Hey guys. I know it's been a while, but I decided to update something while I've been on hiatus for so long. Junior year will be the death of me. :/

This is the first time I'm posting one of my Merlin fics here (Lord knows I've been writing a shit-ton of them) So I hope you enjoy!

Title: Tender Sanctuary Seeks No Wisdom

Characters: Arthur-Centric

Wordcount: 1935

Camlann was not the last battle that Arthur ever fought, but sometimes, when he felt old and tired and his young bones ached as if he were ninety years old, he yearned that it had been.

Morgana had been true to her words, on that battlefield. She had destroyed him, even as she died at the hands of the man that Arthur considered his brother. He watched, with nearly dead eyes as she fell to his blade.

Excalibur was his blade, even if Merlin wielded it. Merlin was his left hand as Gwen was his right, and he used both his hands equally.

Arthur was not an idiot-he would not have been graced with his birthright if he was born stupid, as Merlin seemed to think he was. But he understood the importance of discretion, and he saw how his manservant feared him and the topic of magic so, and so Arthur said nothing.

For Arthur Pendragon loved three things the most in life: his darling Guinevere, his kingdom Camelot, and his confidant Merlin.

Only in Merlin had he ever seen the goodness in magic; Arthur saw its practical uses, and he saw how it could heal. Many times, alone in his chamber with Gwen pressed warm to his chest he had fancifully dreamed of a kingdom where he ruled the normal populace, and Merlin ensured that magic was only available to those who shared his good moral standing.

But Arthur knew that though he could trust Merlin with his life-he did trust Merlin with his life, otherwise he would have died right there on the battlefield -he could not trust him with his kingdom. Arthur had made the mistake of ignoring the vices of those he trusted more than once, and it cost more than he was willing to pay both times.

Just as Morgana and his father had been vengeful and unforgiving, and Agravaine ambitious and meddling, Merlin was a coward and deceitful.

But damn his heart, did Arthur love him anyway!

That night at Camlann, when Arthur watched Merlin strike down Morgana without regret and without apology, he knew that Merlin may have been lying coward, he was no snake lying in wait.

When they returned to Camelot four nights later, after some of the most intense riding that Arthur did not remember, Merlin had laid himself prostrate at his feet and declared his loyalty and begged forgiveness.

He had not known that Arthur had forgiven him long ago.

It was a point that he and Morgana could never, ever agree on. When was enough enough? When could a person earn forgiveness? What kind of person deserved forgiveness?

No one deserved forgiveness, Arthur had said. That night, Morgana made him feel like a fool, proving in every which way people did not deserve forgiveness. But he saw the hate in his father's eyes every time a sorcerer was executed in the square, whenever Uther spoke about magic and its evils. Arthur always took his father's lessons to heart; they were the entire premise that he based his own reign on, the stuff his iron principles were made of. Uther taught him of his divine responsibility, to die for the people, to kill so the people did not have to. But his hate made him a monster, and his hate flourished because he could not forgive.

Morgana is her father's daughter, his mind sneered darkly.

For ten years he reigned, and still, every time without fail, when he said his sister's name to Merlin his eyes burned with that dark emotion. But that reaction was not that unusual, so he never said anything of it. His and Merlin's relationship remained like that, even after so many years. He still hated girly stuff.

Except with Gwen. But she was a girl and understood those sort of things, and if he was careful with his words, she would comfort him in bed in the most glorious manner. Seeing Gwen laid bare beneath him always chased away the clouds of misery without fail. He laid himself as bare as she when they made love.

It was his divine responsibility that caused him such misery now. It was late into the night, a time when any serf would have been in their beds, when only the guards would be doing their late night patrols, and Arthur sat alone in his office, contemplating his higher destiny.

Albion lay at his feet, with only the island beyond the perilous lands resisting his control, and yet, Arthur had never felt less triumphant.

Gwen had traveled to Mercia earlier that week to seek a healer in Cawdor. She feared she was impotent, and though Arthur tried his hardest not to show his worries or his fears to her as well, she knew him so well she simply saw through his façade of uncaring.

She had failed to carry a child to full term eight times, now, and because of this she was terrified. The lords and thanes that resided in Camelot whispered endlessly about his queen. It seemed like long ago they had forgotten she was a peasant; now she was reminded about it every waking second. As if her peasantry somehow made her lesser than any lady.

But the High King of England had no heir, and if he did not have one soon, he feared that he would have to relinquish his throne to some distant cousin from Ygraine's brother or to his many, many second and third cousins from Uther's brothers. He was certain that this would not be well received. This was England, and Uther had paid for his throne in blood.

Arthus had shed just as much blood as his father— maybe the people saw him as more righteous and noble, but Arthur was no fool. He had been disillusioned of the dream of perfection long ago, when even magic itself could not prove faultless.

He had paid for his throne in blood, and he would damn himself if he were to die without ensuring that someone of equal calibre would be willing to pay that price, to handle the weight of the crown that God gave him to bear.

His kingdom flourished, even if men who were once kings bowed their heads as if they were lords to him, even if magic flourished freely in his lands, leashed and uncorrupted by human hands. But his heart did not for his line, which was sparse as it was, was barren, and he would be lying through his teeth if he claimed that it pained Gwen more than it did him.

Merlin refused to use his magic to open Guinevere's womb; Gwen had only asked once, and Arthur had forbidden her (he had begged her on his knees) to ask again. But he did hold Merlin in his confidences, as the warlock was good at keeping secret, and he had admitted that he feared the price was too great.

He was the result of magic, and Merlin was trained as a healer. Arthur feared that the one who bore the impotency was himself.

Arthur was strong in many ways stronger than most men. But he feared that Gwen would hate him if she realized exactly who was at fault for all her misery. He could not silence the whispering of petty ladies— to do so would only invoke more suspicion than it would help her— but the anguish in her eyes every night after they lay was unbearable. He had only known such anguish three times: once, at his father's death, twice, at Gwaine's death, thrice, at Morgana's.

Merlin had looked at him with the saddest blue eyes. He did not hesitate to reach out his hand and grasp Arthur's forearm in the most reassuring way he could manage. His face, normally light-hearted and jovial, was grim. He did not look as if he had aged a day. Arthur was sure that the fighting looked as if it had aged him ten years, though the weariness was hidden easily enough under his well-trimmed beard.

"Arthur," he said gravely, "I am so sorry."

Arthur's worst fears had been proven true that day. Merlin, well on his way on claiming the obsolete title of High Priest of the Old Religion, had cast his sorcery and confirmed what Arthur suspected.

Arthur did not cry. It was not his way. But he had born witness to two dead babes, smaller than the breadth of his palm the both of them, and six other deaths that had borne witness only to thick splotches of blood. Merlin understood Gwen in a way that Arthur did not maybe, Arthur thought, for just like Gwen he had been aware that something grew within her before its demise.

This battle, he thought, day in and day out, was far worse than Camlann had ever been, even when memories of the battle haunted his dreams, when memories of that strange white place lingered in the back of his mind, reminding him of his impending fate.

Arthur feared that he would never find peace after his death, and Merlin, who he had finally, after many years of struggling, had come to trust to tell him the truth concerning his destiny, at least, had only confirmed his suspicions. He had suffered so much in his life, partly from his own ignorance, partly from his own foolishness, and he did not think that he could fight for the rest of his death as well. He wanted peace. But he wanted to give Gwen a child more. Magic could give much, but it demanded much in turn and he was not prepared to pay that price. Not if he had to abandon his child the way his mother had been stolen from him.

He prayed that Gwen could find a cure in Mercia; she would bring her findings back to him, he was sure. The impotency was in himself. If something could cure a womb, it could certainly cure the bearer of the seed as well, couldn't it?

Ygraine had paid the price to bring Arthur into the world with her life. But then, Nimueh had paid as well, with her utter ruin. Was a child really so much to desire, so that his legacy might live on? So that Albion would not fall, like a snake with its head cut off?

Arthur was afraid for Albion, but mostly he feared for the three things he loved.

If Gwen found that the reason she could not beget a child was his fault, and not hers, then Arthur was certain that he would never see his wife's eyes again. He'd see his father's eyes, jaded with suspicion and hatred blinking from her head. And then he would see Morgana's eyes, bright with loathing and jealousy, hatred without cause and without reason.

And so he'd love his love.

And when Gwen left him, it would destroy him, he was certain, for his heart was fragile even as his body was strong. Without a queen, there would be no heir, and he was getting on his age. So Albion would fall with his death.

And should Gwen's loss of love destroy him, as he feared it would, Merlin would be driven to the drastic measures that the wily sorcerer was rarely driven to. If his wife and his favorite comrade were to fight rather than unite in a time of tragedy, as Merlin and Morgana had, then he would lose his third love.

And Arthur Pendragon's spirit, prophecy or not, would be vanquished wherever the spirits or God deemed he rest.

Please review on your way out! Each one of them makes my day. ^_^