This fic begins at the following scene, which occurs shortly following Uther's death in the season/series four episode, "The Wicked Day." Thanks for reading and I hope you enjoy it
God bless~
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Disclaimer: I do not own Merlin.
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It wasn't until dawn the next day that Arthur emerged from the lonely room. Merlin caught sight of his shadow on the wall, but didn't turn, gathering up what strength he pooled from his night's meditation.
"Merlin," Arthur spoke, "It's a new day."
As the servant rose to his feet, he asked, "You been here all night?"
Merlin's eyes showed he was as shaken as Arthur was, though the both were hiding it fairly well.
"Didn't want you to feel you were alone," he responded.
Arthur studied his friend, friend, his mind echoed. Nodding slightly, he spoke the thought.
"You're a loyal friend, Merlin." Then he turned, and, heart aching, closed the doors on his father's still form. He took a deep breath, and settled into a new course of thoughts. Food, namely.
"You must be hungry," he voiced.
"Starving," Merlin said with the barest of smiles.
"Me, too," his friend replied, returning the small smile. "Come on," he said, moving towards the stairs, Merlin following. "You can make us some breakfast."
After a slight pause, Merlin replied.
"I don't actually make your breakfast you know," he spoke a bit quietly as he wiped the crust from his eyes. "I bring only it up from the kitchens. Honestly, do you think I have time for that every morning?"
"Oh, you're right, of course." Arthur replied, lip twitching upward slightly, "I'll have to have that deducted from your pay, then."
"Prat."
"Idiot."
They continued on in comfortable silence to Arthur's chambers, the royal of the two sending another servant down for a double helping of breakfast when they reached the nobles' wing. It wasn't something they did often, or ever, really, before this, but Arthur had sense enough to know he needed a friend far more than he needed a servant this morning.
The two of them waited in more silence for their morning meal to come up; Arthur needing time yet to deal with collecting his thoughts; his grief (if only slightly) subsided for the moment, and Merlin (for once) choosing to respect the want for quiet.
They both remained standing for most of the time, exchanging few words, Arthur taking his seat and Merlin standing in a dutiful servant's position behind and to the left of him only while the kitchen hand delivered the meal, the latter then taking a seat to his friend's right as they dug in, both starving after a sleepless night with no repast.
As Arthur sat, still quietly thinking through the sadness of his father's death, the deep sorrow creeping once more into his heart and mind, he had no way of suspecting that Merlin's thoughts were on a very similar path—not of the death of Arthur's father, but his own.
He holds himself responsible, Merlin knew. The pain of knowing someone died on your behalf was brutal, but to have the life lost be one of your own blood, your own father, it was a special kind of pain and heartache that came with that—and one of the most painful, besides. He needs to know the fault doesn't lie with him, he reasoned with himself. It had taken me months to come to peace with my own father's decision; months to accept his sacrifice without feeling that crushing guilt. It was Cenred's men who took my father, not I. I know that now. His thoughts continued. At least I had Gaius and my mother to talk me through it, though. Who does he have? The thought complete, Merlin broke the silence.
"You can't keep blaming yourself."
Arthur looked up.
"How can I do anything different? He was hurt trying to save me; he was killed by the sorcerer I brought into the castle—his own castle!—to try to heal him," he argued, his tone growing more distraught the longer he spoke.
Merlin did not let him continue in his line of thinking, though.
"No, Arthur, you're wrong." He paused and waited for his friend to meet his eye. "It was an assassin who struck the blow, and the sorcerer—" here he gulped, though it went unnoticed by the grieving prince, the soon-to-be-king. "Whatever his intentions," Arthur tensed, "His actions only delayed the inevitable," Merlin hurriedly continued. "Arthur—your father was dying before you sought the help of the old sorcerer—your intentions in bringing him here were just and honorable, and your actions did not, in the end of things, change the outcome, for better or worse."
The prince's eyes dropped again, mournful.
Another decision made—for Merlin knew where this would lead—the young warlock continued.
"Trust me, Arthur. This pain—however unbearable it seems now—will fade, and the guilt will disappear. You need only give yourself time to heal, and accept that this isn't your fault. Please, friend? Believe me?"
His pleading tone at the end was noticed, but not quite as much as the attitude that preceded it; it was an attitude that appears when speaking from personal experience.
Arthur looked up again at his servant—no, he looked up at his friend. They were not servant and master now; sitting down to their morning meal together, as equals (though the meal itself had finished some minutes ago).
"How can you know, Merlin?" Arthur said, not cruelly, but sadly. "How can you understand this… this feeling like the entire world has been uprooted; your life overturned? I find myself not only fatherless," he paused, his voice failing him for a moment. "But thrust into his shoes—whatever preparation I had, it never felt like this... How can you understand?" He continued as he moved to stand near the window—looking out to, but not seeing, the courtyard below, filled with candles—a silent offering from the people to mourn their lost king.
"I know, Arthur, because I went through the very same thing."
Arthur was seemingly catapulted from his daze; his face turned inquisitive as he moved to face his closest friend.
"Mind you—it wasn't the same in that I inherited a kingdom and got a nice, shiny crown," Merlin continued on a slightly lighter note. "But, I did find myself thrust into a new position, and my father—" Here he paused, much as Arthur had, before continuing, saying only, "Yes, sometimes I think we are far more alike than most people could boast. I wish we weren't, though—in this matter, I mean," he finished quietly as he rose and took position standing next to Arthur by the window, Arthur still looking at him rather strangely.
"Your father…? I thought- You had said you'd never known him," Arthur spoke, brow tensing with each word—again, not angrily, but in confusion and unsettling grief from the night before.
"And it was true… when I said it.
"I met my father a while ago… He had never even known he had a son. I know, it doesn't seem from the circumstances that he would be a good man, leaving my mother the way he did, but he did it for her own good; for the same reason my mother and…" He shook his head slightly here. "It was the same reasoning my mother had for never telling me about him. He was being hunted down, mercilessly, when he did no wrong—he was innocent, I know that certainly. He was a good man…"
Catching the past tense, Arthur recalled why Merlin was telling him this.
"My father was killed by Cenred's men, he died in my arms not two days after I'd found him. Cenred's men had been patrolling the border between Escetia and Camelot, and attacked us. He was coming back to Camelot with me. He might've done a lot of good here—and it would've been good to have family here for a little while, even if he would've gone back to Ealdor soon." Merlin smiled a little for what might have been—then he solemned.
"He died taking a blow for me. I told myself for months that it was my own fault—had I been quicker, had I not been so clumsy, so weak, so… cowardly, he might've lived. Eventually I had to come to terms with what I did, I did, and I did what I could at the moment, and that I had never dealt the blow."
Hearing this scene stirred a memory in the prince's mind—but he could not place it then. So, he ignored the feeling and responded aloud as eloquently as he could.
"I'm—I'm sorry, Merlin. Why did you never tell me? I would've been there for you; I could've been there for you… like you're here for me now…"
"It doesn't matter now," Merlin replied after a short pause, with only a tint of regret in his voice. "I resorted to magic, too, you know."
"What?" Arthur said—too shocked to say anything else.
"The warlock I asked to help didn't have the power, or the skill, more likely, to save him; so he died anyways." Here his composure broke some for the first time since beginning the story; he sniffed.
Arthur's head was spinning—anger, sorrow, frustration, there were too many feelings fighting for dominance. He sat down.
"I'm telling you this for a reason, Arthur," Merlin continued. "You're not alone here, and you shouldn't ever have to feel that you are. And you are not to blame. You should carry none of the guilt for what happened, but while you carry the grief, while you mourn, know that I'm going to be at your side, like I always am, ready to take some of the burden from you, where I can."
Merlin's speech stirred in Arthur a bit of hope he had not dared considered since the incident the night previous. Night previous, his thoughts echoed. Was it really so recent? I feel like I've aged years in that time, Arthur thought. "You're a good friend, Merlin," he spoke out loud, solemnly, "And while I'm sorry for not being there when you needed me, I'm very grateful to know that you'll be here for me." And he attempted a small smile.
Merlin returned it whole-heartedly.
A minute later Arthur continued.
"You say the pain fades?" He asked, quieter than before.
"Yes," Merlin answered. "Though I don't think it ever fades completely, you'll always have pleasant memories and good company so that you won't feel so terribly again. The grief will pass."
After a minute of contemplation, Arthur's spirits were starting to rise, and he remembered another piece of information Merlin had shared.
"So, what's this 'great position' you were so helplessly thrust into?" Arthur jibbed, slipping (almost) effortlessly into a more comfortable, teasing air.
"Hey, I never said 'helpless'," Merlin argued.
Arthur ignored it, obviously.
"Well?" He spoke aloud.
"Well, I might've been a bit lost-" Merlin admitted.
"No, you idiot," Arthur said fondly if a bit irritably, "What was the position?"
"Oh…" Merlin colored a little. "Well, I think that's a story for another day… prat," he added, slipping to the side as Arthur started reaching for whatever potential projectile was nearest… and heaviest.
"Another day?" Arthur remarked. (He nearly whined, but kings-to-be don't really whine.) "What kind of answer is that?" he followed, a goblet leaving his head as he said it.
"I think it's a very good answer, you dollop-head!" Merlin quipped as he caught the goblet with an ease that comes only with daily practice—and daily practice he did have. "Now come on, we have to get you dressed for your coronation before your ego grows so big your head won't fit properly in the crown! That wouldn't be a very kingly circumstance, now would it?" He grinned.
Arthur threw another object—a candlestick this time—towards the servant as he moved to get dressed. (He's not a very good one, his mind thinks to add.)
As he gets ready, Arthur continues this line of thought. Really, he's hardly even a half-decent servant most of the time—but he's a good friend. If his father was anything like him, Merlin was right; he must have been a very good man.
The coronation proceeded as planned, and Arthur heard his manservant's/best friend's voice (trained from the ceaseless prattle, no doubt) rise above nearly all others in the cries of, "Long live the king!"
The days moved on into weeks, and the weeks into months following this bitter-sweet event; and, as Merlin promised, the pain of his father's death lessened; it lessened when Arthur learned to accept it without the cumbersome guilt it had been carrying for him; and it lessened still more as his friendships grew alongside his kingdom, the latter growing into all that is well and good in his father's name.
He never did forget Merlin's promise (though the warlock might not have called it that) to tell him the story of his inherited position "another day"… though it was pushed to the back of his mind more often than not. And when a certain tavern-related conversation sparks the memory, Arthur demands a certain story be told. And Merlin did indeed give it whole-heartedly… On Another Day.
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To catch onto what the ending lines referred to, and to see Merlin's story-telling in the (hopefully) soon-to-be-posted second chapter, I hope you'll check out my other fic, "Another Day," and maybe take a peek at my other three Merlin fics just for funsies, "Dragoon's Story," "Silver Pennies" (sequel forthcoming) and, "Hey, Sorcerer!" Also, be sure to check out my plots and prompts for adoption posted on my profile.
Thanks again for reading! I hope you enjoyed
God bless *heart*
PS - If you have a better idea for the title or summary, I'd love to hear it; I'm not totally confident in my skills in those areas thus far.