When Arthur is crowned, Merlin can't contain his joy.
He shouts, and only needs to do so once. He calls for his king's health, sings it to the heavens, his voice ringing over the crowd, his eyes full of the type of pride that comes from long years of watching Arthur turn from a brat to a prince to a king. It is the type of pride that he cannot describe, not to anyone, even if he tried. It is the type of pride that makes his heart swell and beat so hard he's certain it's going to jump right out of his chest.
His heart beats just as loudly as Arthur takes Gwen as his queen, but this time the thu-thump of its pounding threats to tear itself apart on the razor sharp edges of his ribs.
There is a type of detachment to the scene as it plays out, his best friend and his secret love standing hand in hand, glittering crowns promising a bright future. His voice answers the call of the crowd, but it is different this time. It blends in, cowed beneath the hateful emotions within his chest. He should be happy for them-he is because they deserve this-but he has always been a selfish creature.
Even with Gwen, glowing and radiant, a fair and just queen, on display before them, he can only think of the scent of Arthur's old coat puffed up around him, of his voice telling him he will not attend a royal wedding in the usual rags ringing in his ears, the warm, calloused hands smoothing down the shoulders and picking a piece of lint off his collar in the way Merlin usually does for him. Arthur, features schooled carefully but eyes crinkled at the corners, experiencing the happiest day of his life, and yet Merlin think treacherous thoughts, thinks of how he had urged Arthur to forgive Gwen only because doing so would make him happy again, would bring back the smile he'd so missed, would reinstate the quiet picnics and the easy evenings where he joined the couple on their outings, when peace was on Arthur's face and he could see the love shining clearly in his eyes, and could pretend it was directed at him.
Yes, he is a selfish creature, and it hurts him, but he has done right, hasn't he? He's talked sense into Arthur and brought the two hearts together. He's been accepting and supporting. He's stood in Gwen's defense and Arthur's both, protecting the commoner queen and the king who chose her. After all, he owes them, so much.
He'd led to her father's death. He'd killed Arthur's.
He's given back and yet it still hurts.When will it stop hurting?
Afterwards, when the ceremonies have ended and the feast has died; later, when Merlin leaves Arthur to guide Gwen back to his bedroom; as the night ticks on and Merlin thinks of the snow white sheets waiting to show consummation and seal the marriage in the eyes of God-he slips off the Camelot red coat and holds it tight. His fingers dig into the old stitches and distorted colors of his underclothes shimmer back at him from the buttons that have no right to shine as they do, that he forced anyway, because today had been special and he had to show it. He swallows hard and feels the lump in the back of his throat, notices the wetness in his lashes, and hates himself for it.
King and Queen of Camelot. It is a beautiful thing-a wonderful thing. Arthur has freed himself of his father's expectations and has married for love, not for politics. He has created his own world, his own kingdom, and is spreading his influence over the countryside, even if he does not realize it. Merlin is so, so proud of him.
Gwen, too, has shed the weights of servanthood. She has become a woman, sweet as always but strong now, willing to stand up to the men of court, to question Arthur's decisions openly, to give her council whether or not the men in her company wish to hear it. She has grown leaps and bounds, years of hardship changing her, her gentle nature guiding it into something special. Merlin is so, so proud of her.
But him?
Oh, he has stayed the same.
He still clings to the darkness. He plasters on smiles and laughs at insults; he traipses about pretending to be good as good things and bad at everything else. He acts brave when he knows, without his magic, he is nothing. He still fears himself, still knows that when the anger becomes tight and cloying, when rage fills his nostrils and he breathes his fire, when he does not have magic but is magic, he is every bit the monster he'd feared he was. His life is a mirage; he lives with two truths and a lie on his lips, manipulation at its finest, making Arthur and Gwen and the knights and everyone else in Camelot believe he is one type of man when he never was, never will be. He is still the night, chasing after the sun that Arthur has become. And, just like the night, he only ever arrives after the sun has relented to dusk; he is forgotten when dawn breathes life back into the world.
He is only ever needed when the night comes.
The magic that flows in his veins is enough to conquer armies. He can turn the tide of war; he can level a kingdom, raize a castle to the ground. He can fell beasts of myth and of legend; he knows of the birthplace of magic, is allowed-cursed-to see the future within its crystals. And yet he cannot breathe life back into fields. He cannot fix trees destroyed by fire; he cannot heal the sick and help the wounded, forced to rely on what he has learned from his mentor to do so. It isn't fair, it isn't right that this is how he had to grow up. But then he remembers that if he didn't, then he would have never met Arthur.
It's a double edged sword, an open gash in his chest that starts bleeding again with every thump of his heart. It is a constant pain, a bone-deep ache that has him gasping at night, praying to the gods for mercy, wishing he could tear the muscle from beneath his ribs and never have to feel again.
He clutches the coat and brings it to his face, inhaling. It smells as Arthur does; sword polish and sweet sweat, fresh tilled earth, cinnamon-sharp at the edges. He already knows that he will never wear this again. It will be tucked in the back of his closet, preserved with careful, tender fingers, a spell woven into the fabric to preserve that scent. The only light of day it will see again are the flashes that come as he drags out a new outfit for the day. The rest of the time, it will live like he does, hidden away, a reminder when needed, forgotten when not.
But for tonight? Tonight, Merlin lays down on his small bed and clutches it close. Tonight, Merlin buries his nose into the crimson fabric and holds tight. Tonight, it will give him the strength to move in the morning, the courage to put away what-could-have-been and attend his new monarchs for breakfast, after the church has come to ensure the union, after their marriage has been officially sealed. Tonight, it will offer him a place to weep, something to muffle his voice, to quell his sobs.
Tomorrow, he will rise with a smile on his lips. But tonight? Tonight, he will mourn-and there will be no one to stop him, to comfort him.
There never is anyone for him.
A/N- I'm not dead, just busy *insert heart emoji* I'll be writing more soon