Recipient: Merlin holiday mods and participants on LJ
Pairings: Merlin/Arthur
Author's Notes: many thanks to my awesome beta, gwylliondream. The prompt was 'Mystery to do with Jacobean witch trials in UK and/or US (Puritans, etc.)' and angst. I relied on wiki for a lot of witch trial lore of which there was surprisingly little specific information. My apologies if I got anything (everything) wrong.
Disclaimer: I do not own the BBC version of Merlin; BBC and Shine do. I am very respectfully borrowing them with no intent to profit. No money has changed hands. No copyright infringement is intended.
Witch.
A word that would send chills down the backs of lesser men, but Arthur Pendragon had been born to hunt them down, to eradicate them from the face of the earth so that no one would ever suffer as his family had once done.
So when the latest batch of accused witches, scrawny beings, mostly women, but a few men, came into the court, he was prepared to deal with them as he had with all those who practiced the dark arts. Fairly, justly, finally.
Around them in the courtroom, the chaos of accusers was loud. And the guards were not gentle. But Arthur had seen it too many times before to pay much attention. Instead, he was reiterating the law to the other judge, Harold de Lavalle. It was of no concern to Arthur that the older judge was taking his reminders with something less than approval. It didn't matter. He'd seen misplaced benevolence give way to a scourge across the land when those who'd fooled the courts into compassion were set free.
It would not happen here, not on his watch.
But the trouble began with the first accusation.
The woman, barely able to stand, clothes covered in filth from several nights in gaol, was trembling as the charges were brought forth. Her fields were known to be some of the finest in the village. Sometimes, she was seen burying fish entrails in the soil at night when the moon was full, singing as she did so. Every few years, she'd plant crops that held no value, merely ploughed them back into the soil, and yet even in hard times, she'd managed to out-produce her neighbours. It had to be witchcraft. Her accuser, a portly man, was almost beside himself with glee as he listed her crimes. But when he sat down, another voice rang out from deep inside the crowd of the accused.
"Mary has done nothing wrong. These are normal farming practices further west, not witchcraft but good common sense. There is much written on it if you would care to look. Others would do well to follow her lead." A tall man, unbowed, with a shock of black hair and the largest ears Arthur had ever seen, pushed forward, glaring at the judges. "Cedric Black wants her land and is willing to see her hang for it. Or are your honours not interested in the truth?"
Arthur couldn't believe what he was hearing. After all, most witches were cowards, whimpering or begging for mercy, and yet here was one of the accused challenging the court. It was not to be borne.
"You will be silent or pay the consequences," Arthur said.
The idiot witch straightened, as if he didn't understand that he was condemning himself further with such impudence. "I will be hanged when this is done. Are there more consequences than that, my lord?"
Deep inside Arthur's chest, there was a confused shock of recognition. It was something in the way the witch spoke, the way he challenged Arthur that reminded him of he knew not what. He'd never seen the man before, and yet underneath his aching unease, Arthur wanted to reach out to him, connect somehow. It was as if the witch had been his first and most beloved friend in all the world, and one he'd not seen in a very long time.
Arthur wanted to laugh, to cry, to ruffle the witch's hair, and hold him close. It was impossible. It was frightening, that chaotic whirlwind of sorrow and joy for a stranger, especially one accused of witchcraft. It was also intolerable for Arthur to feel it at all. Witches were to be eradicated, not welcomed into a Pendragon's arms.
While Arthur was struggling to regain his composure, de Lavalle shifted in his seat. Staring down at the miscreant, he said, "Have you proof of this?"
Giving a little bow, looking pleased that someone was willing to listen to his lies, the witch pointed toward the upper gallery, where the well-to-do of the town were seated. "Black was overheard in the tavern, boasting of his triumph. Ask John, the owner, or our village elder, Thomas of Bellecote. Both of them were there."
Tavern gossip. The most suspicious of all evidence. Nothing concrete, such as documents or items of worth. He would have dismissed it out of hand, but alas, de Lavalle had other ideas.
"Bellecote, is this true?" As Bellecote rose from his seat, de Lavelle sounded very unhappy about the turn of events as he said, "Did you overhear Cedric Black say such things?"
Bellecote was visibly trembling, looking everywhere but at the accused. Finally, he said, "Yes, my lord. Master Black was there, saying what he'd do with Mary's farm once she was gone. He'd accused her for that very reason."
That did not sit well with Arthur. He prided himself on justice. To condemn an innocent, no matter how it looked, was anathema to him. He said, "And you did not think to bring this up before the court?"
Bellecote turned white, looking as if he might faint. But then he seemed to gather his courage at last. "My lord, those who defend a witch are often accused of it thereafter. I have a wife and family. Black threatened them if I said anything."
More damning, de Lavalle leaned over to Arthur and said, "I've read of such farming practices. If you like, Pendragon, I can send for the booklet which describes them."
This was deplorable, unconscionable that it would happen in his court. But a village elder's word was his bond and the court had no recourse but to accept it. That de Lavalle corroborated the testimony was the final straw.
Damnably, Arthur had to say, "Mary, you are free to go."
The woman burst into tears. Curtseying as best as one of her status could, she scurried out the door. Others followed her, perhaps to comfort, perhaps to commiserate. Then Arthur said, "And arrest Cedric Black on charges of false witness. We will deal with him later. As we will of any who speak falsehoods for gain or malice in our court."
There was a scuffle in the upper gallery. Black had already tried to flee – he must have realised that his position was precarious at best once the tall witch had begun to speak, but the guards were faster. Black's bellowing threats echoed down the hallway until, at last, it was cut short when the door swung shut.
Arthur turned back to the man, scowled down at him. "And you of the sharp tongue, your name?"
"Merrick Ennis, my lord." The gangly witch bowed slightly, lowering his eyes a moment, but even as he did so, Arthur could have sworn he'd seen a smile flash across the villain's face.
The sense of friendship, almost of intimacy, grew sharply stronger, seemed to fill Arthur with thoughts of affection for this man. The name, too, seemed achingly familiar and yet wrong. If Arthur didn't know better, he would swear that he was being bewitched by the rogue. That made him all the colder.
"You stand accused of witchcraft." If Arthur's gaze could kill, Ennis would already be dead. As it was, all Arthur could do was try to suppress the roiling emotions inside, and conduct himself as only a judge, determined to deliver justice and magic's destruction would do. "Are you claiming that your accusers have borne false witness as well?"
Ennis didn't even flinch. For a long silence, he did nothing but stare into Arthur's face, looking for something – a sign of recognition or acceptance or revulsion – Arthur wasn't sure, but at long last, he turned away, bowed to de Lavalle, and said, "My lords, I would ask a boon and let the others stand first. There is much you do not know, and if I were condemned, I could not speak for them. As you have seen, the others in this court are afraid."
As the other judge nodded, shrugging off the problem as inconsequential – after all, each accused witch would be tried eventually, Arthur was not so sure. His unease was growing even as his sense of longing for Ennis did.
"And you are not afraid?" Arthur asked, his voice sharp as a blade.
Blue eyes turned back toward Arthur, Ennis looking almost hopeful for the briefest of moments before schooling his face back into impassivity.
"Of you, no. Of fate, always," Ennis said.
Arthur had had enough of this nonsense. For the man to dismiss him so lightly was unacceptable. It was as if he already thought himself free of the court's justice. Arthur scowled down at him and said, "They are one in the same, witch."
With those words, shadows of loss and more loss seemed to twist at Ennis's mouth, even as the blue of his eyes faded to grey. If Arthur didn't know better, he would have said that there were tears there, too, refusing to fall, but it had to be a trick of the light.
Soft, barely a whisper, Ennis looked straight at Arthur and said, "Yes, I know."
After more of Ennis's machinations, three of the witches charged with magic had been released. Each time, Ennis or the accuser had thwarted the court, some of the informants rescinding their testimony, or else coming forth with proof of plots for gain or malice. The gaol was overfull with miscreants, and they'd had to send some of those giving false testimony back home with threats of worse punishment if they ran.
Arthur hoped that some of them would run. Frustrated beyond reason, he could use a hard ride to drown out the horrors of his court's utter inability to rid the damnable village of witchcraft. And there had to be witches there. He'd found so many in the years since his father's death, so many that it would seem the pile of bodies would rise up and hide the sun at times.
He took another drink, fine wine from de Lavalle's cellar, but it wasn't enough. He needed gin and lots of it. But it wouldn't do to show that kind of weakness.
So instead, he lay down and willed himself to sleep.
But the night held its own terrors.
Caught in a dream that he'd not allow himself in the light of day, he found himself walking, walking down toward Merrick Ennis's cell. His breathing was harsh in the darkness, the cool air fanning his hot face and hotter hands.
Arthur could feel his heart racing at the thought of seeing him again, There was the utter familiarity of his face, the blue in Merrick's eyes, beloved, and almost forgotten in the years since he'd seen him last – although he'd never seen him before, the promise of love and pleasure in equal measure with that smile of his.
He'd missed him in the centuries since last they'd met.
He knew, without knowing, just how Merrick would react when he pulled the man to him, began to explore his mouth with ruthless abandon. He wanted, so very much, to hear Merrick call out his name in longing, to let the man drown in the agony that was ecstasy, and find his own way into that soaring white pleasure.
He could feel himself growing excited as he drew close. Calling his name – not Merrick, though but another, Myrddin or Merlin or Merthen, he wasn't sure, but Merrick's face lit up as Arthur rounded the corner and entered the cell. And he didn't resist when Arthur grabbed him, began kissing him with all the wild recklessness of his utter need.
Merrick melted into him, his hand snaking down past chainmail and shirts and breeches, and finding Arthur hardening, began to twist his fingers just the way Arthur liked it, as if he already knew how and why and when. That questioning tongue of his was drawing out Arthur's pleasure, pulling him higher and higher until Arthur let go whatever barriers he'd held and spilled ecstasy into Merrick's hand.
As he came down from that glorious high, Merrick was whispering, "Arthur, Arthur, oh gods, I thought you'd never remember. I love you, I've loved you forever and now, oh, Arthur, at last, Arthur."
Arthur wanted to answer him in kind, wanted to speak words of love and forever and always.
But it was just a dream, and as with all dreams, as he reached again for his beloved, hoping to claim him once more, Merrick began to pull back, crying out for mercy. Arthur blinked, confused, not knowing what he'd done wrong when a shadow pushed past him.
It was his father, screaming defiance, taking his battered sword, and without provocation, shoving it into Merrick's chest.
Horrified, Arthur watched as Merrick collapsed, blood staining the dank cell, entrails spilling out, his beloved growing whiter and more translucent until he melted away into nothingness. All that remained was the red neckerchief Merrick had had around his throat.
Staring at Arthur in utter contempt, Uther was shouting as he had done so long ago, reminding him of witchcraft and spells and how weak Arthur was to give in so easily. That sodomy was a worse crime than sorcery, no son of his would ever succumb to such a thing, and torture would be Arthur's own end if he ever touched a man in that way again.
For all his life, he'd believed his father's rants about the evils of witchcraft. He'd let Uther rage and rave and Arthur had taken it all to heart, had let Uther's hatred shape Arthur into the man he was, ruthless, as hard as stone, without compassion. And it was slowly destroying him.
When dream-Uther exploded into bones and dust, just as he had done when the witch finally caught up to him and exacted her revenge so long ago, Arthur was almost relieved.
Arthur woke with his hand sticky, his chest still heavy with sick lust, his face wet with tears. He wasn't sure if he'd been crying out for Merrick or for his father, but in any case, the grief was real enough.
It took all of his courage to keep him from running to the cells, to see for himself if Merrick was still alive. It was impossible, those feelings. Nothing made sense. He couldn't love a witch, wouldn't love a witch no matter how much he wanted to.
He had to be bewitched. It was the only explanation.
He knew what he'd have to do to break the spell – kill the man who cast such a curse and burn the body into ash. Only then would Arthur be free of his profane lust. Only then would he breathe freely again.
Yet Arthur let out a sigh of relief when Ennis re-entered the courtroom.
As with the previous trials, things went badly for Arthur at first. Many accusers rescinded their testimony, and there were excuses and trivial charges. Arthur was growing weary of losing.
So when the last girl came up to answer the allegations of witchcraft, Arthur had had enough.
The girl stood there, mumbling under her breath, her fingers busy with lank hair, and there was an air of emptiness about her eyes. A simpleton and alone. One who should have been treated with gentle understanding.
But Arthur was sick of understanding. Angered as he was by his nightmares and the waywardness of the court so far, he glared down at her. "Eleanor, you stand accused of witchcraft. What say you?"
Blinking, vacant, she gave him a brilliant smile and said, "Pretty." Then she went back to playing with her hair.
Ennis, of course, for who else would be so bold, wasn't about to let even one witch be condemned. "She doesn't understand, my lord. I've been told she's been this way since birth." Behind him, there was a restless noise among the crowd as several nodded their heads or whispered agreement.
Arthur ignored them all, shuffled papers before him, then showed the top one to de Lavalle. When the other judge nodded, he said, "Several have testified that she's danced naked in the woods, by the standing stones on moonlit nights."
Those in the back rows of the room were agitated, muttering among themselves, seemingly ready to protest Arthur's words. It was almost as if they knew, all of them, and thought it nothing of consequence. The whole village was infected with witchcraft, it would seem, a contagion that had to be eradicated.
Ennis, however, didn't seem to notice the growing plague of magic. Or more likely, he was the source of it, if Arthur's obsession was any indication. "She doesn't like to be bound. It's a simple thing, a child's way of dealing with it as toddlers often do."
As if on cue, the girl began to rock, singing nonsense words under her breath – or what could be the beginnings of a spell, twisting a little as she did so.
Voice rising in disgust, Arthur said, "Naked among the stones? It is the work of the devil. And I have to wonder if there are others who dance with her, calling on the dark powers for their own gain. Should we send an armed guard to watch?"
"Arthur, no, don't." Ennis stepped back as if he'd been slapped.
Leaning forward, a scowl, painful and sharp, cutting into his skin, Arthur snarled out, "My Lord or Your Honour. Anything less and I will have your tongue for such disrespect." When those expressive eyes of Ennis's seemed to shimmer with grief, Arthur felt pushed to his limit. Wanting more than anything to soothe that soft skin of Ennis's, kiss away the tears, beg forgiveness for hurting him, Arthur realised that he was falling under the witch's spell again and his heart hardened into stone. "Do you deny it, Ennis? As you have so many times before?"
Gaze flicking downward, Ennis must have recognised just what a precarious position he was in. But he seemed to gather up his courage. "My Lord, she didn't understand. To her, the moon is pretty and dancing among the standing stones a game."
It was enough.
Underneath, Arthur was almost sorry for the girl but the law was clear. "She is condemned to hang tomorrow at mid-day."
Beside him, de Lavalle muttered a protest. "Pendragon, what are you doing? She's clearly incapable of such things."
But all he heard was Ennis's horror. "Arthur, please, don't do this."
Shoving de Lavalle's concerns aside, he turned to Ennis, ignoring the grief in his face, dismissing the want in his own heart. "You yourself have condemned her with acceptance of the testimony and your own words. I have no choice."
For a moment, there was utter silence. The restless crowds, the smoky air, the spill of sunlight across the floorboards, the girl playing with her hair, were nothing compared to Ennis's anguished look.
Whatever Ennis had done to keep the tears at bay was gone now. Face wet, he shook with something else: fear, disgust, anguish. But more importantly, he stood there watching Arthur with a kind of final irrevocable acceptance, as if they were the only two in the room and Arthur had just cut out Ennis's heart.
So softly that Arthur had to lean forward to hear, Ennis said, " I… I bewitched her. She is innocent. I caused her to dance among the stones, to gather power. She didn't know what she was doing."
The crowd broke into shouts, and cries of horror and disbelief.
Arthur, too, could not believe it. He thought if he pushed hard enough, Ennis might break, might admit his demon power, but to know now that Arthur had won gave him no pleasure. Instead his own heart was shattering into a thousand pieces. He only hoped that once Ennis was dead, the spell he'd cast over Arthur would be broken.
It took all of Arthur's courage to say, "Out of your own mouth, you have condemned yourself. Do you have anything to say before we pass sentence?"
"In this village, I healed the sick, pushed aside those who would do harm so that others might live, made elixirs to keep the plague from our borders. I've done everything I could to help those in need." The crowd was still roaring out its confusion, but Arthur could hear Ennis's voice clearly, as though they were as close as lovers. "But my true path has always been one of waiting, endlessly waiting for my king to return to me. I'm waiting still."
For the longest time, Arthur couldn't speak. Shocked with a kind of grief that tugged endlessly at his chest and the feeling that he was about to destroy the only thing he'd ever love, he said, "Merrick Ennis, your wait is over, for you will hang tomorrow. At mid-day for all of this village to see. That they might know that witchcraft is of the devil and all those who practice it are doomed for eternity."
Arthur swept his gaze across the room, looked at those still clambering for attention or solace or rebuke, the men and women of this hellhole that he was determined to forget as soon as he rode away. There was only one person he'd remember, and Arthur had just condemned him to death.
Arthur knew better than to talk to a convicted prisoner. Once sentence was passed, outside of an ordeal by water or fire, only the higher courts or the king could change it, and there wasn't time to send word before his execution. Not that Arthur would ever think to help a witch. But that was a lie Arthur kept telling himself even as he ordered the guards to bring Ennis to him.
Arthur's heart beating too fast, his breath out of control, it was more than just anger that drove him – it was that the curse Ennis had placed on him refused to die. Arthur's every thought was both of fear and longing for the man, nay, the witch, and he wondered as the minutes passed, if he himself would survive Ennis's execution. His emotions were only growing more intense.
Arthur had never experienced such confusion.
It didn't get better when Ennis stumbled into the room. Manacles clanking, the links between them heavy and unbreakable, Ennis stood there, swaying a little. It was obvious from his face, and the way he pulled himself in, that someone had been beating him. Bruises, purple and yellow, blossomed along one cheek, and there was a shallow cut, too, by his ear.
It was intolerable. They were not the barbarians of the continent, tormenting their prisoners like that. But as Arthur shouted at the guard for taking such liberties, Ennis shook his head. "It doesn't matter. I will be dead soon enough."
"It is a matter of honour." Arthur sent a frosty glare toward the guard. "I will deal with you later."
The man managed to look sheepish but Arthur was certain it would happen again unless he squashed it immediately. "And if I hear that others have been treated this way, there may be further consequences. Do I make myself clear?" When the guard nodded, Arthur said, "Leave the keys. I will escort the prisoner back to his cell when I am done with him."
A bow, a hasty retreat, and at last Ennis and Arthur were alone.
Arthur didn't want to touch Ennis, worried that his bewitched state would lead him into foolishness or worse. But there was nothing to be done.
Still, Arthur stood there long enough, lost in thought, fighting his baser nature, for Ennis to say, "My lord, you wished to see me?"
Shaking himself, Arthur stepped forward, careful to touch only the handcuffs and unlocked them. They made a harsh ugly sound as he dropped them to the sideboard. He didn't say anything more to Ennis, just motioned him into the nearest chair. Pouring them both a glass of fine wine, Arthur took a large gulp and then sat down next to the witch – within reaching distance but far enough away that there would be no accidental contact.
Ennis didn't touch the wine, just watched him for a moment. "I will not implicate others, if that is your purpose."
It took everything in Arthur to keep his hands where they were. "I want you to remove the curse."
Ennis frowned. "What curse?"
Arthur had to admit that Ennis looked innocent enough, but he wasn't about to let the witch wiggle out of it. His life would not be bound to such corruption, no matter how much he wanted it. "You have bewitched me and I will not have it. And do not think to protest. It began the moment I saw you and even now it grows stronger."
Frowning, looking as if he were thinking hard, Merrick watched as Arthur stood up and towered over him, seemed to heed his words as Arthur said, "I know that sometimes the curse can be broken with the death of the caster but often it lingers on for a lifetime. I cannot sleep, I cannot think of anything but you." There was a light in Merrick's eyes, a happiness to his mouth that made Arthur want to dive in and take him right then and there.
It could not be borne. Arthur jerked back, snarled out, "You will remove it or I swear I will put you to the rack, honour or not."
But instead of recoiling in horror at the idea, Merrick looked up at him with eagerness. "Have you had visions?"
"Dreams, of a base nature involving… you will remove it." Arthur was growing desperate. With every breath, he wanted to cover the witch with kisses, mark him as his own. His heart was racing, and his body, too, was reacting.
"Arthur, it might be memories."
Merrick sounded so reasonable about something completely absurd. Memories indeed, of a person he'd never met before. It was beyond the realm of reality. It was utter fantasy.
But the way he looked at Arthur, the way Merrick was breathing, licking at his mouth, his fingers reaching out as if to touch, was driving Arthur to the brink. Arthur didn't know how much longer he could bear it.
Scowling at him, Arthur said, "I've never met you. How can it be anything but a curse?"
Merrick gazed up at him with a strange kind of fondness, the beginnings of relief and joy dancing in his eyes. "When I saw you, I thought…. You have his face, his voice, the way you move, it was as if my king had returned to me at last. In the beginning, Arthur was a prat, too, hiding behind his position so that nothing and no one could touch him, but in the end, a compassionate man, and mine."
Arthur surged forward, pulling Merrick up. Under his hands, that bruised skin was hot and beloved and driving Arthur mad. "I am not your anything," Arthur said. He shook Merrick a little, the endless want growing and growing, and he was helpless to stop it. Still he tried. "Remove it, or by all that's holy…."
But Merrick only said, "Arthur, please."
And he could no longer resist.
Arthur dove into him, shutting him up as he yanked him close. Thrusting his tongue into that busy mouth, lust and wet heat and hunger driving him as he surged into Merrick's arms. His body was singing with want, and Merrick's must have been, too, because there was an eagerness there nudging at his thigh even as he was trapped by breeches and ribbons and frustration.
Arthur bent Merrick over, his wine spilling along the table top, but he didn't care. He reached out, tore Merrick's tattered shirt into rags, then bent down, biting and licking and tasting skin. His hand, circling one nipple, pinched it hard, then rolled the nub until Merrick cried out, "Arthur, gods, don't stop."
But Merrick was busy, too, his hand cupping Arthur, pressing at him, his fingers desperate to get past the fastenings. And when he moved his palm just so, a frisson of want sent shudders up Arthur's spine.
Arthur had to be careful, though. The bruises were stark on Merrick's skin and he gentled his kisses, pressing just enough to bring the sounds of pleasure out of Merrick's mouth. But he didn't stop. Instead, licking his way up again, he bit down on that vulnerable throat, then lifted his head, and watched as Merrick's slack mouth sought his.
The kisses lasted a lifetime, and Merrick must have had more in mind, all the while his fingers were busy pressing, pressing just enough to keep Arthur's mind spiralling up in want. Somehow, they made their way past the table, the chair, into the alcove and the waiting bed.
Merrick laughed, joy bubbling up, then his eyes glowed a moment, a trick of the light no doubt, as he pushed Arthur down onto the mattress. Kneeling down on the floor, his mouth at just the right height, his lips nuzzling against Arthur, Merrick began to unravel the ribbons on Arthur's breeches.
Arthur was half-drunk with desire, watching Merrick working his wonderful fingers and mouth. It was ridiculous in a way because he was still swathed in cloth, the latest fashion a froth of fabric around his thighs. But Merrick knew just what to do. Finally, Merrick was on Arthur again, his mouth full of wet, glorious heat.
Wanting to cry out, knowing that if he did, the guards would come and destroy whatever there was between them, Arthur bit hard on his palm as Merrick worked. That extraordinary mouth drawing such intense pleasure out of his body, he thought he would die of it. Merrick's fingers, too, were busy, just enough to drive Arthur insane with want.
It was too much.
The universe whited out, the agony that was ecstasy firing through him, pulling him up and up until he could not breathe, could do nothing but feel Merlin's own love beating into him, sinking down until he didn't know where he left off and Merlin began. It was brilliance and air and bright fire.
He remembered. Everything.
When he came back into himself, Merlin was above him, his mouth red from everything he'd done, but in his eyes, there was the slightest fear, blue to grey and fading gold.
"There you are," Arthur said. Lethargic, his body still throbbing with what they'd just shared, he had enough strength to reach up and stroke Merlin's cheek. "My Merlin."
The relief in Merlin's eyes was incandescent. "Do you remember? Is it, is it really you?"
Humming a little, brushing his thumb across Merlin's mouth, Arthur nodded. "I've missed you."
And Merlin, being the girl he was, burst into tears.
They didn't eat much that night, didn't drink more than a sip or two of the leftover wine – although Merlin did get a bit inventive as to where he put it. Mostly they made up for lost time, exploring each other, relearning what brought each of them to ecstasy and what only made them laugh. But it was enough.
It was only with the dawn that things turned back to seriousness. Merlin was being ridiculous, trying to fasten the ribbons on Arthur's outrageous clothes and failing miserably – they'd managed to ruin more than a few of the ties – and Merlin's clothes weren't much better.
But it wouldn't do to be discovered now – the punishment for sodomy was worse than witchcraft by far, torture and the pyre, and neither of them were willing to test the courts about their love when they'd just found each other again.
Finally, Arthur's clothes were presentable enough. He batted away Merlin's hands when he continued to fuss. "Merlin, enough," Arthur said. Then he gathered Merlin back into his arms for a quick hug and let him go. "They will be coming for you soon enough and I can't just tell them I've changed my mind. They'll think you suborned me, bewitched me. They'll push me aside and send someone else to hang you."
Merlin shook his head. "Since I sent you into Avalon, I've lived a long time, died at least a dozen times. I don't think fate is finished with me because I awake each time, alive and well. Although that might change now that you are here."
"I won't take the chance, not with your life. Now that I've only just found you again," Arthur said. He frowned at his boots for a moment, and it was only when he looked at Merlin again, did he let out a long, drawn-out sigh. "But we live in this world now and a witch cannot be suffered to live. They will follow you and me. They will hound us. We will have no peace."
Merlin came up to him, laid his cheek against Arthur's shoulder. "Is there nothing to be done?"
For the longest time, Arthur didn't know what to say. His mind was a whirl of worry and possibilities. Below, in the courtyard, he could hear the bustle of servants calling to each other and the sound of scaffolding being built. It sent a shiver down his spine. He'd be damned before he'd let Merlin go.
"Usually a judgment is final unless the king or the higher courts intervene." Arthur's arm tightened around him, pulling him close. "But there isn't time."
Merlin whispered into his ornate tunic. "I've heard the ordeals can be used to overturn a judgement."
"Ordeal by water is the lesser of them, unless you like walking on hot ploughshares or carrying around a red-hot poker." Shaking his head, Merlin didn't seem as if he wanted to deal with hot things.
Arthur didn't blame him. "Ordeal by water it is," Arthur said. When Merlin just stood there, breathing into Arthur's neck, he tried to reassure Merlin. "It's not hard, just cold. They tie you up and throw you in. It can be dangerous if they don't pull you out in time but I'll be there. Just make sure to sink. If you float, you are guilty and then they kill you."
Pulling back, still holding onto him, Merlin said, "Sounds like fun."
Arthur had seen too many die while 'having fun.' In all seriousness, he said, "Do you think you can sink?"
Merlin gave him a brilliant smile. "Like a stone."
Merlin made an excellent stone.
Not wanting to give anyone an excuse for accusations and another trial, Arthur kept his face impassive as Merlin, cold and shivering, was yanked out of the water. Arthur merely nodded and turned away.
It was only later that they celebrated again and again and then made plans.
Arthur would go back to London, resign his judgeship and Merlin would meet him at Arthur's manor house near the Welsh border. There were legends there of King Arthur and his old wizard, and Merlin thought it was only right that they find each other again where it had all begun.
Someday, not soon but someday, the golden promise of Camelot and magic's rise would come again. Merlin would make sure of it.
But for Arthur, it didn't matter about fate or destiny or legends. As long as he and Merlin were together, it would be enough.