Author's Note: A hearty thank you to doberler for her excellent beta skills!
Arthur's stomach sinks and all teasing in his questions vanishes when Merlin confesses the root of his sudden efficiency.
"I'm afraid I won't be coming with you. Not this time. I'm sorry. I have an urgent errand to run for Gaius. Vital supplies that I can't attain here."
"Vital supplies?" Arthur echoes and catches something in Merlin's eyes that looks like fear but can't be, not from him. He tries to puzzle out such an absurd notion, but Merlin speaks on.
"Yes. It's not that I'm…"
Betrayal overtakes his confusion and he doesn't want to hear the man defend his leaving. "No, no. It's fine," he lies, the falsehood a first line of defense against the flood of emotion. "It's fine. I understand."
But he doesn't cover as well as he thinks, because hurt tinges Merlin's voice when he tries to explain. "Arthur…"
He thinks of the perfect barb. "You know, Merlin, all those jokes about you being a coward...I never really meant any of them." It's the truth, and he's always thought Merlin understood because why else is the man at his side all the time? They have an unspoken agreement to jest their way through fear, but there's no humor in Merlin's visage. His manservant truly means to abandon him when he's marching towards a battle that might end him. Arthur's distress works its way into a well-aimed jab. "I always thought you were the bravest man I ever met… Guess I was wrong."
He turns away to avoid viewing the damage his words have inflicted. After a time, the man speaks in a small voice. "I'm leaving within the hour."
The door opens and closes, and Arthur looks over at it, waiting with bated breath because surely his gibe will force Merlin to return to argue he's not a coward and of course he's coming along. Seconds turn into minutes. The shock of Merlin's words gives way to the truth of them, and Arthur tosses the map he's holding onto his desk. This makes no sense! The man isn't a coward, never has been, yet there was fear there and the shame to go with it. Arthur's gut bundles into a tangle of hard knots.
He pauses to childishly kick at the laundry basket, sending it sliding a few feet. It's completely empty, all his clothing washed and dried and packed by Merlin, who's supposed to ride out with him, right beside him as if he were a knight and not a servant, parallel to him, an equal in everything but title. They would laugh and joke on the way to Camlann, and the weight and burden of the coming battle wouldn't eat at him because their conversation would keep it at bay.
They'd stop to rest and Merlin would scour the trees for kindling and wood. He'd build a fire, and Arthur would tug off his socks and rub his aching feet, and Merlin would wash the socks without a word as he always did, not even complaining about the stink. They'd talk as the socks dried, awash in the flickering firelight, and he'd ponder battle and Merlin would say uplifting things about him being a good enough king to defeat even his sister.
They'd reach Camlann and make camp. Merlin would stick by him until he ordered him to put up his own tent and get some rest. He'd take Gwen into his bed and lay close with her and not worry because Merlin would be right next door if he needed him. Suppose he can't sleep, suppose he's haunted by dreams of the morrow. Then he'd rise and enter Merlin's smaller tent and poke him until he wakes and tell him he needs water now from the nearest stream. Merlin would grumble, and he'd grudgingly go along so his scrawny servant wouldn't get "lost and scared," and for a time, all would be right.
And if…
And if…the worst comes to be…if he takes a fatal blow…
Arthur loses his thoughts then because time has passed and the reality of Merlin leaving hits even harder. He rushes away, ignoring the two soldiers the Captain of the Guard has ordered to protect him until he reaches the entrance to the battlements and commands them stay while he goes on. His torso presses into the battlement railing as he seeks a good view of the towns below. He's annoyed when a contingent of knights show up, tracking him down with battle plans. He speaks quickly with them, then rudely dismisses them when he sights a worn brown jacket and a red neckerchief bright even from this distance.
Gwaine rides beside Merlin and Arthur wonders why. The knight hasn't asked for leave, so his departure must be temporary; he'll need to return before they head out for Camlann. As Merlin made it clear he won't be coming, this means Gwaine is accompanying him somewhere and then coming back alone. This isn't collecting vital supplies. It can't be. Merlin's never needed a knight to guard his collection of herbs nor traveled more than half a day to obtain them.
He braces his palms on the railing, rigid with frustration. What supposedly elusive supplies could Gaius possibly need that are worth Merlin setting his king aside? It doesn't make any sense, not the least because a day ago in council Gaius assured him he was well equipped for a possible war.
Footsteps drum the ground and his Captain of the Guard appears out of the corner of his eye. He respects Berimund, but he's too agitated to deal with him right now, knowing the man will chastise him for telling his guards to hang back. The captain must have followed his line of sight, because he notes dispassionately, "Gwaine and Merlin."
Arthur's palms ball into fists and he grunts in annoyance. Yes, Gwaine and Merlin. The not coward suddenly acting like one.
"A mission then, sire," the captain speaks casually and moves on, Merlin's departure not bothering him in the slightest. "My lord, I know you value your independence, b—"
"It's not a mission," Arthur returns quietly, clenching his teeth.
"Then where—"
"To pick flowers!" anger explodes. He pushes up from the railing and folds his arms over his chest, glaring at the departing back of the man he'd assumed would always be with him through thick and thin.
"Flowers?"
"Medicinal herbs. Vital supplies." He's sure Merlin flat out lied to him. He's always been able to tell when Merlin is lying; the man's rubbish at it.
But the captain simply accepts the explanation. "Ah. For Gaius."
Arthur's jaw clenches so tightly he feels his teeth might break, and at this moment, he doesn't care.
"This makes you angry, my lord?" the captain inquires.
His heart constricts and it hurts to breathe. Words release without his permission because he can't tamp down the emotional rawness any longer. "He should be here. He's always been here."
The captain puffs out his chest, then spits out a statement defending Merlin. "If I may be so bold, sire, Merlin's loyalty has always been insurmountable. If he has left, you can trust his motives are for your good."
Arthur turns his head to look at him, wondering how this soldier manages such confidence in Merlin when he can't muster any. "You know him well?"
"He saved my daughter's life." The answer is wholly unexpected.
Arthur's arms loosen and drop to his sides. "He…what?"
The man launches into a description of his daughter falling ill at a time Gaius was away and Merlin filling in. Arthur can't believe he never knew about this, why he never even considered Merlin spending his free time saving patients' lives in the towns.
The captain ends with a definitive, "He is a welcome man in our home, a fine one, with a heart to defend Camelot as staunch as yours," then hastily adds, "my lord," as if he's afraid Arthur will take offense. But how can he? The soldier has struck to the heart of the issue and read it even more correctly than he.
Arthur looks away from the captain to the view. Merlin and Gwaine have disappeared. Where is Merlin going? And why? If not for herbs or supplies, then what is so important he must be called away when needed the most?
His mind wanders guiltily to all the times he mistrusted Merlin's warnings to his detriment: Valiant's shield, Cedric's thieving, Caerleon's execution, Agravaine's treachery. Each and every time Merlin had been proved right, and he had been shown for the idiot he was by not relying on the man who'd served him since day one with complete and utter loyalty.
"You're right," he admits. "Of course. All you say is true." His experience proves what his captain asserts—Merlin is trustworthy to a fault. He blinks into the distance, wishing he could see that brown, ill-fitting jacket one more time. "Godspeed him and whatever he must do." Anger flames once more, but now it's directed at a new target—himself. "But hang it all for the way we parted." He rubs a regretful hand over his face. He called the man a coward. A coward.
Captain Berimund tries to put him at ease. "Merlin won't take offense."
"You're right again, no doubt." Arthur's heart skips a beat. But I may never be able to make it up to him. Death likely looms in the future and he's ruined their last words. Before the captain can perceive the grief welling in his soul, he swallows his hurt and addresses the soldier's business, doing what he's always been good at—burying emotions in duty.
Arthur keeps his feelings and thoughts in check over the next two days, even when Gwaine returns without Merlin. He considers questioning the knight for less than a second, unwilling to put the man in the awkward position of choosing loyalty to his friend or loyalty to his king by pressing him for information. He has too much respect for Gwaine to test his brotherly bond with Merlin. Instead, he assesses supplies, holds numerous meetings, and works himself into exhaustion so he doesn't think about his missing manservant. Only when the replacement manservant shows up does the painful jolt of their parting rock his composure. He's terser and grumpier than he means to be with the servant who after all is only doing his job.
The lack of Merlin hurts worse when they ride off for Camlann. Gwen's here. She's his only relief. He concentrates on her, talks with her all the while they travel, glories in her beauty and her smile. These moments patch his soul somewhat until they make camp. There he watches everyone set up and Merlin's voice isn't intermingling with the others or his laugh sounding amongst the knights, and some random servant is building the fire to cook a meal.
He spies Gaius and Gwen sitting near each other. He doesn't care what the truth is anymore; he just wants an explanation that makes sense. He marches straight up to Gaius. "Vital supplies," he states without preamble. "A shame Merlin didn't feel able to join us." Certainly, Gaius can hear the disbelief in his tone, but the physician keeps to the tale he's been told.
"I'm sorry, sire, for I must take the blame, but I cannot treat the wounded without sufficient medicine. The timing is unfortunate, I grant you."
"Yes," Arthur returns. "Unfortunate, as you say." Even though it's more than that.
He walks away. He could order the physician to betray Merlin's confidence, but Gaius' reluctance to speak the truth has wedged a pit into his stomach and he wonders if he wants to know at all. What if Merlin did leave because he fears the coming battle? What if something about this time and this place is too much for him? Because they are riding to possible death and…
He stops and leans into a tree, head in one hand, because it hits him. Gods, how stupid he's been! He'll most likely perish and can it be Merlin's simply unwilling to watch his king die? Arthur imagines himself as he's seen other dead men on the field—pale, distorted, pierced through, blood clotted onto metal links. Merlin's seen the same who have met such ends.
Arthur's pulse thumps in his ears. That's why the man isn't here. It must be…because it's why he's now glad Merlin isn't here. The possibility of seeing that raven head soaked in blood, that face slack jawed, blue eyes dull and lifeless—it's unthinkable. He couldn't bear it.
"Merlin," he mutters to himself. "Thank God you're not here."
"Arthur?"
He looks up to behold his beloved Guinevere and attempts a genuine smile. He fails.
"I talked to Gaius." Her brown eyes hold more wisdom than has ever filled his own. "He said Merlin is doing something of great importance, even though he cannot tell us what it is."
"You believe him?"
"I do. You know Merlin. If Gaius can't be more specific, there must be a reason. We need to trust him and Merlin."
Arthur reaches a hand out to her and she takes it, letting him pull her into his chest. He wraps his arms around her. "I do trust him. It's fine he's not here."
"Truly?" she speaks into his chest.
He nods to himself and her. Stay away, Merlin, far from me. He won't be the one who leads his friend into death.
The army reaches Camlann. They set up a more permanent camp expecting the duration of war lasting anywhere from a day to a week. Duty pushes aside any latent emotion and Arthur feels somewhat normal again in his element.
Battle approaches. Soon scouts will return with news of Morgana's army. Guinevere is at his side and they steal a precious moment together once everything settles. He lies next to her and she snuggles close. He kisses her warm brow. He doesn't let a tear fall until she drifts away. If he perishes, she'll be alone. He closes his eyes, willing away the pain of the thought, the only one that might undo his resolve.
Darkness descends, a deep sleep even on the eve of war. For a time, he blissfully knows nothing and then…images. Dreams have never bothered him much, but the one he has now sets his blood afire. He's swinging a sword as he's done a thousand times, and the adrenaline of battle has taken over. Enemies fall before him. He stabs one in the stomach, sword slicing all the way through at his strength. He yanks the blade back, the soldier crumbles to the ground… And there stands Merlin several meters away, in his brown jacket and blue shirt and frayed red neckerchief. Get out of here! he yells. Idiot! Coming into this battle like that!
Merlin doesn't move, frozen solid. Enemy soldiers converge on him. Arthur makes to run, but his feet are planted into the ground, immobile. The enemies' swords raise in unison. Merlin is surrounded and they're going to strike. Arthur cries out in anguish, struggling against the hold on his feet until he falls forward, flat on the ground.
Arthur! Merlin's screaming. Dying. Arthur can't move, can't lift his head, doesn't dare witness them slice his servant, his friend, into pieces.
Arthur. Arthur. A hand squeezes his arm. He turns his head and rolls his gaze skyward. The view is blocked by a shadowy figure that leans down closer to his face. Merlin. Alive. Unharmed. He could laugh or cry, but Merlin speaks quickly.
I'm sorry I had to leave you. I didn't want to. I hope one day you'll understand why. Your plan is a good one and you may yet save this kingdom, but you must beware. Your army's flank is vulnerable. There's an old path over the ridge of Camlann, and Morgana knows of it. She means to trap you, Arthur. Find the path or the battle will be over before it's begun. Find the path!
He tries to speak, but no words usher forth, and something in him knows this is why Merlin had to be gone. His eyes pop open. He lifts his head and Gwen awakes, asking him what's wrong.
"Merlin," he mutters.
"It was a dream, Arthur," Gwen reassures. "Just a dream."
"Didn't feel like a dream. It felt…" Real. Merlin's touch as present as Gwen's right now. The words his friend spoke still ring in his ears.
He jumps to his feet and rushes to throw his gambeson on, ignoring Gwen calling after him. He pushes aside the tent flap to dash into the night and Leon's already there to report Morgana on the move. He shouts for Gwaine and Percival, ordering them to search for the hidden path.
He marches on, seeking out his captains. His hand runs through his hair. Morgana's coming. The dream had to have been real. He starts to run, trusting the words of a brave man in a living dream.
The battle is heated and chaotic, the nightmare come to life. He rhythmically maims and kills and destroys. He discovers himself alone, facing a Saxon cohort, and he thinks this might be the end, but they're struck down by a blinding flash of light. He searches out the source and meets the gaze of the old sorcerer he's seen before, but little time is afforded him to wonder long at the aid of furious lightning from a magical staff. He shouts, "For the love of Camelot!" spurring his soldiers onwards and sprints towards the enemy.
Morgana's forces fall before him and his men. This war, he knows, will be won. Mordred appears, a dark, cold shadow obscuring a routing victory. The sting of betrayal seeps into his aching chest once more. He thinks he can easily take the man, but a hesitation borne out of regret proves his undoing. Wounded, he answers Mordred's attack in kind, though it little matters as his knees buckle under him.
He crawls forward, pushes back up onto his feet, but imbalance causes him to stagger sideways. His shoulder slams into rock and he slides downwards into a sitting position. Men, both of Camelot and Morgana's horde, litter the ground. He's about to join them. As the heaviness of death descends and the world disappears, one final thought passes through his mind—At least you're not here, Merlin.
Arthur abruptly wakes and gasps, confused and disoriented. He's not on the battlefield, but in a wood. Hasn't he just…died? The light of a small fire glows upon a familiar figure clothed in a worn brown jacket and red neckerchief whose owner turns his head, scanning the dark forest. Relief floods him. "Merlin."
The manservant jumps to his feet to rush to his side. "How are you feeling?"
He tries to sit up. The shooting pain is immediate, in his left side, piercing him as a thousand knives. He cries out sharply and instinctively reaches out to the manservant for support, grasping his shoulder. Merlin holds his arm tightly in response. The touch is tangible. No dream. Merlin is here. He's not dead and Merlin's not dead and the battle's over.
"Lie back, lie back," Merlin urges and he does with a strained laugh feeling a giddy lightness in his head.
"Where have you been?" he asks.
Merlin pauses before saying, "It doesn't matter now."
A fresh wave of pain hits him and he stammers, "Ahh…my side…my side."
"You are bleeding," Merlin states the obvious.
The statement strikes Arthur as funny and the lightness in his head funnels down to his heart. "That's all right. I thought I was dying."
Merlin shifts, but keeps holding him and Arthur smiles to himself. Everything is all right. They've been here before, Merlin tending him, aiding him, making it possible to get back home to Gwen and his knights. It's old times once more and even through the pain he couldn't be happier. The bravest man he knows is by his side like he's always been and always will be.