Disclaimer: Yeah, no. Not mine.

I Hear You In Every Heartbeat

Merlin was wrong. It wasn't because he had magic that Arthur found himself putting distance between them. It was true that the very idea... the very thought... he couldn't even think it. He didn't want to imagine Merlin as a sorcerer, as a magic user, as one of those people corrupted by the awful power. But it wasn't because of that.

Arthur couldn't quite say what it was. The fact that he'd slept with him? The fact that he'd let himself be walled in to a crypt underneath the castle without so much as a word to Arthur – despite Arthur having seen him before the king had led him away? The fact that he hadn't fought back or tried to free himself?

No. No, he knew the reason. The reason he pulled away, the reason he could no longer stand the touch of those pale fingers on his skin. The reason he couldn't bear to look into those traitorous eyes. It was because all the time he'd known Merlin, all the time he'd given the man his trust, his acceptance, his love, Merlin had been lying to him. And all that Arthur had cared for had been fake.

None of it had been real.

He couldn't help it. Even though he knew better, he closed his eyes and dreamed. All over again, he saw it; found himself chasing after Merlin's shadow, running down the stairs to the tomb, slamming his sword into the rocks – only this time, there was no coughing. No choked gasp as he pushed the last block away, and when he looked up, there was fire. Merlin was looking right at him, but now there was that serious, solemn gaze he'd seen just the day before. "My life is yours, Arthur. All of it. At any time." And then the fires burned his neckerchief and curled over his face. It made his eyes seem to flicker with gold.

Arthur woke with a start.

It was dark, grey still as the dawn pushed itself through the last vestiges of night. He stared at the tiny slit between the curtains – Merlin always half-assedly covered the window with the things – until his heart rate slowed to normal. Merlin would be here soon. Merlin, who took his life for nothing, who handed it over like one might a useless trinket. His hands shook. He cursed, barely remembering to muffle the words in his pillow. He needed to seem to be asleep. Needed... needed normalcy in some part of a life that no longer made sense.

At some point he must have actually fallen asleep, because the sudden light in his eyes and Merlin's quiet, "time to get up, m'lord," jerked him awake. He turned his face away. Merlin used to always shout that obnoxious 'rise and shine!' and Arthur had always told him to find something new. What he wouldn't give to hear those old words again.

"Arthur."

Oh, it was both better and worse. That word was filled with so many memories. Memories of Before, when the world had been in order, when everything had had its place. He'd been prince, Merlin had been his servant, and Arthur had been unable to see the sun without Merlin by his side. All that time, he'd watchd the world rise and fall; he'd seen a figment of his mother, nearly lost his father, met a courageous knight in peasant's clothes, and lost his only sister. And all that time, a stalwart companion, a voice on the breeze, Merlin.

He'd grabbed at it that night, furious with the thought of not having it anymore. He thought, if he kept his eyes closed just a minute more, he could remember the way his heart pounded as Merlin went up in flames.

"We have trouble."

Flames.

Arthur rolled on the bed and reached for his sword. "My father?" he asked, and he didn't know what he felt as he thought of fighting his father and defending... defending a sorcerer. "Has he done anything?" He turned to Merlin, looked for injuries. He remembered the blood on Merlin's neck and back, the skin rubbed open at his wrists. Nothing obvious, though Merlin looked pale and haggard, like he'd been up all night. Hiding? Running? He couldn't tell, but he didn't see any bruises or cuts or burns. But Merlin was wearing that stupid neckerchief, as usual, and he couldn't know for sure without looking beneath.

"No," Merlin said, breaking Arthur's panic at the knees. "But the smithy–"

The rush of cool wind in his chest made him gasp. He quickly threw off his blankets to cover it up. "The smithy? I thought you looked like that because..." Because my father had sent his men after you. He cleared his throat. "Were you not at the tavern all night?" Worrying him with wild hair and wide eyes when he was probably just hungover. "You look like you've not gotten any..."

Oh. Oh, no. Wait. The tavern? During the nights and days when Merlin would disappear, and Arthur would have no idea where he was. "No." And Merlin would come back tired, sometimes shaky or slow, and Arthur would work him harder than ever because hard work and diligence were supposed to mean something. "You never admitted to going to the tavern, did you? You never actually went there, did you?" He'd been using magic. Had he gone to the druids? Had he been the reason some of the things he'd seen and heard had happened? He didn't want to believe Merlin had a hand in any of it, but how could he know? He really didn't know anything about this man whom he'd taken to his bed. "It was all a lie, wasn't it?" All of it. Every second. Every gasp and cry and moan. Merlin had said he liked Arthur – well, no, he hinted at it. He'd said his life was Arthur's. Like a knight. Did that mean his body was Arthur's to use as he wished?

He watched Merlin's face, and he knew it well enough to recognize the tight pinch of his lips as he acknowledged that Arthur had been right. Red hazed his vision, pounded in his ears. "Damn you, Merlin! Just how many lies are you going to feed me?"

Merlin actually raised his hands as if to soothe a wild beast. "Arthur–"

"No!" Arthur threw out his hand. He didn't know if it was a warning or just to save himself from Merlin's touch. He stood. He did not let go of his sword. "I don't want to hear it," he said. His vision nearly went white. He bit his tongue to keep himself from yelling again. From demanding more from Merlin than he could trust the man to give. "Just get out."

"But–"

For the gods' sakes! "No buts, Merlin! Be happy I'm not sacking you." But no matter how much he hated seeing Merlin's face, he hated the thought of waking without him even more. The very idea of waking without Merlin pushing open the blinds made his gut clench.

Then he turned. For once, Merlin had been the duteous servant, bringing up Arthur's meal for him to eat after he got dressed – and his clothes, usually grabbed last minute or as Arthur stretched himself awake, sat on the back of his chair, royal blue to match his eyes. Was Merlin acting the good servant? Was this some sort of apology, or some sort of appeal? Or... or had Merlin given up on being the man Arthur had fallen in love with? Had any of it, even the smallest piece, even the inability to get his morning chores done right, been nothing but a lie?

Was there nothing left of the man he'd loved?

"Get out!" He glared at the floor, horrified by the feel of the sword still in his hand.

He expected an argument. Wanted one. Maybe needed one. The old Merlin would have responded bitingly, sarcastically, almost imperiously to the order. But this Merlin, the one he didn't know anymore, said only, "I'm going, sire," and bowed. Bowed. Arthur couldn't look straight at it; he felt like if he did, he would see the cracks in the edges of his world.

So Arthur stood stone still and listened as Merlin made his way to the door. His blood pounded thick in his veins, yet he heard, all of his senses straining, the moment Merlin hesitated by the door. "One day, sire," Merlin said, and the word 'sire' wasn't even sarcastic, "I'm going to ask you why you kept me alive."

Arthur's blood froze.

"And perhaps on that day," Merlin said, "you may find you no longer have an answer for me."

Arthur's heart ripped; he nearly heard it. The door closed softly. Merlin was gone. If he hadn't been a prince, raised to be strong, he'd have fallen to the floor. Instead he grabbed one of the bed poles and clung to it for dear life.

It wasn't true. He... even now, even now, he couldn't imagine not saving Merlin that night. He hadn't even entertained the thought. All he'd thought when his father told him of Merlin's magic was that he was going to die, may already be dead, and his heart had filled with a thickness so deep he hadn't been able to breathe properly until he heard those blessed gasps.

But now, now that it was all over, they did nothing but fight. There was no more camaraderie. No more trust. No more anything. And because of that, Merlin thought there was nothing in Arthur's heart for him anymore. How? How had they fallen so far? Was there anything, anything at all, that might salvage them?

If only Merlin didn't have magic, he thought, and then hated himself for it. Merlin had said he'd been born with it ("I didn't ask for it. I swear. I was born with it. I've always had it."), had said that it wasn't even important ("– but it's not like I wanted to, or that it was important!").

"I'm sorry. It's just part of who I am."

Arthur clenched his eyes shut. Merlin had apologized for being born with magic. Apologized for being who he was. If Arthur held it over Merlin's head, wished Merlin had been someone else – the very thought made him choke and back away – then he was no better than the father who had slowly walled Merlin in, sealed him away and left him to slowly...

No. He shook his head. He couldn't imagine those moments. If he did, he would surely break.

He loved his father. The man had raised him, worried over him, demanded he become strong, wise. Taught him to love his people, and to protect them. Yet Merlin had also taught him those same things – to stand strong for others and what he believed, to think before he acted. How to protect. How to... how to love.

Arthur clenched the bridge of his nose and breathed deep. He could smell the food still on the tray, getting cold. Merlin had said he couldn't lie about how he felt. How he felt. Arthur had heard it, had heard those words and then dismissed them because Merlin had lied to him the whole time, and Merlin had thought his life worth nothing, nothing, and that wasn't love. Arthur had thought it wasn't love, but gods help him, he thought he could see it. Merlin had drunk poison for Arthur. He'd said he had to go with Arthur to protect him. He had magic, and he stayed by Arthur's side. Over and over again, he'd given his life freely. Arthur had called it bravery. Perhaps Merlin had another word for it.

Arthur struggled for air. He clenched his chest, but his heart was no longer pounding. It seemed more like it was fighting to remember how to beat. If all this time, Merlin had been protecting Arthur not out of a sense of duty or courage but out of something else... if all this time, every action had been to...

Arthur didn't want to think about it, didn't want to allow himself the knowledge, but nonetheless it came, like a spear, like a salve. Destroying him. Completing him. Cauterizing him.

Merlin loved him. Merlin had always loved him.

It was so staggering he thought he should lose himself. But as it came, everything became sharp and clear for the first time in days. Merlin had magic. It was enough to pause him for a moment, even then, but his mind kept racing ahead, even as he stumbled. Merlin had magic and had hidden it because ("you love your father") he didn't want to hurt Arthur. Maybe he couldn't trust Arthur, either, not completely, because maybe he didn't know who Arthur would choose, but he'd kept silent because he didn't want to put Arthur in that position. So he'd kept silent, hiding a part of who he was, for Arthur's sake. And yet he'd loved Arthur too much to reject him, to stay away from him. He'd denied one part of himself, but he couldn't deny the other.

Merlin had loved him. Merlin had loved him, and he'd been willing to die for him. "My life is yours, Arthur. All of it. At any time."

Arthur never, never wanted to hear those words again. The very idea of it set his heart racing, made him want to swing his sword. And yet he felt calm, almost battle-calm, as he wondered what he should do about it.

"We have trouble."

Arthur's breath hitched.

"The smithy–"

Merlin. Arthur stumbled toward the door. Merlin, Merlin... what had Merlin been about to say?

Arthur wrenched open the door. Merlin was not there. He ran.