the man who steps forward. The man holds his hands open to the side of him as he maintains eye contact with Merlin.
“There's been no harm done. Although, I am worried that he may have gotten hurt from such a forceful stop. Why doesn't the lad come over here so I can ensure he's okay?”
Niko tenses behind Merlin and presses closer to his back. “It's alright,” Merlin assures. “He's fine.”
“I insist.”
All of the men in the group straighten at the leader's tone. Merlin, for the first time, notices the man's pin. The warlock internally curses. The man is a government official. Refusal to honor his request could have dire consequences for Merlin, Niko, and Niko's sisters.
Merlin reluctantly steps to the side revealing the child's quailing form. Big, wide, emerald eyes dash to Merlin's face. They stare until Merlin gives an encouraging nod.
Wobbling, unsteady steps bring the child closer to the official.
“Good job, boy,” the man praises with a firm grasp on Niko's shoulders.
The kid wrings his hands, avoiding eye contact as he asks, “You'll let Lucie go now?”
Dread sinks in Merlin's gut when he notes the man's tight grip on Niko. He doesn't even care that Niko brought him to these men. It's not the child's fault that he was preyed upon and his family was threatened.
No. Merlin is more concerned that these men recognize the leverage Niko, Lucie, and Runa have over Merlin. Leverage men like them aren't so willing to relinquish.
“Let him go,” Merlin glares.
The official scoffs, his gaze rising to Merlin in challenge. “If you turn yourself in, we will.”
Glancing at the growing crowd and the various guards, Merlin tries to calculate his chances of reaching Niko and escaping. He thinks about Lucie being captured, about Runa, and the fact that he doesn't know where either of them are right now.
Sighing, Merlin holds his wrists out in front of him. “As long as you let them go, I'll surrender.”
“Of course,” the man smiles. He waves his hand and a guard steps forward with a pair of manacles.
Merlin allows them to be snapped on but jolts as soon as they close. His eyes widen as he gapes down at the chains. Where the fuck did they get cold iron? How do they know to use it? Merlin thought knowledge of that weakness against sorcerers was buried in time.
The official chuckles. “Surprised, witch? You'll still get a trial, but your reaction to the iron practically confirms your guilt.”
Other guards grin, two of them grabbing his shoulders to steer him towards where the official is leading. The man grips Niko's collar and drags the kid along while he ponders aloud, “Have you heard about our new building, witch?”
Merlin's gaze snaps to the man's back from where he was intensely scanning for an escape.
“We've found so many of your kind hiding that we had to have a building erected. Our very own ‘Witch House’ to rid ourselves of your evil, vile kind.”
Sour saliva fills Merlin's mouth at the affirmation. He knows exactly which building the man is referring to. The shrieks from there echo across the city all day and night long.
Frantically, Merlin's eyes fall upon Niko. The child is trembling, tears steadily falling down, and his feet scramble against the ground as the official hauls him faster than his smaller legs can keep up. The man is relentless in his march to the location, no mercy for his young captive.
All too soon, the building looms over them. It gleams under the sun the way new buildings always shine, even with its sinister usage. With one hand still on Niko's shoulders, the official unlocks the door.
He pushes Niko inside.
“No!” Merlin yells. “You promised! You swore you'd let him go!”
Smirking, the official shakes his head. “Promises to witches,” he spits, “are null.”
Merlin screeches, throwing his elbows against his shoulder against the guard on his left and an elbow at the one on his right. He's able to lunge at the official who startles before he is yanked off by three guards. Still, Merlin thrashes and curses and flails and yells as a fourth guard tries to get him under control.
A rough, resounding gut punch forces him to his knees. He coughs up spit, his breath not returning to him.
“Resist all you like, witch. It won't change the outcome,” the man chuckles.
Merlin peers up with a harsh glare.
“Oh,” the official exclaims. “You're going to be a stubborn one, aren't you?” At the prospect, glee dances within his eyes.
With a furrowed brow, Merlin represses a shiver at that look.
“Get him inside,” the man commands the guards.
Merlin is yanked to his feet and pushed through the entrance. His gaze darts around the room, desperate to ensure the child is okay, but there's no sight of Niko. The guards keep moving Merlin along until they push him into another room.
As a physician, the cloying scent of dried blood is immediately recognizable.
The room is new, but no effort has been taken to clean it after its daily use. Blood splatters litter the floor, the walls, and even the ceiling. Various contraptions fill the space. It's the strappado, though, that causes a horrified shiver to run down Merlin's spine.
He's shoved into the only available chair, straps fastened along his midsection, his thighs, his ankles, and his upper arms. A wooden plank is placed across the chair's armrests and secured. His hands, still bound by the iron manacles, are placed upon the board by a guard.
The official trails over to a table filled with a variety of torture instruments, dried blood flaking off several of them. He hums, his hands tracing multiple options before settling on a rectangular device.
“Are you familiar with the pilniewinks?”
Merlin's brows furrow before he can stop himself from emoting.
“No?” The man purrs. He approaches the chair and places the device upon the plank just outside of Merlin's reach. “You see, we place your thumbs into these holes,” he grabs one of Merlin's thumbs to jab it inside, “and then turn this knob on the side.” Merlin's other thumb is placed inside.
Realization dawns as the sorcerer stares at his immobilized hands. Even if he didn't know the device by its other name, he can recognize the crude intention of the thumbscrew.
“Good,” the official smiles. “It seems you're aware of its function.” The man tightens the device by one turn.
Merlin hisses at the pressure.
“Now, this can be real simple for you. As long as you confess and name other foul Satan worshippers, you'll limit your pain before your death. If you're a real good boy, we'll behead you. A much quicker death.” The thumbscrew is tightened again. “If not, then you will experience tremendous pain and suffering.”
Merlin shakes his head. “There's no one. No one else has magic.”
While this isn't strictly true, he knows that no one else in Bamberg is practicing. Not only can he sense this after centuries of magic use, no one else would be idiotic enough to practice magic in the middle of a rampant witch hunt.
The man, however, frowns with a slow shake of his head. “We could have done this the easy way.”
Merlin snorts, his shoulder shaking with resigned amusement. “The easy way? You just want an excuse to exert power over others. Does torturing the innocent make you feel strong?”
The official slaps Merlin across the face.
Exaggeratingly pouting, Merlin huffs. “I bet even your own mother hated you.”
A punch is thrown into his face for that remark, his nose breaking.
The official snarls and shakes out his hand. “You'll pay for that, witch.”
“Will I?” Merlin grins.
Placing his hands over the thumbscrew, the man stares into the warlock's eyes. “You will tell me those names.”
“There aren't any to tell.”
“And I'll gladly prove you wrong,” the man growls as he tightens and tightens and tightens the contraption.
Merlin grits his teeth, the muscles in his arms spasming under the onslaughtbof pressure.
“The names, witch!” The man bellows.
“No one!” Merlin shakes his head frantically side to side. “There's no one!”
Another twist causes Merlin to yelp. The ends of his thumbs are a purplish red but, where the bar digs into the bones of those digits, the skin is a bloodless white. The devices is screwed again, Merlin's flesh ripping under the tension. He hollers and flails.
“Give me names, witch.”
Merlin sobs, thrashing in his binds. “No one!”
The device is tightened.
Screaming his throat raw, Merlin writhes and desperately tugs on his hands. “No no no no no no no! Please! Please! Please!”
“Give.” The thumbscrew is tightened once more.
“Me.” Blood erupts in the warlock's throat.
“Names.” The bones in his thumbs splinter.
Thumping his head back, his mouth peels open in a silent holler. He convulses, the chair creaking under the force of his movement. The pain envelops him, swallows his senses until all he understands is agony. Darkness encroaches his vision and he willingly falls into the escape.
Cold, filthy water dumped on him jolts him awake, his torturer allowing the bucket to drop to the floor with a clang. “How nice of you to join us,” the man drawls. His face splits with his grin. “You missed them setting up your stage. It's a shame we won't spend more time together, witch.”
His thumb and index finger squeeze Merlin's chin to tilt his head up. “I would have enjoyed wringing those names from you.” Releasing his hold, he hums in delight at the way Merlin's head thumps back down. “No matter. You're still getting the punishment you deserve. We can only hope the flames cleanse your soul.”
Merlin's gaze whips up to the official. Widened eyes search the man's gaze and land on the elated curl of his lips.
“Oh, yes, witch. You're going to burn.”
Oh, gods, Merlin thinks. Not that. Not that.
He's immortal. He's immortal. He can't die. He'll survive the flames. He'll live through that. He won't die from it. It won't kill him. It won't actually end him. He'll have to live after it.
The official nods at the guards. They unlatch Merlin from the chair.
Oh, gods. Not the flames. Not fire. Oh, gods. Not that. P-
Razing, scorching pain emanating from his hands hurls him back into awareness. A howl rips from his throat as they twist and twist and twist the thumbscrew to losen it and release him.
As soon as he's able, he snatches back his managled hands to cradle to his chest. He weeps, curling into himself with eyes shut to the world around.
Without any time to recover, he's shoved from the chair. This movement jostles his injuries and throws him onto the floor. He chokes, gasping for air that won't come.
Unsympathetic to his torment, they tug him off the ground. He whimpers, his face wet from both tears and blood.
The men laugh and push him towards the door. Merlin isn't aware of how long they walk for, the consistent throbs from both of his hands distracting him from reality. Each jerk of the chains causes shocks of mind-whitening pain to flare up his arms. He can only stumble behind his executioner as he's led to the platform.
He's not capable of coherent thought with his all-encompassing pang. Instead, what flashes through his mind is the impression of his first day in Camelot and the man that got beheaded for sorcery.
It was not the last time Merlin witnessed someone perish due to being convicted of magic, whether they actually possess it or not. He was young then, however, and foolishly believed that he would one day change his people's fate. He heard a great prophecy and envisioned a land where magic is free forevermore.
Yet, here Merlin stands accused a millennium after when he originally feared this fate. His friends' faces are not in the crowd of scowling, cussing people. His mum won't receive a letter from Gaius about this. Castle walls don't surround him. A Pendragon king doesn't preside over his execution.
His last sight before the flames consume him won't be Arthur's dearly blue eyes. It won't be the sunlight beaming on his golden hair.
No. His last sight, as the flames lick at his feet, are of Niko's wide emerald eyes staring at him. It's Lucie and Runa tied up next to Niko as Runa whispers tearful reassurances to her younger siblings. It's the scared confusion on Lucie's face.
Merlin tries to be brave. He tries to give the children a false reassurance that it won't be as bad as it will be. He tries to bite his tongue.
But the fire climbs up his legs and sears into his flesh. He can feel his skin bubbling. The iron sears into his wrists. He's choking on the scent of being burnt.
He's scared.
It hurts.
It really really hurts.
Oh, gods. Oh, gods it hurts so much.
He's scared. He doesn't want to be alone. He doesn't want to be brave. He doesn't want this. He doesn't. He wants-
“Arthur!”
His tears are instantly evaporating under the heat. Blood is dribbling out of his mouth as he calls, “Arthur!”
Where's Arthur? Why isn't Arthur here?
“Arthur?!”
Where is he? The flames are crawling higher and higher until bright, searing light is filling his vision. “Arthur!”
Why won't Arthur save him? Where's Arthur? Merlin opens his mouth once more, he tries to call for his king, for his friend, but the smoke and heat smother what's left of his voice.
Arthur? Did Arthur leave him? Arthur wouldn't. He wouldn't leave Merlin to this. He wouldn't let Merlin burn.
Where is he? Where's Merlin's Arthur? Why isn't he here?
Arthur?
Arthur?
Please, Arthur. Please.
Arthur.
Over the crackling, swoosh of the flames, three young voices wail.
~~~
“-s.”
Fuck. His entire body aches.
“-an you he-”
His eyelids… He can't feel his eyelids?
“-afe. I got the cuffs of-”
Where… what? Gods, he's in an indescribable amount of pain. Where's Gaius? Merlin will choke down any revolting potion if it will just make the pain stop.
“-re okay. Your magic is healing you, but you're grievously injured.”
Merlin turns his head in the direction of the voice even though he still can't see. His lips crackle as he parts them.
“Shh. Don't try to talk, okay? You're okay.”
Water is dribbled between his lips, the cool liquid soothing his agonized mouth and throat.
“There we go,” the voice mutters. “You're going to be okay. I'm going to feed you some broth and pain medicine. Then you can fall back asleep.”
Exhaustion already pulls at his bones, but he manages to stay awake. He pushes his magic out to the other send a mental message. “What happened?”
There's a pause, uncertainty from Merlin's savior.
“Please,” Merlin asks.
“After your…” They clear their throat. “You were shoved into a mass grave. The iron prevented you from healing until I was able to remove them.”
“How long was I there?”
“I-” They swallow. “I'm not exactly sure, but I would say a decade.”
“I… was I dead?”
A hand rests on his arm. “No. You were not.”
Right. He's not destined to rest, to see his loved ones in Albion once more. He's cursed with everlasting life. He lost a decade of time and wasn't even granted a hug from his mum.
He swallows and his face tightens from the urge to cry. Perhaps he should stop here, but he needs to know. “The trials?”
“You should really rest. We can talk m-”
“Please.”
They sigh. Their hand retreats from his arm. “They continued for another four years.”
“And how many died?”
They slowly exhale. “Over 900.”
He wishes he could move, do anything about the swell of pressure in his chest and the tight knot in his throat.
Merlin doesn't ask about Niko, Lucie, or Runa. He doesn't need to.
Deeply sighing, the exhaustion crashing down on him this time emanates from the weariness of his soul and the endless grief he endures.
A hand brushes the hair from his forehead. “Sleep, Emrys. All will be well when you wake.”
Upon hearing his drudic name, disappointment sinks into his chest. His age-old grief flares up.
Even after everything he's been through, the one caring for him is a stranger. It isn't Arthur.
Arthur didn't save him. Arthur isn't here to protect him anymore.