To Kill a Servant
Summary: Arthur is enchanted to kill Merlin because hunting trips always go wrong. Includes three alternate endings.
Rating: M, for graphic depictions of violence and blood.
Disclaimer: I never have, do not, and never will own Merlin.
The Story:
King Arthur Pendragon might have known something would go terribly wrong. Wasn't that the way of things, it seemed?
He struggled with all his might against the hooded sorcerer, but 'twas in vain, for those evil eyes glowed at him from the shadows beneath that travel-worn cloth, making even the sunshine surrounding them seem sinister. Some invisible cord wrapped itself around Arthur's neck, choking off the air vital to his persistence. Then it was gone, after only one fleeting moment in which Arthur thought he would face his doom, and the young man sucked in a grateful gasp of crisp autumn fragrance. Almost as quickly as the figure had appeared from between the looming trees, huskily whispering words of ancient power which Arthur found he could not resist, he was gone in a flash like lightning. Arthur was left standing alone, flabbergasted and dizzy. His hand did not even twitch toward the sword sheathed at his hip.
Despite his confusion at the abrupt departure, Arthur's shoulders slightly sagged in relief. He did not seem to be harmed. Still, he could not help but to wonder what—
Suddenly Arthur was moving, turning and walking back towards the camp which Merlin was setting up while the king scouted the perimeter. Leaves crunched loudly beneath his boots, but as he neared the clearing his steps slowed and quieted so that no sound could be heard.
For a long moment the king was stunned.
He was quite sure that he was not the one moving his body, that he was not sneaking up on Merlin, of all people. And for what? He could not comprehend it.
The strange behavior of that sorcerer returned to the fore of his mind. Obviously he was under his control. He would have to find some way of warning Merlin. The servant would take both the horses, on Arthur's orders, and inform the Roundtable Knights of his predicament. They, of course, would come fetch and restrain him, for safety purposes, and return to Camelot in the hopes that Gaius would have a cure-all as he so often did.
The king opened his mouth to call out for his servant, but no sound issued forth. Furthermore, his jaw remained set as it was—not so much a twitch of his lip occurred. This complicated matters, certainly. Frustrated, Arthur continued to make attempts at communication and at moving his own limbs. He accomplished neither.
At last he reached the edge of the clearing. Through the trees Arthur could see the two horses grazing peacefully, tethered to a low-hanging branch. A small fire was going already, and Merlin had started their supper.
But there would be no supper if Arthur remained enchanted as he was.
His feet paused, eyes roaming. Ah, there he was.
Merlin was returning from the stream that was a short ways from the camp Arthur had chosen. Over one shoulder he was lugging their newly-filled water skins, and in his other hand dangled a field dressed rabbit. For all Merlin's complaining about hunting, he never once turned down good meat.
The thought made Arthur want to roll his eyes, but then he remembered that he was not in control of himself. His mood darkened once more.
His servant by then had reached the fire and knelt beside it, laying the skins aside for the moment. Then he set to work sawing up the rabbit to put in the stew he was cooking. Finally, Arthur began to move again.
Much to his confusion, though, he did not move toward the horses. Rather, he seemed to be making directly toward the young man who was diligently preparing their evening meal. Alarm bells clanged in Arthur's head, and he fervently renewed his efforts to regain control. Still nothing happened; his fighting was in vain.
But luck seemed to be on his side, for once.
A twig snapped beneath his heel, and Merlin whipped around, warily clutching his knife. But, to Arthur's chagrin, he only relaxed when he saw that it was his master.
"Oh, I didn't hear you return," he grinned, turning back to the stew. "Dinner should be ready quite soon, Sire."
Arthur was dismayed. Merlin, the idiot, did not realize anything was wrong. Did he not see the impassiveness of his face, the tension in his shoulders, notice the lack of response? Arthur—no, Arthur's body—moved closer and stopped at the servant's side.
Merlin was obviously aware of him, but paid no heed. Perhaps he thought that Arthur was hungrily overlooking his progress.
The king wracked his mind for an answer, for any possibility for the sorcerer's reason to approach Merlin rather than return to Camelot immediately. Certainly the sorcerer would want to go to Camelot, to destroy it at his first chance. Perhaps the sorcerer planned to act as though all was normal for the time being, and then strike when the city least expected it—of course, no one would expect it at all from their king.
Merlin finished cutting the meat from the bones of the rabbit and laid the utensil aside. "Right," he said cheerily, gathering up the bones to toss out into the woods, "I'll just—"
Whatever he might have said was cut off abruptly by Arthur's boot to his ribs, which sent him sprawling into the bed of leaves that blanketed the ground. He lay there stunned for a moment, then angrily turned to the king. Arthur was horribly appalled.
No one but a foreigner, and one who'd never heard of him at that, would ever consider this to be normal behavior for the king of Camelot. Arthur sickeningly realized that the sorcerer wanted something much more sinister.
The servant had opened his mouth, probably to insult Arthur, but he had reverted to a frown. He had finally realized that something was wrong. It was about time!
"Arthur?"
He tried to fight it, he really did, but Arthur had no control over himself. He moved toward Merlin, raising his foot to kick him once more. Merlin swiftly rolled out of the way—nearly causing Arthur to slip and fall—and scrambled to his feet, putting some distance between them. The servant was staring at him in confusion, eyes darting over Arthur's figure as though to find the source of his irrationality. Arthur knew that the only indication of it was his impassive expression.
"Hold on," Merlin said, raising his hands up in a placating gesture with wide eyes. "Arthur, you're enchanted." He took a wary step back for every one that Arthur took forward. "You've got to fight it, Arthur!"
"You don't say, Merlin?" accompanied with a sarcastic roll of his eyes is what Arthur wanted to say, but unfortunately there was the rather pressing matter of his being unable to regain the control to do it. Still, for once, he did as his servant asked and struggled against the blasted magic that held him. He'd all but forgotten to ascertain the sorcerer's strategy, his plan of attack.
Merlin continued to stumble back, encouraging Arthur to fight and assuring him that he knew Arthur was in there. It brought little comfort and nothing useful to the king, however, so he tuned the servant out so that he might focus.
A startled cry returned him to the scene: Merlin, of course, had clumsily tripped and landed hard on his backside. Arthur advanced quickly, stiffly, and grasped the servant by his unruly hair. He yanked upwards—unwillingly of course, but with great strength nevertheless. Merlin howled and twisted in Arthur's grip, fingers scrabbling at Arthur's hand. The king was relieved to know that he could still feel pain, that his body automatically recoiled from it—for he released the servant, clenching the hand into a fist as though to stay the pain from the bleeding scratches.
Merlin scurried back to his feet and turned to run, realizing that he was no match and that his words were not getting through to the king, but Arthur was suddenly upon him. The young man struggled valiantly, but Arthur was much bigger and stronger, and so easily overpowered him.
Much to the king's horror, he landed a hard hit to Merlin's jaw that bruised his own knuckles. It was more than enough to knock the slighter man to the ground and stun him for a long moment. Arthur's body dropped to its knees beside Merlin, who was disoriented and fighting to get his bearings. The controlled king did not give him enough time to do so.
Arthur repeatedly drove his fist into Merlin's ribs and back, and his face when he could reach it, holding him fast by the nape of his neck with his other hand. He was horrified at the turn of events, at Merlin's cries and gasps that cut him like a knife. But no matter how hard he tried, how fervently he prayed and silently apologized, the assault did not stop until Merlin gathered enough wits and strength to twist around and lash out, catching Arthur between his legs. Winded, the king ceased his attack, and it afforded Merlin enough time to stagger out of reach. His progress was too slow, though, because Merlin's body was so wracked with pain that he could hardly see straight, let alone escape.
Blood gushed from his split lip, trickling down his chin and neck. This, coupled with the already forming bruises beneath his eyes and along his jaw, made his pale skin seem all the starker. Damage caused by Arthur's incompetence in the matters of protection against the evil forces of magic.
The king recovered rather swiftly—for all its success it had been a weak blow.
His hand grasped the hilt of Excalibur. Arthur desperately tried to shout out a warning, but still he had no voice. It seemed, however, that none was needed, because when Merlin heard the sound of the sword unsheathing he halted and looked over his shoulder, brow furrowed both with pain and some other unreadable emotion that Arthur thought could be anger. There was no time to worry about Merlin's feelings. Arthur could feel the familiar tensing in his muscles as he prepared to run his best friend through.
Merlin stumbled forward and latched onto a tree trunk to balance himself. He leaned heavily against it, clinging to the rough bark as though he were hanging over the edge of a sheer precipice. The king, sword raised high, advanced swiftly.
At the last moment, though, Merlin released the tree and dropped to the ground with a grunt. With no time to change course, Arthur rammed the point of Excalibur into the wood where the servant had been only a second before, embedding it a half an inch. He involuntarily pulled it free, but suddenly found himself sickeningly off balance, crashing backwards like felled timber. Merlin had jerked Arthur's feet out from under him. Arthur's grip on the sword had gone lax, giving Merlin the perfect opportunity to take away the weapon and to use it for defense.
Arthur inwardly cheered as Merlin once more put space between them, this time holding the sword aloft. He had no doubt that Merlin would not use it on him, but he hoped that the sorcerer could somehow see or sense what was happening and so spare the pair any further pain, so long as Merlin had the—
Merlin suddenly flung the sword forged in dragon's breath away, out of both of their reaches. Arthur could have spit fire, he was so frustrated. His body had already risen from the forest floor, dry leaves clinging to the fabric of his red cloak and making themselves at home in the silver ringlets of his mail coat. The servant was retreating into the forest, possibly hoping to lose his assailant in the trees.
For a moment Arthur thought that his friend might escape, hoped that perhaps his will to not hurt him was hindering the sorcerer's control over his body. It certainly seemed so.
One of the horses on the other side of the camp, Merlin's, whinnied in distress, perhaps voicing her objections to her master's treatment. Of course the servant hesitated, looking over to ascertain whether his beloved old mare was in danger. It afforded Arthur's constrained body just enough time to reach him.
Seeing that his horse was in no peril, Merlin turned to continue his laborious escape. But Arthur was already upon him, strong hands grasping that ridiculous red neckerchief of his. With all the strength he possessed, the young king catapulted the servant back towards the openness of the clearing.
Merlin crashed face-first into the leaves, landing in a tangled heap of gangly limbs. An instant later he was pushing himself up desperately, spluttering and gasping. Arthur's legs moved of their own accord, still, despite all Arthur's prayers and efforts against it. Before Merlin had even gotten his feet solidly under him, Arthur once more grasped him by his short jetty locks and pulled. The younger jerked away, wincing as he left a handful of hair with his master, and overbalanced.
He fell, and stuck out a hand to catch himself—and plunged the appendage into the famishing flames of the neglected fire. The logs stirred and released a plume of burning ash that cooled and floated down like snow, oddly peaceful amidst the horrifying situation. With a cry stifled by adrenaline, Merlin yanked his hand back out and cradled it to his chest. In that split second Arthur could see the hot white ashes that coated the skin of Merlin's hand, the singed shirt and jacket sleeve. But Merlin did not waste a single moment to dwell on the excruciating pain he felt. He scrambled yet again to clumsy his feet and made for the trees, this time to the other side of the camp, from where Arthur had returned only moments before.
For a moment Arthur thought that perhaps the sorcerer was going to allow Merlin's escape. His body did not give chase, but instead crossed over to the forgotten hunting packs a few feet from the fire. Belatedly he realized that his hopes were fruitless, for his unshaking hands grasped the very same crossbow that he'd used to shoot their dinner. In a single fluid movement borne from years of practice, Arthur loaded the bow with a bolt sharpened to deadliness.
The king's heart thudded with terror, and he tried to open his mouth in a warning cry as his body spun to take aim at his beloved servant. Merlin, by then, had finally reached the tree line, using the trunk of the one closest to him for balance and to propel himself forward.
Arthur could do nothing as his treacherous finger triggered the weapon.
The bolt whistled as it cut through the heavy air, and stopped all too suddenly as it lodged itself into Merlin's calf. The servant went down with a cry of agony, the fingers of his good hand clawing into the ground. But he continued on, this time crawling awkwardly with his burned arm curled around his ribcage.
King Arthur approached, outwardly somber and inwardly screaming, crossbow hanging at his side in a loose grip. Merlin, hearing his steady steps, tried to push himself to his feet again. But his injured leg would bear no weight, and he fell once more to his hands and knees. The king at last reached him, and bent to retrieve the bolt.
The rough removal of the piercing elicited a strangled cry from Merlin, and though the sound tore at Arthur's bleeding soul, he could do nothing still. The bloodied bolt was reloaded into the bow. As the king had prepared this, Merlin dragged himself to a tree, and then painstakingly propped himself into a sitting position against it.
Merlin had given up.
It was clear to Arthur that Merlin could resist no further. His entire frame was shivering, his pale skin whiter than ever—with pain, fear, and exhaustion; raven locks stuck up every which way, made worse than ever by Arthur's cruel hand; his hand was curled lightly across his stomach, blisters rising grotesquely from the burnt red flesh. But his visage was oddly calm, despite the blood and bruises that smattered it.
Arthur could have sworn that he felt hot tears slipping down his cheeks as he unwillingly took direct aim at Merlin's heart.
"Arthur…" Merlin breathed. In that single word, his name, Arthur could hear Merlin's thoughts: it was a final plea for clemency, but also it was an exoneration. Merlin did not blame Arthur.
Arthur struggled harder than he ever had before against the damned spell that held him, desperately trying to spare the life of his dearest friend. His finger inched slowly, steadily, toward the trigger. Arthur resisted, willed himself to avert his aim, to remove his finger, anything, so that this monstrosity did not occur. He prayed. He cursed. He offered the devil his soul.
But it was over before Arthur could even blink.