Title: Mohuna Gane
Rating: M, language and adult situations.
Pairing: Merthur!
Summary: Merlin must make the hardest decision of his life; to stay, or to go?
Author's Notes:
The final part to the Siren Song trilogy! Hope everyone enjoys and reviews!
The title for the final part means Siren Song in Marathi.
I do not own the characters from Merlin.
The pounding hoof-beats of an excited, overdriven horse echo through the streets of Camelot as Prince Arthur races toward the castle. Merlin moans and whimpers every time he is jostled, and Arthur is a little surprised to find himself actually speaking words of apology and affection to the young man stretched out in front of him.
"I'm sorry, Merlin. Just a little further. Hang in there." He murmurs the words, his free hand reaching out to rest on the young man's shoulder as he draws the horse to a stop. "Remember.. you do -not- have permission to die on me, Merlin. If ever there was a time to actually -take- an order, it's now." He tries to inject a humorous laugh into the words, but it comes out as a desperate squeak instead.
Never in all of his years can he recall a time in which the courtyard of the Castle has looked so beautiful to him, so welcome and hopeful, as he guides the horse to an abrupt stop that draws another pained sound from his friend. As if summoned by the sound, Arthur finds himself surrounded by people. Two guards, Sir Leon, and even his Father comes down the stairs leading up to the Castle proper.
"What on Earth is going on here, Arthur?" Uther questions, his words a little more severe than usual. And at a different time, Arthur may have wondered what had the King sounding this way, but Merlin is his singular concern at this moment.
"Bandits in the woods. Merlin was out picking herbs and things for Gaius and was jumped. I thought he was alright, but he collapsed out of nowhere. Probably poison." The Prince actually winces at the word poison. After all, he still remembers the way his Father reacted -last- time Merlin was poisoned and he is in no mood to fight the older man on this matter. Not this time.
"Good lord." Uther murmurs, snapping his fingers and indicating the two guards that had walked over. "You two! Carry him to Gaius, now. Be careful!" Uther hisses the words, Arthur gaping at his Father as if the King has grown a second head or something! Uther jerks around and hurries up the stairs, calling out over his shoulder.
"Arthur. Now." He growls, the Prince propelling himself forward and after his Father.
"Father, I should be going with him." Arthur protests as he follows, frowning daggers at the back of his Father. The King makes a chuffing, angry sound as he storms toward the throne room. Every knight he passes is stopped and bid follow by a barked command of COME, and they quickly fall in line behind their Prince.
"Unless you have been studying with Gaius without my knowledge, there is nothing you can do to help the Physician, Arthur." Uther grunts the words coldly, and yet, they are different. The moment they are out, Arthur realizes that the tone is ... wrong. Or, not wrong, but not the usual indifference that the King displays in regards to servants. Not the same sort of coldness he had exhibited when Merlin drank poison to save Camelot.
In fact, the tone reminds Arthur of the way Uther had touched Merlin during the feast that he really wishes he could forget ever took place. The attention his Father had paid the manservant spoke of something akin to desire, and Arthur still cannot wrap his head around the thought that his Father could have anything but feelings of loathing for the manservant he has sent to the stocks so many times. So then, is this strange turnabout in regards to Merlin recent, or a rather appalling, and sort of creepy explanation for the way the King has always treated said manservant?
And that is a train of thought far too heavy and deep for a young Prat Prince trying not to panic at the thought of his friend injured and himself without means to help.
Uther bursts into the throne room in a flurry of Pendragon red cape, muttering almost violently to himself as he ascends to the throne and settles angrily within it's confines. His stilted gaze sweeps across his Knights and his son as they assemble before him in a rigid, unwavering line. He is filled with that familiar sense of pride he always experienced when faced with the best of Camelot, but at the same time, he feels ... sadness ... self loathing. The latter he knows to be his own fault. Looking at his Knights, at the Prince, he realizes that there is one face missing. The most loyal of them all is currently on a bed in Gaius' chambers, and Uther knows that he owes the boy an apology. On many levels.
"Sire, forgive me, but should one of us not be with Merlin?" Sir Leon's earnest, concerned voice draws Uther from contemplating this new self revelation. He draws his narrowed gaze onto the tall knight, a frown pulling at the curve of his mouth as he looks from face to face ... and is far more surprised than he should be to see the sentiment of concern mirrored on each and every one. Hadn't Merlin stood at Arthur's side, even in the heat of battle? Hadn't he gone forth each and every time, without complaint? Or, well, no more complaint than any one risking their life might offer up.
"Yes, I know we all wish to be there with him, to ensure that he will be alright, but no. As I told Arthur, none of us are as capable as Gaius. Merlin is in the Physician's hands. The boy is like a son to him. If anything can be done ..." Uther trails off with a frown, biting at the bottom of his lip momentarily as he tries to reorganize his thoughts. "I have gathered you here because we have a very pressing matter to take care of." Uther frowns, his gloved hand clenching into a fist.
"These bandits must be taken care of. They have plagued the hillsides and roads long enough! And now, to outright attack one of our own .." Uther's words become a seething, choked growl as he tries to keep his anger under cool, and only barely manages to do so. The knights murmur their vehement consent, each of them wearing a unique expression of anger, hate, and a blood-thirsty need. "It is time we wipe them from the face of Camelot once and for all!" An uproar of approval sweeps through those gathered. Even Arthur finds himself roaring in unison with them. His own need for vengeance coursing hot and fierce through him. He will make each and every one of them pay for hurting his Merlin.
"Arthur! Gather the Knights into three groups, and search for any trace of those bastards. Find and eliminate them!" His words are a bestial snarl as he pushes himself to his feet.
"Men, to me!" Arthur calls, hands clenched in tight fists as he turns on his heel and leads them out of the throne room and toward the armory. Formulating team assignments, considering strategy, etc. They will find them. They will kill them. No more will suffer as Merlin did. And maybe, just maybe, this will somehow fix things between him and his friend.
Merlin has no way of knowing that Arthur is gone. That he has once more run full tilt into a dangerous situation, as he is expected to. In his current mood, there's even a chance that Merlin wouldn't want to go with him. That for the first time, he might just stay behind and let danger claim the Prat Prince once and for all.
The thought is a moot point, though, because Merlin is floating on the edge of consciousness, plagued by a searing, burning pain that anchors him just beyond the reach of blissful sleep. The feel of something sharp slithering into his skin, jerking and tearing, wrenches a scream of pain from chapped lips. And still, he cannot open his eyes. Cannot force himself fully awake so that he can understand what the hell is going on here.
"My boy, I fear you've truly done it this time." Gaius' frightened, worried voice reaches out to him from the ether, faded and stifled, but there all the same. Providing comfort even now, in this strange state of pseudo existence. Sadly, it's a tone of voice and formula of words that he has come to memorize due to all the hair-brained schemes that have risked his life in the pursuit of saving Arthur Pendragon. He would give almost anything to be able to open his eyes and tell Gaius that he's going to be okay.
"This .. this is beyond me. I'm so sorry, Merlin .. I just .. I don't know what to do." The agony in Gaius' voice claws deep into Merlin's heart, and he wishes he could do or say something to reassure the Physician that all would be alright. Though, he finds himself wondering if that would be an out right lie. If Gaius cannot save him ... well, then there's no hope for him, is there?
"Forgive me. For all the times I have chastised your blatant use of magic .. it seems I must do the same. My poor boy." The words fade in and out, Merlin having to strain to be able to understand what Gaius is saying. And it's not fair! He cannot scream at the old man or beg him not to do this! Stop, Gaius! You cannot risk Uther's rage just for me! He tries to do something, -anything-. Wiggle his hand, lift his arm, move his lips to form the words of caution, to no avail. All movement is stilled.
The scent of hellebore, stinking in an herbaceous way, begins to waft up from somewhere that Merlin can only assume to be below him. Heavier and heavier the scent grows, permeating everything about him, and the young Warlock struggles to understand what is going on. And then he remembers. Hellebore was sprinkled about a person when invoking protection. He read it in one of the tomes Gaius had given him.
He tries to scream the old man's name. Tries to admonish, beg, or just lecture him on the use of magic. But still his lips will not move. It is a certain kind of hell, trapped in a living death-like state. Unable to move or communicate, but still painfully aware of your surroundings.
"Ge hailige .." The words of the old religion pour from Gaius, and Merlin feels a peculiar tingle through his body that leaves him feeling cold and hot all at the same time. Like ice subjected to fire, fighting to stay solid. The scent of the hellebore intensifies until Merlin wonders if he will gag. And just when it becomes too much .. the smell, the feeling of hot and cold, the pain ... it vanishes. He is blissfully plunged deep into true unconsciousness.
"Leon!?" Arthur barks the name, doing everything in his power to keep the anger and annoyance out of his voice as the tall Knight moves through the under brush. For several hours now, they have been doing their best to track the remaining bandits. When the group of Knights had come upon the devastation of felled bodies, they had leaped to congratulate Arthur on taking them down to save Merlin. So, imagine their surprise when he told them that Merlin had handled a good portion of them himself.
It left the group grasping to reconcile their thoughts on the adorable, bumbling manservant with the news that he had somehow become capable.
"I'm sorry, Arthur, but the tracks just .. just disappear!" The knight wails in frustration, kicking a clump of grass, watching as it uproots and flies across the ground to smack against a tree. And yet, there is no feeling of cathartic release. No outlet for the anger burning white hot through him.
"That is NOT good ENOUGH!" Arthur shouts as he jumps from his horse and swoops down on Leon. Grabbing him by the front of his Pendragon red cape, shaking him almost violently. "They must be found! No one else will be hurt because of this!" And if any of the knights notice he says this, instead of them, they don't comment. They merely let their Prince's anger wash over them before he lets Leon go and returns to his horse.
"Erm, sire." One knight tentatively speaks up, causing the Prince's head to snap in his direction, intense gaze to bore into the man as he waits. Impatiently. "There's blood here, as well as a bit of cloth. One of the wounded went in this direction." Arthur grunts a HYA at his horse and tears off in the direction the knight indicates, unwilling to let any possible lead go unchecked.
"NO!" Merlin shrieks, the word a slurred mess as he sits straight up on his threadbare bed. Only to come face to face .. with Uther Pendragon. The King of Camelot. Perched on a rickety chair, next to the bedside of a manservant. To his son the Prince, sure, bit still just a manservant.
"Y-your Majesty." Merlin stumbles through the words with a pained groan, the slight wound still burning and pinching a bit. He assumes it's the last of the poison leaving his system. Or .. maybe he's died and gone to hell? Because UTHER fucking PENDRAGON is sitting at his bedside, -holding- his hand! His. Hand. In Uther Pendragon's.
"Merlin. It is good to see that you have awoken." Uther's somber, concerned tone makes the entire situation that much more surreal, leaves Merlin questioning what nightmare he is currently stuck in. "Gaius will be much pleased at your improved state." The concern shifts to uncertainty, and Merlin forces his gaze to drop. To take in the sight of his pale, slender hand held in the rough, black glove of Uther's hand. Only then does the King seem to realize he still clutches the appendage, because he quickly, though reluctantly, snatches his own hand away, leaning back on the chair as he studies the young man.
"I, uhm .. thank you, Your Majesty, for your concern." Uther nods absently, as if he barely hears Merlin's words. Or, maybe, he doesn't hear them at all. Is simply making a polite social movement of nodding in agreement. Merlin uses that moment of seeming distraction on Uther's part to surreptitiously glance about his room. Hoping .. well, he's not entirely sure what he hopes. To see some sign that despite everything, Arthur had been here? That someone, beyond the out of place King, had come to make sure that he was alright?
In short, he is looking for a single shred of proof that he should be here. That he should remain in Camelot after everything that has happened.
"I .. has ..." Merlin struggles with the words, trying desperately to calm the quaver in his voice. When had it become so hard to string together a sentence? To form a coherent fucking THOUGHT?! He clears his throat, the sound puny and weak, plasters on a tired, fake smile. "Forgive me, I meant, is the Prince alright?" Those words of concern snap Uther from his thoughts, bring his weary gaze up to regard the manservant for a moment.
"Yes, Arthur is quite alright, Merlin, I assure you. He and the knights have gone to track down the bastards that did this." For some reason, when Uther speaks aloud the fact that Arthur is not here .. it is like a slap in the face to the young warlock. Proof that Arthur will never care what happens to him. He sucks in a soft, gentle breath, and plasters on that fake smile yet again. This is who he is, now. The faker. The pretender. The liar.
"I am glad all is well with the Prince, your Majesty." Merlin forces the words in an almost demure tone, doing his best to remember that he is .. nothing .. in comparison to Arthur and Uther Pendragon. A peasant of no rank, compared to Royalty. What had he honestly expected?! That somehow, despite the odds of tradition, that he would be the one servant capable of being friends with Arthur!? He swallows down a sudden rush of bile, his stomach lurching dangerously.
"Many will be happy to know that you are recovering, young man." Uther flashes a smile, and once again, Merlin feels as if the rug has been ripped out from beneath him. His entire world goes askew and he fights the beginnings of a psychosomatic headache. "I shall leave you to rest, Merlin. If you need anything, I shall be in the throne room. Do not fear to call upon me." With those final, insane parting words, Merlin stares as the King walks from his room. Watches the retreating back as if simply staring hard enough will bring him the answers to this impossible situation.
Four days, and Merlin is finally allowed to leave his room. Morgana, Gwen, and even Uther have come by dozens of times. Bringing him meals, snacks, fresh linens, all the things to try and make his recovery that much more comfortable. Two of those he can understand! Morgana and Gwen are his friends. Their presence is not that surprising. But once again, Uther's attention is creepy and surreal! He cannot even -begin- to understand why the King was showing up in his room, sitting at his bedside with the offer of sweet treats, conversation about things happening around the Castle, reassurances that Arthur is taking care of the bandits, and weirdest of all, a tunic set to replace the one ruined in the attack.
Uther Pendragon had clothing made for him. Merlin cannot fathom how to begin explaining how fucked up and creepy that thought is. And yet .. how touching it is, too. Because Arthur had never tried to do something that nice and friendly for him. How screwed up is that!? The KING had a tunic set made for him, when all Arthur could do was make him feel like shit for owning the other set in the first place. It takes a lot of self restraint to keep Merlin from asking Uther -why- Arthur seems to think so little of him. He doubts the King would be able to answer anything that involves Arthur's feelings or what may or may not go on in that thick, dollophead of his.
Four days, and finally, moving doesn't make him feel as if his head is going to explode, his skin slough off, and his legs give out like jelly. He manages to push himself to his feet and search his room for a fresh kit. Or, at least, a cleaner one. He pulls on a pair of worn out pants, and his red shirt with his blue neckerchief. He even has a moment to chuckle to himself when he realizes that the addition of that single square of material around his neck, goes a hell of a long way toward making him feel normal and balanced again. How can an article of clothing define him so truly, that it is instantly comforting?
"Merlin!" Gaius' voice cuts through his thoughts and he finds himself jumping in surprise. It feels like it's been years since the physician had snapped out his name, rather than mere days. It's comforting. If not a bit annoying. What in the world had he managed to do this time, while he was cooped up in his bloody room!?
"What?" He drawls out as he pushes the door open and takes the few stairs quickly. He draws to a stop, his eyes wide when he sees a veritable feast laid out on the main table. "Erm .. did Uther give you a raise while I was bed-bound, Gaius?" He questions as he walks toward the table. Which is piled with hot meat pies, broths, steaming vegetables, fresh fruits, and an entire platter of pastries. He feels his mouth water and his stomach lodges a loud, grumbling protest. When he glances at Gaius, he is taken aback to see a look of surprise and a shadow of concern on his grandfatherly features.
"No, Merlin." Gaius' words are slow and deliberate. The way they usually were when he was preparing to tell Merlin something he thought the young man would have trouble following or understanding. That did not bode well. So much so, in fact, that Merlin feels his stomach churn and protest. "I am still woefully underpaid, my boy. It seems .. all of this .. is a gift. For you. From the King." He speaks the word King slowly. Extending it needlessly, as if trying to prove a point with the title. A point that, as usual, seems to go right over the young warlock's head, because he hasn't the foggiest what the man is implying or trying to explain.
"Oh. Well." He cannot think of anything else to say. Especially when his stomach lodges another loud, awkward protest. He steps to the table and grabs a plate, fixing himself a large portion. Gaius merely rolls his eyes, and after a moment, joins his ward in fixing a plate.
"Wow. This is great!" Merlin beams as he digs in, savoring every item. He had occasionally had the good fortune to eat with Arthur when the Prince was feeling particularly generous, but this was almost overwhelming. And as he sits there, eating, sipping at the wine Gaius pours him, he finds himself sinking into maudlin thought. He doesn't think of Arthur, of Morgana or Gwen, doesn't even think of Gaius. All he can think of .. is his Mother. Ealdor. Will. The home he gave up to come to Camelot and find out that he has a destiny.
He blinks languidly, peering down at the almost empty plate. This time, it is not a protest from his stomach that is given, but from his heart. It feels as if the organ is withering and slowing with every passing breath. He stares at the plate for the longest time, beset with memories of home. Of porridge and cold floors. Of lumpy pillows and the smell of hay everywhere. He blinks back a sudden well of tears, praying to the Old Religion and the New that they will not fall. Tears are the last thing he needs right now.
"Merlin?" Gaius' voice breaks through his thoughts. He lifts a hand to rub at his eyes, and once he's sure the tears have faded, he glances up at the old man. "What's wrong, my boy?" The question cuts Merlin to the quick, because he knows that he has no right for anything to be wrong! He has a great life in Camelot, no matter how much pain and danger that life comes with. He is learning the ways of a Physician .. he saves -lives- with the natural gift of his magic. He has friends, far more than he ever had in Ealdor. He even has a Father in Gaius, though he'd never use the word. It would be too much for them both to acknowledge the truth. So then, why is he aching to return home? It never occurs to him that the answer is simple and easy. Arthur. Yes, he misses his Mum, misses his home. But he is also torn up. Heartbroken by the way Arthur has treated him lately. He is not preparing to run -toward- something, but -away- from something.
"Gaius, I .." He tries to speak, and his voice cracks dangerously. The tears he blinked back are now clogging his throat, and he isn't sure he's not going to break down for some unknown reason. Gaius reaches across the table, his hand clamping gently on Merlin's arm, causing the young man to reach blindly for the support that touch offers. "I .. I think .. I need to go home .. for a bit." He chokes on the words, struggling to force them past the lump in his throat. When Gaius' hand squeezes his arm reassuringly, he knows that any further attempt at words will fail. So, he allows the tears to escape. To cascade down his cheeks in warm, salted torrents that he prays will alleviate some of the pain roiling deep within him.
"Oh, Merlin ..." Gaius draws his hand back from the young man. He carefully forces himself to his feet and rounds the table to wrap his ward in a tight hug. He has no words to lessen the burden of the poor warlock, but he can offer sympathy. Can lend his support to the young man that is like a son to him. "I think it might be time, my boy. If nothing else, a visit will do you some good. Get away from the Castle for a bit. I'm sure Hunith will be delighted to see you."
The soothing tone of Gaius' voice has the intended effect. It calms and soothes the warlock, allowing him to take several careful, deep breaths. Allowing the tears to ease off.
"I will miss you, Gaius. But, yes ..." He sighs, reluctantly pulls free of the Physician's hug and pushes himself to his feet. When the older man quirks a questioning brow, Merlin gives him a sad, shadowed smile. "The sooner the better, Gaius. While ... just sooner." He had almost said while Arthur was gone. And, if the jerky nod is anything to go by, he's pretty sure it's obvious what he almost said. So, he shuffles off to his room to pack his few things, stuck in a state of melancholia.
The courtyard of the Castle fills with the tired, slow clop of horse hooves as the Knights trot in. Arthur dismounts at the head of the line, wincing faintly as his feet connect with the ground. Every inch of him hurts! The absence of Merlin had been felt in so many ways, by all of them. As much as they all teased the manservant, none of them could cook as well as him. There was no one there to volunteer to gather wood, to set out bedrolls, and especially no one there to help Arthur out of his armor once the bandits had finally been taken care of. No one to whine, complain, and take their minds off of the danger they were riding into. No one to amuse them. The longer it took to track the bastards, the more tempers had flared. The more fighting, aborted reach for swords, and general mayhem that had caused them all so many problems.
Arthur cannot believe that -MERLIN- somehow kept them together. Stopped them from shattering their bonds of brotherhood and friendship. Which is why he spent most of the return trip utterly silent. Struggling to come to terms with the fact that Merlin has become such an intricate, important part of his life. How the hell does a fucking MANSERVANT become the glue that keeps the greatest Knights in Albion from murdering each other?
He rubs his hand down his tired face, shuddering at the feel of metal against stubble. The slick dirtiness of sweat and dust making him shutter. Usually, his first stop would be to order someone to bring him a bath. But no. Not this time. His destination is as obvious as it is necessary; Merlin. Of course, he knows that the Knights feel the same way. Each of them having expressed at one time or another, their desire to see to Merlin as soon as they returned. Each of them having realized the significance of the big eared fool. All wishing to bask in his idiotic presence, but none of them would be so stupid as to think they could go there before Arthur. Merlin is -his-, after all.
So, he takes off at a quick pace, barely slowing long enough to shove the reins of his horse into a passing servant's hands. He doesn't even stop to give explicit instructions on how his beloved mount is to be taken care of. Later, maybe, he will stop to reflect on the fact that he has changed so much, but not now. Now, his purpose is singular. Merlin.
He takes the stairs to Gaius' chambers two at a time, clinking and clanking his way loudly toward the Physician's place. Merlin. Merlin. MERLIN. Each step drives the name through his mind like a mantra. When he reaches the door, he flings it open, unable to help the bright, excited grin of anticipation as he looks around.
"Sire!" Gaius exclaims, putting a half filled bottle down on the table top as he rounds the table. Surprises himself when he scoops the Prince into a happy hug. It felt as if it had been ages since the Prince had left, and with Merlin gone ... Gaius is feeling a paternal withdrawal of sorts. "I am glad to see you returned. Uninjured, I hope?" He gives the Prince a quick once over. No obvious dents or tears in his armor, no blood that would indicate actual injury. Arthur chuckles warmly, having returned the hug lightly before pulling himself from the physician's arms.
"It's good to be back, Gaius. I cannot believe it took nearly two weeks to hunt down a pack of damned bandits." Arthur growls those words, his hand tightening in a fist for a moment. It had been a bloody battle, but not for him and the Knights. No. They had torn the bandits apart with a savagery none of them knew they possessed. When the frenzy ended, they had looked at each other, eyes glazed, hands and swords dripping with blood. And it .. it was as if they had never seen each other before. Unable to recognize swordbrother and friend.
"Well, even the great Arthur Pendragon and Knights of Camelot can run into trouble, Sire." Gauis teases lightly, moving back around the table to grab up the concoction he had been bottling when the Prince entered. Arthur sends the older man a look that by all rights should be scathing, but is nothing less than happy and amused.
"Yes, yes, even we are flawed, Gaius." He agrees goodnaturedly, before he pushes himself into action. Before the physician can stop him, Arthur has hurried up the stairs toward Merlin's bedroom, throwing the door open with a wild grin. "Up and about, Merlin! We caught -" His words end abruptly, his mouth falling open in confusion. The room .. is empty. The bed is made, all of Merlin's clothing gone from their strewn position on the floor. His few possessions gone from the surfaces. He even finds himself turning to savagely yank open the wardrobe, seeing nothing there that belongs to his ... friend.
"Sire .." Gaius' voice is soft, full of such pity and sadness. Arthur barely manages to stumble the few steps to Merlin's ... to the -empty- ... bed. He falls heavily onto the surface, grunting in pain as his vision begins to eclipse at the edges. No. No NONONONO! The word is a cruel litany through his mind. Not realizing that the denial falls weakly from his trembling lips as well.
"G-Gaius .. p-please .. tell me ... he d-d-didn't ... die." He forces the words out through a restricted throat, trembling almost violently. His hands clench and unclench desperately, his vision growing darker and fuzzier around the edges as he feels himself sliding toward an inevitable panic attack. Of course, if he could actually stop and think about it, he knows that logically, there is no way in hell Merlin had died. Gaius would not have hugged him, wouldn't have reacted as calmly as he had. No, Gaius would've been in tears, to say the -least-. But the heart doesn't always 'think' in logic. So he is panicking. Trying so very hard to keep himself from falling apart on the spot.
"What!?" The old man nearly roars with confusion at such a terrible thought! He walks quickly toward the bed, reaching out to put a trembling hand on the Prince's shoulder. "Arthur, no! Of course not, sire!" Gaius shakes himself roughly, trying desperately to dispell the image of Merlin's demise as his brain tries to conjure such terrible images. He must especially dispel it once he looks closer at the Prince and sees the young man struggling with his panic. "Arthur, please. Try to breathe for me." He coaxes anxiously, lowering himself to the bed next to the Prince. He presses his gnarled old hand against the younger man's heart, feeling it hammer beneath his palm. He fights down his own wave of panic, frowning.
"Close your eyes." He orders, the Prince's eyes snapping closed immediately. He may be royal, he may be stubborn, but Gaius and Uther both have that fatherly command in their voices that all are conditioned to obey from a young age. "That's it, my boy. Slow, steady breath. Follow me ... that's it, Arthur." He cannot remember the last time the poor Prince had an episode such as this, but he's pretty sure it was preteen. "Good ... good." He encourages as he feels the Prince's heart begin to slow to a normal speed. Hears the steady in and out of his breath as he calms. Relaxes.
"Wh-what happened .. Gaius? Wh-where .. is ... Merlin!?" The word of his friend is hissed pathetically, his voice broken shards of emotion as he fights back the horrible possibility of tears. He will not cry. Not over -anyone-! Not even Merlin. Right?
"Oh, Arthur .." Gaius sighs, gently pulling his hand from the boy's heart. He laces his fingers in his lap, forcing himself to look around the empty room for the first time since Merlin had left. It seems too large and too small at the same time .. too empty and clean, and WRONG. Merlin's things should be a strewn mess, his tome secure in it's hiding place. Instead, it is simply a room again. "I'm sorry, Sire. Shortly after recovering, Merlin left." He forces himself not to look over. He cannot stand the thought of seeing possible anger, pain, or devastation on the Prince's features. Much as with Merlin, he views Arthur like his own child in many ways. "He has returned to Ealdor." He whispers the words, suddenly afraid that his voice will inexplicably fill the room, make it feel even more cavernous than Merlin's absence does.
Arthur blinks slowly. Questions the condition of his ears, the quality of his hearing. Merlin. Returned to Ealdor. He could understand his friend returning home when it was in trouble. Hell, hadn't he gone right along with him as soon as he could!? But this .. now .. for the guy to do the -exact- thing Arthur forbade him to do as soon as Arthur wasn't there to stop him ... it's worse than a slap or punch in the face. Worse than a physical wound. He feels his heart speeding up again, feels his breath catch in his throat, and Gaius stiffens next to him. Prepared to order his cooperation if he starts to panic once more.
The first thought to cross Arthur's mind actually sickens the Prince. Makes him utterly hate himself. Because his first thought is to go to the King, to ask his Father to -order- Merlin back to Camelot. And doesn't that just show how fucked up he is!? That his first thought for action is to try and make Merlin return by force. By Royal Decree with a dozen knights at his back. He would drag him back kicking and screaming if he had to! And that right there is what is wrong with him. That Princely, the entire world owes me because of my position, attitude. The very behavior that had brought Merlin to his attention in the first place.
Merlin was right. He was a manservant, not a fucking slave. But he was even more than -that-, too. More than a servant. He was a friend that Arthur treated worse than the muck in the horse stables. Because he was terrified. If he acknowledged Merlin as a friend, as an -equal-, how would he ever survive if he left? Died? Finally wised up and found a better job? He reaches up, fingers twisting into hooks to claw at the front of his armor. It feels too tight, restricting. Everything is bending and skewing out of shape. He no longer knows where anything fits. He is a puzzle with misshapen pieces and he's unsure if he will ever be whole again. And not just because Merlin is gone. No, not all of this is about his friend, though it -is- his friend's fault. If Merlin had never walked into his life, Arthur truly believes he would never have become a better person. He -never- would've become a man worthy of inheriting the crown and leading his people. Merlin set him on this path, and now he's gone.
"... why?" The question lodges in his throat, squeaks out high pitched and uneven. For one nightmarish moment, he fears the tears he has been denying will spill forth anyway. Yet something else prepared to openly defy him.
"Because, Arthur .. he ... he just needed to go home for a bit. There is so much to Merlin that you do not understand, Sire. He has done ... so much more for you and Camelot than anyone can ever say." Arthur's brow quirks out of habit, and when he gives Gaius an incredulous look, he flinches away from the open anger he views in the old man's withered features. "I will have -none- of that, Arthur Pendragon!" He snaps angrily, yanking his weary body from the bed. Causing it to shift and jostle Arthur momentarily. An action for which he is unrepentant. In truth, he has never wished to turn the young man over his knee and tan his backside so badly, for such poor behavior. He is tired of the Prince questioning the capabilities of the warlock. He cannot explain -how- Merlin is special, or what abilities he has, but he will be damned if he has lost the boy only to have the Prince disparage him now.
"Have you so quickly forgotten the things that Merlin has done for you!? For this kingdom that he was not even -born- to!?" Gaius snarls the words, rage gnawing at his gut as he stares the Prince down. He is defiant, pissed off. He knows that Arthur could order any number of punishments for his tone, let alone his words, but he doesn't care. He will speak his peace and face the consequences later. "He drank -poison- to save lives, Arthur. Every time you ride out to face something dangerous, he is right there by your side. Without being ordered. Without being forced. Because you know, that if it came right down to it, you would not make Merlin go were he not willing to. He has the biggest heart I have ever seen displayed, and if you wish to believe it or not, he has done a hell of a lot for you." Gaius jabs an angry finger in the Prince's direction, and Arthur flinches away as if he had actually been assaulted somehow. "I have never, -never- been so disappointed .. and outright ashamed of you, my boy, as I am in this moment. It seems we have found the -why-."
With a deep, seething breath, Gaius turns upon his heel and vacates the room. Returns to whatever job he knows he is supposed to be doing, though he has a feeling he will botch it in his anger and have to restart. No matter. It will leech the anger from him.
Nearly twenty minutes pass before Arthur emerges from the room. Though there is no evidence upon his face, no salted tracks of bitter water, no puffiness about the eyes, Gaius knows that the boy has cried.
"Forgive me, Gaius." He mumbles the words morosely, before he turns and slips quickly out of the the physician's place. He doesn't want to be there, where Merlin once was. Where Gaius has seen his selfish weakness.
Merlin drags his dirty hand across his sweat crusted cheek, feeling the damp mud the action creates. He squints off into the distance, exhaling sharply as a muscle in his shoulder twinges. He could muck a stable, repair heavy armor, polish and stack swords, but he had forgotten what it felt like to actually -work-. He stares at pile of wood he had been chopping, his hands blistered from the ax.
"Thank you, Merlin. It's so kind of you to do this!" Tabitha Ambers, a widow of about 70, steps form the small cottage she lives in on the edge of Ealdor. Her steps are slow, her back hunched from years of work. Her gnarled hands wrapped around a large, wooden cup. Merlin turns and brings the ax down hard on the stump, watching it sink deep into the wood before he turns and rushes to meet her.
"It's no trouble at all, Tabitha." He smiles that large, goofy smile as he takes the offered mug, sipping at the sweet wine inside. "I think this should be enough for the week. I need to check on Mother, and then I will be back to stack it inside for you." He feels heat spread through his cheeks when she grabs him and presses a kiss to his cheek in a Grandmotherly fashion.
"Alright, Merlin. Now, don't feel as if you have to rush back or anything, lad. Your Mother is so happy to have you home." When she reaches up to pinch his cheek, he manages not to wince or anything. "I hope it is for good?" Her voice raises on the final word, turning it into a hopeful question.
Sadly, it's the question every one in Ealdor has been asking since he returned a week ago. Is he staying? Is he home for good? Each and every one of them seemed surprised when the only answer he could give them .. is that he isn't sure. He really hasn't thought that far ahead. If he were honest with himself ... no. There's no way in hell that he can give up Camelot for Ealdor. Not any more. But honesty isn't exactly the order of the day for him. He still hasn't even managed to be honest with himself as to why he's here in the first place.
"I'm not sure yet, Tabitha." He hands the empty cup back to her, smiling sadly before he turns quickly and heads toward Hunith's house. Suddenly desperate to hide out in his childhood home, away from prying eyes and nosy questions. He hunches his shoulders, arms wrapped around himself in a hug as he hurries home.
"Merlin!" Hunith rushes from the open door of the house to meet him. Her cheeks are high with color, her hair slightly wild. She looks ... spooked, if not a little hopeful. Which leaves Merlin feeling utterly perplexed.
"Is something wrong?" He questions softly, eyes darting around the area quickly. Since him, Morgana, Gwen, and Arthur had come to take care of Kanen and his thugs, there had been no trouble for the village. That, however, doesn't stop Merlin from worrying, of course. Things could change at the drop of a pin, after all.
"No not wrong, son. Just .." She glances around for a moment, clears her throat, and takes Merlin gently by the hand. "We, uhm .. we have company, son." She offers him a faint smile, and he feels his stomach somersault dangerously. Company? For supper? Who on earth could that be!?
"Erm, alright ..." He drags the second word out softly, confused and curious as to why his Mother looks so frazzled over company. Of course, if he stopped for a single moment to think about it, he'd have known the answer long before he followed her inside to find Arthur Pendragon sitting at their kitchen table. He stops instantly in his tracks, nearly causing his Mother to topple as he dead weights and nearly knocks her over.
"Go away." He grinds those words out, his voice gone cold and emotionless. Arthur flinches, jumping clumsily to his feet when he hears Merlin's voice. For the first time in weeks. He inhales sharply, taking in the look of his friend. His hair is slightly wild, his features slightly tanned and streaked with dirt. Though none of that manages to lessen the beauty of him. And gods, but Arthur is trying his damnedest to deny that he is thinking of Merlin as beautiful at the moment.
"Merlin, please, let me ex -"
"No! I said GO AWAY YOU BASTARD!" He screams those words in a ragged fury, Hunith gasping in surprise at the sheer ferocity of Merlin's anger and hatred. Not to mention the kind of language she's not used to hearing from her innocent boy.
"Merlin!" She yelps, the warlock jumping in surprise when he realizes that his Mother is standing there. Having forgotten about her presence in his anger of seeing Arthur again. "I raised you with far better manners than that, young man!" Merlin flinches and draws back, away from both of them.
"Yes you did. Which should tell you just how much I do -not- want him here." He throws a scathing look at the Prince before he turns, barreling out of the door in hopes of escaping the man and the emotions that man invokes.
"Merlin!" Hunith calls after her son, looking confused and worried. Truly worried. Even when he and Will fought, it never invoked such passionate emotion. She had known the moment Prince Arthur showed up in Ealdor that he and Merlin had to be closer than they seemed. A Prince did not voluntarily risk his life for a mere servant. There had to be friendship involved, at least. And, of course, to see the King's Ward Morgana, and Guinevere as well, it was obvious to her that her son had made dear, fast friends in Camelot. Which is why she was all the more confused when Merlin appeared out of nowhere. Back home, no explanation, nothing said about the friends he had left behind. Though, now it's rather obvious that it has something to do with Arthur, given the fact that the Prince's arrival has set her son off so deeply.
"Arthur Pendragon, what did you do to my son!?" This time, it's Arthur's turn to jump in surprise when sweet little Hunith rounds on him with all the furious rage of a protective lioness, eyes shining with motherly wrath. Giving him just enough time to consider that charging out here without a plan may be one of the most ridiculous decisions he has ever made. Ever.
"I'm sorry, Hunith." He murmurs his soft apology, wringing his hands momentarily as he tries to decide how much he should tell her. In the end, he goes for the kind of blunt truth more apt to be heard from Morgana or Merlin, rather than himself. "He and I got into a rather bad shouting match .. in which ... I may have implied that the thought of anyone being interested in him was ridiculous. And then, rather than apologize the day after, I further implied that the only thing that could be more ridiculous, was the thought that anyone would buy him an expensive gift, right after having to jump in and help him fight off a group of bandits." Yeah, because there is any way in which telling a woman all of that, in regards to her only son, can end well! Thus, it's no surprise to the Prince when Hunith's hand shoots out, catching his cheek in a sharp slap before she pulls back. Her hand clasping over her mouth in shock.
"Arthur .." She begins, and he holds a hand up to halt her words. Surprises them both, when he reaches out to hug her gently.
"I was horrible, Hunith ... your reaction was warranted." She gives a faint nod of her head, sighing softly. "I .. don't know how to fix this, but I have to try."
"Oh, Arthur .. it takes so much to push Merlin to the edge. But even now .. I think he will forgive you. He has been so .. miserable .. since he's been back. I just want my son happy." She turns her dark gaze upon him, studying him for a long moment. "I am grateful for the help you offered us, Prince Arthur, and I will ever be grateful. However ... if you hurt my boy like this again, dear, I will have Gaius help me bury you in some deep, dark hole where they will never find you. Merlin is -all- I have. And he is too kind-hearted, loving, innocent, and special to be put through this again. Now, go." The final words are an order, and Arthur finds himself so fully, unbelievably terrified of the small woman that he simply nods, turns, and practically runs from the house.
Merlin grunts with exertion and anger as he slams the ax down, splitting a rather large piece of wood. He gets a momentary thrill of satisfaction as he watches the two pieces fall on either side of the stump. But only momentarily. No sooner have they settled with the others, than his satisfaction has burned away. He settles another log, grumbling acerbically beneath his breath as he glares down at the wood.
Now, he -knows- that it's not the woods fault. None of this is. But still, it helps, the cathartic release of taking his anger out on the wood as he cleaves it in two with his ax. He's gone through six pieces by the time Arthur tracks him down. The Prince hadn't been expecting so many in Ealdor to stop and thank him. To want to hug, shake hands, or any other number of familiarities that they had no right to. Familiarities that he allowed them to take, despite the urgency of needing to find his friend. If he is lucky enough to still be able to call him that.
Merlin glares at a piece of wood after it has split. Cursing it in the old language and the new, when it rolls several feet away from the pile. He gives a guttural snarl, slams the ax back down into the stump and turns to retrieve the wood.
"Since when can you chop wood, Merlin?" Arthur drawls out, bending to pick up the piece at his feet. Merlin's hands clench half a dozen times at his sides as he stares at the Prince. Envisions strangling him. Or taking the ax after him. If nothing else, ensuring there would be no more Pendragon morons running around Albion!
"Really!?" Merlin screams that word in a voice of blood curdling rage, his hands shaking so badly that Arthur is smart enough to take several steps back from the man. Ready to brandish the log as a weapon of defense if need be. "After everything ... EVERYTHING, Arthur, you came here simply to insult me more!?" Arthur grimaces, silently forming the words he had spoken, tasting the bitter truth of them. He is a moron. An asshole. Horrible.
"No, Merlin .. I really, really didn't." He drops the wood, barely managing to move his foot before it could pulverize it. He runs his hands through his tousled, sandy hair, and lifts his tired gaze to regard his friend for a long, silent moment. If he were less selfish, he would turn around. Leave. Do whatever it takes to stop hurting his friend. But that would mean leaving here without any hope of Merlin returning to Camelot with him. He just can't do that. At least, not without trying to explain.
"I did not come to Ealdor to insult you, Merlin! Nor did I come to have your Mother slap and then threaten me ... or to have a bunch of people I barely know stop and touch me, while telling me how wonderful I am. I didn't come to watch you beat the hell out of a pile of defenseless wood, either." The great Prince Arthur sounds nothing short of tired and defeated. He does not give up before he has started, but it feels as if that's exactly what he has done. He doesn't expect this to work. Has no hope of somehow managing to pull the right string of words from thin air to convince Merlin to come with him. To return to Camelot. To come -home-. "Merlin ..." The name is some bastard hybrid of a groan and a sigh. Ejected with such force that his bangs flutter and twist on the breeze of his breath. "I came here, Merlin, to apologize."
That single word ... apologize. It has the power to douse the flame of Merlin's anger instantly. Hell, it nearly knocks him flat on his arse as he stares at Arthur with open mouthed disbelief.
"I ... what?"
"Articulate as ever, Merlin." Arthur grunts, though an ephemeral smile tugs at the corners of his mouth. It's not as if he can really blame his friend for being so dumbfounded. The words he prepares to speak are not words spoken often or lightly. Not even to his ... best friend ... "I'm sorry, Merlin. You're right. I'm a Royal ass." The words are slow in coming, but spoken with nothing less than complete sincerity. "I wasn't trying to be mean, or insult you, or .. any of that Merlin. I just ... damn it, this is hard!" Arthur turns abruptly away from the other man, feral anger burning hot through his mind. Darkening his features as he kicks at the fallen log. Watching it roll haphazardly back toward the pile where it belongs.
"Go on, Sire, you're doing so well." Merlin mutters, his arms crossing tightly over his chest as he glares daggers at the Prince. Because he doesn't trust this. Not yet. Though a part of him -really- wants to.
"Damn it, Merlin!" Arthur snarks, but the warlock doesn't miss the smile that blooms across the Prince's features when he hears the familiar 'disrespect' in Merlin's words. "You can -not- talk to me that way!" Arthur injects a heavy dose of whine in the words, and despite his best efforts not to, Merlin smiles. It's familiar, comforting. A momentary return to their dynamic.
"And yet, I believe I just did." Merlin forces his arms to uncross, forces himself to relax where he stands. Even takes a few tentative steps closer to his friend. The amusement, the happiness, it is fleeting. His features twist into a truthful offering of raw emotion. Fear, sadness, and a need to understand. "Arthur, please .. tell me what the hell is going on here. I haven't been this confused since I moved to Camelot and ended up in the bloody dungeons for -defending- someone!" Arthur sucks in a deep, pained breath. Will he never live that down? He was an asshole. He even admitted it a few moments ago. But he's changed, damn it.
"What do you want me to say, Merlin!?" He screams that question at the other man, all his own confusion, fear, and uncertainty filling with words until they are verbal projectiles that rip like barbs through the warlock.
"THE TRUTH!" Merlin snarls as he takes the few steps separating them. Buries his trembling hands like talons into Arthur's shirt front and shakes him for all that he's worth! Something snaps in the sandy-haired Prince. Having Merlin that close ... hands on him ... tortured emotions written across his elfin features. It's more than Arthur can take. Every ounce of desire, anxiety, fear of rejection, and hope wells up inside until action is the only option. He grabs Merlin by his slender shoulders, fingers digging almost painfully into them as he yanks him forward.
When their mouths meet, it is an awkward, desperate collision of lips. Grabby hands with sweaty palms and stiff fingers. They are stuck between trying to understand each other in the kiss, and wanting to devour one another. When they finally pull aoart, their lips are swollen and gleaming with moisture. Their eyes are wide and sharp, taking in every detail of each other.
"You bloody Pendragons. Just can't use your words, can you?" Merlin drawls out in a deadpan voice, Arthur snorting with laughter before he grabs the other man by the shoulder and drags him into another kiss. This one is languid. A slow exploration of lips and mouth. Tongues wrestling, undulating against each other until the have to pull apart again. To breathe.
"Merlin .. are you going to come home?" The usually confident Prince sounds so small, meek, and terrified as he asks that question. If Merlin said no, especially after what had just happened ... he doesn't know how he's going to handle it. What he'll do.
"Well, I don't know, Sire .. are you going to continue to be a moody, emotional dollophead?"
"... of course." Arthur snorts, deciding honesty is definitely the best policy. He will not make promises to change himself, because it would be futile. He has changed some, and may change further in the future, but even for Merlin, he will not change completely.
"Good. I rather like the Royal Ass." Merlin snickers, and before Arthur can make some silly or lewd comment, the warlock tugs him close for another deep kiss. "Yes, Arthur, I'm coming home. How would poor Camelot fare if Prince Arthur was forced to take care of himself? Or, worse yet, get a bootlicker manservant?" Arthur's eyes twinkle with mirth at the question, though his answer is so very serious. Heartfelt.
"Honestly? It would fall apart, Merlin. I know I say .. mean, stupid things to tease you, but it's just play. You're my best friend, and I'm lost without you." Merlin feels the heat pouring into his cheeks, though he yelps in surprise when Arthur reaches up to lightly, playfully smack one of his blushing cheeks. "And if you -ever- tell -anyone- I said that, I'll bury you in the woods." They both dissolve into childish laughter, the tensions of the last few weeks melting away as they pull apart. Reluctantly put some distance between them.
"Alright, your Royal Pratness. Lets go home, yeah?"
FIN