Chapter Text
Merlin hisses as the harsh metal digs into his wrists. There are rumours that The Mighty Emrys, emphasis on the capital letters, wouldn’t bend to cold iron’s will…and yet. It’s hard to believe such innocent looking metal – or innocent as chains can be – could be the cause of such immutable pain. Don’t get him wrong, Merlin has been through his fair share of injuries and attempts on his life (some more successful than others, thank you immortality) but this? This is unlike anything he’s felt before.
It’s not that Merlin thought he could keep his secret forever – the opposite in fact. He’s lain awake many a night playing out scenarios in the blissful space between consciousness and sleep. In some, Merlin simply tells Arthur the truth. He comes into his chambers one night to go about his duty, hiding a smile as Arthur pretends to hate the lackluster way he cleans his room and Merlin pretends not to know that Arthur prefers his space a little messier so that it always feels the right side of lived in. And somewhere during the dream, sometimes as he readies Arthur for bed, sometimes as he fiddles with the fire, and on one notable occasion when Arthur, very uncharacteristically, invites Merlin to sit and share his meal…Merlin just says the words. The second-scariest three little words he could admit to Arthur: I have magic. Arthur’s reaction varies from dream to dream, he might yell or deny but eventually he’ll listen. Eventually, he’ll understand.
In Merlin’s favourite dream, Arthur approaches him. It’s the rarest because apparently even his subconscious knows how ridiculous it is. Arthur doesn’t know because Arthur can’t know because if Arthur knew he would say something. And in these dreams he does. These are the most peaceful and least specific. Merlin doesn't need to follow the script he knows as well as his own name (or, well, names) because Arthur does all the talking – another way it’s unrealistic. Occasionally, the dream will meld into something else, something even rarer, where Arthur tells him a secret. A secret they both share. A secret that sounds like private smiles and tastes like a sunrise. These dreams often melt into something he wishes not to admit how often he thinks of, even to himself. Thoughts of crashing lips, and hands in hair, and crumpled bed sheets; thoughts that wake Merlin to Arthur’s name on his lips and a blush tinting his cheeks.
In his most common dream, he protects Arthur against yet another threat, something unnamed but powerful. Unlike every time before though, Arthur sees. He sees Merlin as he truly is and for the first time since Merlin started protecting him, he thanks him. This is the dream reality most imitates. But Merlin should have known better—known Arthur better. Merlin has seen first hand the damage living under Uther’s thumb has caused. Arthur could never accept Merlin’s magic because Uther couldn’t. And Uther must have a reason why he hates magic, must know something Arthur doesn’t, because Arthur grew up in Uther’s wake and as such, hatred is all he’s known. In short: magic must be evil and using magic must make you evil. Arthur needs to believe this because otherwise his actions are unforgivable. Merlin knows this and yet he let himself dream anyway.
The other major difference between Merlin’s dream and reality is the threat level. There was no army to fight or sorcerer to face or curse to be broken. It was just bandits. It’s always bloody bandits. But the knights were exhausted and, in Arthur’s case, injured. (Or, in Gwaine’s case, a solid sheet or so to the wind.) Because there had been a sorcerer and Arthur had been in danger and they had been so sure they were safe.
Arthur had been finishing up a particularly brutal training session with the knights when he sent Merlin to ready a bath to wash off the sweat and dirt and rain. Merlin needn’t be told twice, gladly taking the opportunity to escape summer’s petulant storm. He hurried back to Arthur’s room, requesting the services of the first servant he saw to help carry the metal tub. He filled the bath, added in the lavender oil Arthur would berate him for including despite how effectively it relaxed his muscles, and busied himself while waiting for Arthur to return. And waiting for Arthur to return. And waiting longer still. By the time night fell and the water had turned cold (despite its infusion of Merlin’s magic), he had gone from grumbling about why on earth Arthur would request a bath and then not come and take one to seemingly attempting to pace dents in the stone floor with his worry. By morning, Merlin had searched the entire castle twice over and had finally accepted the unacceptable: Arthur was missing.
According to the knights, they had all returned to the castle together, going their separate ways once they neared the prince’s chamber. A few servants confirmed seeing Arthur but the Guards outside his room had not and no one caught sight of him leaving the palace again. Uther was in an uproar, blaming magic for seemingly no other explanation than there being no other explanation. For once, Merlin was inclined to agree with him for how else could the prince disappear inside his own walls?
From there, things proceeded as usual: Uther tightened security, Merlin investigated on his own, search parties were sent out, Merlin talked to Kilgharrah, Kilgharrah gave a vague response regarding destiny and inevitability, Merlin investigated on his own, search parties came back unsuccessful, Uther questioned everyone, Uther questioned everyone again, Uther ran out of people to question, Merlin investigated on his own. And then Merlin found something. After losing sleep in favour of pouring over every book available and attempting every spell that in any way mentioned tracking or locating or revealing, Merlin finally found one that worked. It was a complicated spell that required a good few practices before being done successfully but when completed it revealed to the caster all traces of magic in any given area. The sight of Merlin’s room was blinding; layers of faint gold melded into a sea of sunlight, driving him out of his bed, out of his chambers, and out of Gaius' workroom. How far back the spell reached depended on the strength of the sorcerer, and while Merlin may not be at his best, he had experience controlling the flow of time. More than that, he was desperate. The spell worked because it had to, because Merlin couldn’t handle it if it didn’t. It was easy enough to push back further and further until he found when he needed. There was a lot of magic throughout Camelot, what with Merlin’s presence permeating the place, but he stalked the halls around Arthur’s room until something…other caught his eye. It was something decidedly not him. Dark and powerful and an altogether different shade of gold.
From there it was only a matter of following the magic’s pull outwards and away from the castle. It’s likely less than a day’s ride, even with the sky storming as it is. Now that he’s noticed it, he can feel the way it’s tainted with the memory of Arthur. A sort of steady thrum that always surrounds him and, although infuriating at first, has a tendency to calm Merlin’s often frantic thoughts.
Merlin could follow the magic, teleporting himself to wherever Arthur was taken, but doing so without being seen is another thing altogether. And the longer Arthur’s in the dark, the safer Merlin is, the safer he can keep Arthur in turn. He’s not familiar enough with teleporting matter, let alone himself, to alter the path of the spell and instead arrive somewhere near Arthur and the research required would waste time they might not have. One of these days, Merlin swears he will learn a spell solely because he wants to and not because he finds himself in need because Arthur has found himself in trouble.
Resolved to set out on foot, Merlin sneaks away from the castle with practiced ease, only to immediately and quite literally stumble into Lancelot. Merlin may be well-versed in lying but it is significantly harder to do so when one knows they’re being lied to. At least with Lancelot accompanying him it’ll be less suspicious than if he rescues Arthur alone – and it’s nice not having to hide his true self just because he’s with company. Him thinking this is of course why the two find themselves faced with the rest of Arthur’s knights returning from yet another unsuccessful search. One flimsy excuse later, the now-six of them are riding a well-rested group of horses, adorned with freshly packed satchels (including well-crafted cold-iron chains should the the need arise) and a newfound determination to find their prince. After all, Merlin’s ‘funny feelings’ haven’t failed them yet.
Using magic to create disturbances that Lancelot helpfully suggests they “follow” quickly leads them to a long abandoned structure, so withered to the years it’s hard to discern what it once was. It’s unsurprising none of the search parties found the thing, considering the majority of what’s left sits underground and the rest covered by a fallen tree. In fact, if it weren’t for the strong pull of magic, and the stronger feeling of Arthur echoing within Merlin’s chest, he wouldn’t have noticed it at all.
It turns out the sorcerer is not as powerful as Merlin feared. She drained herself bringing Arthur here and, according to him, had done little in the way of harming him outside of her so-called “measly excuse for meals”. Arthur later explained that she was using him as revenge against his father, once she was well enough she was planning to gain control of his mind and force him to kill Uther upon his return to Camelot.
With all the knights fighting together, what little magic she has doesn’t present much of a challenge and, after casting a few protection spells, Merlin is able to lead Arthur out of the fray. Not swiftly or skillfully, mind you, which Arthur makes sure to point out – though the slight smile on his face betrays his exasperation. Merlin can’t find it in him to disagree. Not because he’s distracted by said smile, Gods no, that would be ridiculous…it’s just that even he can admit it’s not the smoothest of rescues. He’s clumsy enough on a good day, let alone carrying the weight of the stumbling prince. Especially when his focus is divided between Arthur and the faint remnants of his kidnapper’s magic. It’s waning by the second and, if the quietening inside is anything to go by, she’s dead before Merlin gets them out.
Returning home should have been the easy part.