I Thought the Prophecies Promised More

by Anonymous

Summary:

Arthur survives the battle, but Merlin is left wandering the halls of a castle that no longer feels like home. Empty rooms stretch on forever. The tether between them frays in quiet, invisible inches. Merlin keeps choosing him, over and over—and wonders if he’ll ever be chosen back.

or, the exact opposite of the only 1 bed trope but it's angsty

Chapter 1

Camelot still felt too big at night.

 

The torches along the corridors burned low, shadows stretching across the stone like hands reaching for something they’d never reach. It should have felt quiet—safe, even—but silence had its own kind of volume, and tonight the castle hummed with something restless under the stillness. Like grief waiting for a name.

 

Merlin took the long way back to Gaius’s chambers. He told himself it was for the air, but he knew it was because he wasn’t ready. Not yet.

 

Because the thing no one tells you about war isn’t the blood, or the weight of swords, or even the bodies left behind. It’s the aftermath—when the fighting stops, when everyone lives, and somehow it still feels like something’s been lost.

 

The corridors felt endless tonight.

Maybe he was hoping they were.

 

---

 

The healers had moved Arthur into the largest chamber, the one meant for kings and gods and people who deserved more than they’d ever get.

 

He didn’t look like a king when Merlin entered.

 

He was sitting up in bed, pale and quiet, his crown discarded on the table beside him. Bandages peeked from beneath his shirt, shoulders curved like the weight of everything had finally settled where it belonged. He looked young. He always looked young, though Merlin suspected neither of them really were anymore.

 

“You’re late,” Arthur said, voice rough but without bite.

 

Merlin set the tray of water on the table. “You nearly died. I think I’m allowed to be late.”

 

Arthur huffed, like it might’ve been a laugh, but it faded too quickly to catch.

 

Merlin sat in the chair near the window, hands folded tightly in his lap. Arthur watched him for a while, unblinking, and the thread between them pulled tighter with every passing second. Merlin used to think that tether was unbreakable—that the bond holding him here was a gift. Lately, it felt like a knife.

 

“You saved me,” Arthur said finally, quiet in the way confessions are.

 

“You’d do the same.”

 

Arthur’s mouth twitched like he wanted to argue, but didn’t. Merlin was grateful. He didn’t think he could stand hearing Arthur say he wouldn’t, even if they both knew it was true.

 

---

 

Later, when the castle slept, Merlin wandered.

 

He told Gaius he was fetching herbs, but his hands were empty, and his feet already knew where they were going. The corridors gave way to the west wing, where no one went but the cleaners, where doors opened into rooms prepared for people who might never use them.

 

The beds were always made.

 

He passed one chamber, then another, and another still. All immaculate. Crisp sheets, empty fireplaces, windows cracked just enough to let the wind slip through. These rooms waited for futures that might never arrive, and it felt cruel somehow—so much space left untouched, when Merlin couldn’t seem to breathe inside his own.

 

His chest tightened with every door he passed.

 

By the fourth, he had to stop.

 

---

 

There was a time he thought it would be simple. Keep Arthur safe until Albion rose. That was the bargain, the promise, the thing Kilgharrah whispered like prophecy when Merlin was too young to know what it meant to sacrifice.

 

He thought keeping Arthur alive would be enough.

 

But prophecies didn’t prepare him for the way his heart broke every time he saved him. For the way he kept collecting moments he wasn’t allowed to name. For how the distance between them grew in quiet inches no one else seemed to notice.

 

The castle didn’t speak of it, but Merlin felt it everywhere. The way Arthur called fewer councils with him. The way his smiles slipped quicker than they used to. The way Gwen sometimes looked at him like she knew, even though he’d never said a word.

 

This was the price of destiny: knowing someone so completely, and watching them slip further out of reach every time you chose them over yourself.

 

Tonight, the empty rooms made it worse.

Too many beds.

Too many places to leave pieces of himself behind.

 

---

 

When dawn came, he returned to Arthur’s chambers because he always did.

 

Arthur was awake, propped against the pillows, staring at the far wall like it might offer answers he was too proud to ask for. His breakfast tray sat untouched.

 

“You should eat,” Merlin said softly, setting the tea on the table.

 

Arthur didn’t look at him. “Do you ever think about leaving?”

 

The words landed heavy, and Merlin couldn’t breathe around them at first.

 

“No,” he said finally, though it wasn’t true.

 

Some nights, when the weight of magic burned too hot beneath his skin, he imagined disappearing into the forests. Walking until the tether snapped. Until the ache of this bond quieted. He imagined living somewhere destiny hadn’t carved into his bones. Somewhere Arthur wasn’t a name that tasted like longing when he whispered it in his head.

 

But he never went. He never would.

 

Because Arthur was here.

Because he was here.

Because neither of them had ever known how to be anything else.

 

---

 

He left before Arthur could ask again. When he closed the door behind him, the corridor felt longer than before.

 

There were so many rooms in this castle. So many beds waiting for people who’d never lie in them. So many empty spaces carrying the ghosts of what could’ve been.

 

Sometimes he wondered if, one day, Arthur would have a bed like that—perfectly made, undisturbed, waiting for a king who wasn’t coming back. He wondered if there’d be one for him too. Some quiet corner of stone where his name would fade as quickly as his breath.

 

But tonight, he just kept walking. Past the rooms, past the silence, past the place where he still wanted things he’d never be able to reach.

 

And when the wind moved through the open windows, it carried something soft and endless—something almost like forgiveness, though it didn’t make the ache go away.

 

There were too many beds in Camelot.

And none of them would ever be his.

Chapter 2: Second Person POV

Summary:

The same thing but in second person!

You’re still surprised by how big Camelot feels at night.

 

The torches along the corridors burn low, shadows stretching across the stone like hands reaching for something they’ll never touch. It should feel quiet. Safe, even. But you’ve learned that silence can be loud, and tonight, the castle hums with something restless beneath the stillness — like grief waiting to name itself.

 

You take the long way back to Gaius’s chambers. You tell yourself it’s because you need air, but you know it’s because you’re not ready. Not yet.

 

Because the thing no one tells you about war isn’t the blood, or the weight of swords, or even the bodies left behind. It’s the aftermath — when the fighting stops, when everyone lives, and somehow it still feels like something has been lost.

 

The corridors seem endless tonight.

Maybe you’re hoping they are.

 

---

 

The healers have moved Arthur into the largest chamber, the one meant for kings and gods and people who deserve more than they’ll ever get.

 

He doesn’t look like a king when you enter.

 

He’s sitting up in bed, pale and quiet, his crown discarded on the table beside him. Bandages peek from beneath his shirt, shoulders rounded like the weight of everything has finally settled where it belongs. He looks young. He always looks young, though you suspect neither of you really are anymore.

 

“You’re late,” he says, voice rough, but there’s no bite to it.

 

You set the tray of water on the table. “You nearly died. I think I’m allowed to be late.”

 

Arthur huffs, like it might be a laugh, but it fades too quickly to catch.

 

You sit in the chair near the window, hands folded tightly in your lap. He watches you for a while, unblinking, and you feel the thread between you pulling tighter with every passing second. You used to think that tether was unbreakable, that the bond holding you here was a gift. Lately, it feels like a knife.

 

“You saved me,” he says finally, quiet in the way confessions are quiet.

 

“You’d do the same.”

 

Arthur’s mouth twitches like he wants to argue, but he doesn’t. You’re grateful for that. You don’t think you could stand hearing him say he wouldn’t, even if you know it’s true.

 

---

 

Later, when the castle sleeps, you wander.

 

You tell Gaius you’re fetching herbs, but your hands are empty, and your feet know where they’re taking you. The corridors give way to the west wing, where no one goes except the cleaners, and where doors open into rooms prepared for people who might never use them.

 

The beds are always made.

 

You pass one chamber, then another, and another still. All immaculate. Crisp sheets, empty fireplaces, windows cracked open just enough to let the wind slip through. These rooms wait for futures that may never arrive, and it feels cruel somehow, to see so much space left untouched when you can’t seem to breathe inside your own.

 

Your chest tightens with every door you pass.

 

By the fourth, you have to stop.

 

---

 

There was a time you thought it would be simple. You’d keep him safe until Albion rose. That was the bargain, the promise, the thing Kilgharrah whispered like prophecy when you were too young to know what it meant to sacrifice.

 

You thought keeping him alive would be enough.

 

But prophecies don’t prepare you for the way your heart breaks every time you save him, for the way you keep collecting moments you’re not allowed to name, for how the distance between you grows in quiet inches no one else notices.

 

The castle doesn’t speak of it, but you feel it everywhere. The way he calls fewer councils without you. The way his smiles slip quicker than they used to. The way Gwen looks at you sometimes like she knows, even though you’ve never said a word.

 

This is the price of destiny: knowing someone so completely and watching them slip further from reach every time you choose them over yourself.

 

Tonight, the empty rooms make it worse.

Too many beds.

Too many places to leave pieces of yourself behind.

 

---

 

When dawn comes, you return to his chambers because you always do.

 

Arthur’s awake, propped against the pillows, staring at the far wall like it might answer questions he’s too proud to ask aloud. His breakfast tray is untouched.

 

“You should eat,” you say softly, setting the tea on the table.

 

He doesn’t look at you when he replies. “Do you ever think about leaving?”

 

The words land heavy, and you can’t breathe around them at first.

 

“No,” you say finally, though it’s not true.

 

Some nights, when the weight of magic burns too hot beneath your skin, you imagine disappearing into the forests, walking until the tether snaps and the ache of this bond quiets. You imagine living somewhere where destiny isn’t carved into your bones, where Arthur isn’t a name that tastes like longing when you whisper it in your head.

 

But you never go. You never will.

 

Because he’s here.

Because you’re here.

Because neither of you has ever known how to be anything else.

 

---

 

You leave before he can ask again, and when you close the door behind you, the corridor feels longer than before.

 

There are so many rooms in this castle. So many beds waiting for people who will never lie in them. So many empty spaces carrying the ghosts of what could’ve been.

 

Sometimes you wonder if, one day, Arthur will have a bed like that — perfectly made, undisturbed, waiting for a king who isn’t coming back. You wonder if there’ll be one for you too, some quiet corner of stone where your name fades as quickly as your breath.

 

But tonight, you just keep walking. Past the rooms, past the silence, past the place where you still want things you’ll never be able to reach.

 

And when the wind moves through the open windows, it carries something soft and endless, something almost like forgiveness, though it doesn’t make the ache go away.

 

There are too many beds in Camelot.

And you don’t know if any of them will ever feel like yours.

Series this work belongs to:

• Part 17 of Devils and the Details Works