Hey! My brain came to the conclusion that Balance must be maintained, meaning that all the angst I took out of my other story had to go somewhere. So, here! Don't worry, it has a happy ending. Yay.
Merlin holds up the flask with one hand as he coughs into the other, gauging the level of liquid, before deeming it acceptable and pouring it into the larger pot bubbling by his side, the viscous material inside already a startling shade of orange, orange like the flowers by the West Gate, the ones the guards tend to furtively every day, lest they be mocked for acting feminine.
The liquid turns an equally garish shade of green, before the pot is nearly upturned by Merlin when the door crashes open and the King of Camelot bursts in. Merlin quickly pushes himself back, pressing against the wall as Arthur strides past him without so much as a glance at him, heading straight to where Gaius is hunched over yet another pot with the same garish green solution inside.
"Gaius. There has been three deaths already reported, and five more are ill. Have you got the cure yet?"
Gaius looks up and offers a faint smile of reassurance, before pointing to the four other pots of the liquid cooling in the corner of the room, that Merlin and Gaius had stayed up to make the night before. Looking at them, Merlin suddenly feels the tugging heaviness of sleep, pulling at his bones and eyelids. He ignores it, because sleep doesn't matter, not now, not when Arthur is right there, the closest he has been to Merlin since-.
He ignores the lump in his throat and the prickling in his eyes, turning back to his pot. From the corner of his eyes though, he watches as Arthur claps Gaius gently on the back, before he picks up two of the pots and hands them over to the guards accompanying him, then picks one up and hands it to Agravaine, ignoring the look of disdain on his uncle's face. As Agravaine leaves with one last look of disgust and protest, quickly silenced by Arthur's quelling gaze, Arthur picks up the last and has a quick whispered conversation with Gaius.
Merlin stays away, partly to give Arthur some privacy, and partly because his cough returns with a vengeance. He finally looks up when it ceases, to see both men looking at him, one worried, the other frozen contempt. Gaius gestures to his arm, and Merlin feels cold, suddenly, as all the hope he felt at Arthur's proximity vanishes, replaced by sorrow and pain and biting regret, tinged with dark resignation.
Slowly, unsure of his steadiness (for his entire world is out of balance, spinning out of time, because the one person he thought would understand hated him, thought of him as a monster, to be caged and controlled), he places the empty flask down, and pushes up the long sleeves of his jacket to reveal the simple bracelets of cold iron, uncomfortably cold against his arm, the bargain he had made in return for relative freedom.
Arthur glances at them with veiled suspicion, and then sweeps out with the antidote, assured that no foul magic was used to create it.
Merlin slumps into the stool, the tiredness increasing until he feels like the weight of the world presses on him. The iron burns as his magic automatically tries to fight the exhaustion, but the pain is nothing to the ache in his chest, the empty void where once the assurance of Arthur's friendship and trust dwelt, warm and comforting.
Gaius looks at him, concerned, ever worried now about him, but he waves his almost-father away with a laugh that hurts him to force out, and hurts Gaius too, if the increase in concern is any sign. Merlin can't bear it anymore, and though he knows that there is still more antidote to be made, be pleads exhaustion and walks up to his room, all his strength used in ensuring he does not sway or stumble, does not trouble Gaius more than he already has. He barely has the energy to kick off his boots and crawl under the sheets before sleep claims him.
Sleep claims him and traps him, screaming as oily shadows wrap around him, black chains that bind him to wood, surrounded by ash as it flies around in a whirlwind of accusing eyes, a horde of voices condemning him as a traitor to his kind. No, he cries, I never meant…
The shadows thicken, strengthen, and the voices gain strength as well. You meant. You did everything to ensure that we died, we your kin, and our murderer lived. He cries out as cold iron surrounds him, as the earth rises against him, terrible in her anger at the mistreatment of her child, magic.
He screams, screams, and the scene shifts in a flurry of ash as it catches alight, and he stands suddenly on a pyre as Arthur's eyes, once as warm as a Beltane sky, turns cold, unforgiving winter ice. Uther calls out the evils of magic, and Morgana laughs, loud and mad and so different from the beautiful, kind woman she had been, before Merlin tainted her with his lies, as he polluted all of them; Arthur, Gwen, Lancelot, Gaius, Gwaine, all the people he called friends were changed, and it was all his fault.
He lashes out as he feels a warm hand grasp his arm, and gasps as he sits up in bed, caught in the boundary between dreams and reality. Someone is keening, softly, a long drawn sound of pain, and it takes him a while to realise that it is him. a shadow moves, and he flinches from it, before Gaius's careworn face comes into view, one hand cradling his jaw, where a bruise is forming. Mind hazy with sleep, Merlin stares, wondering how it came to be there, before a vague memory of hitting something surfaces, and he cringes away from the thought, that he hurt the one person who still cared for him.
Gaius looks weary in the late morning sun, and Merlin feels guilt welling up, because it is his fault that Gaius hasn't slept, woken up every night by the screams as the nightmares consume him. he knows he has matching dark circles under his own eyes, but it doesn't matter, nothing matters to him anymore except fixing his mistakes.
By the time the sun has begun its slow journey towards evening, Merlin has fetched herbs, for Gaius, cleaned the pots that the Guards had returned this morning, and is on his way to fetch water from the city well. He fills up the bucket and turns to see Gwen making her way to the well. She sees him at the same time that he sees her, and her normally kind face hardens, as it has every time she has seen him since –
He lifts his hand to wave, ignoring the desperate hope in his heart that she won't turn away, then feels it keener then ever when her hard expression turns to fear and loathing, when she walks quickly away, empty bucket clutched tight. His heart squeezes painfully, and he feels another shard of his shattered hope fade away.
He has almost made it back to Gaius's chambers when the coughing begins again, heaving coughs as his body fights for air. He quickly duck into a niche so that neither Gaius nor the guards notice him, then slides down against the wall when his legs abruptly stop working. And still he coughs, wet and hacking, as quiet as he can, a hand pressed to his mouth to keep the sound inside. When it stops, he slowly lowers his hand, then freezes, because there is bright red on his palm, starkly contrasting with too-pale skin. He clenches his fist, hiding the blood. He takes a deep breath. He stands. Then he sets off in the direction of The King's chambers.
By evening, the cough still produces blood, but it hasn't worsened. Merlin has also cleaned Arthur's chambers, polished his boots, cleared the stables, and finished the speech to the Tailor's Guild that had been lying on the table with vicious scratches through it; a sure sign that Arthur was getting exasperated. He ignores George, who is fuming in the corner of the room as he polishes Arthur's armour, as he gathers the laundry.
He is walking out with his bundle when Arthur returns, Arthur who stares at him with the same cold blue eyes that begin to gleam with mistrust and rage. And Merlin is exhausted, hasn't slept peacefully for weeks, can barely stand upright without stabbing pain in his gut, and he can't can't handle Arthur's disgust, can't bear to feel another piece of his heart wither away, not right now. So he keeps his head bowed and quickly walks away, flinching away from the hand that comes up to grab him as he stumbles.
He takes the clothes to the laundry room, then steels himself as he walks to the house of the person he once considered his best friend in Camelot.
When Gwen opens the door, she is smiling, warm and cheerful, and Merlin watches in silent resignation as the smile fades into shock and fear. Quickly he holds out the basket of flowers he had bought with some of his remaining coin from his last wages, and when Gwen makes no move to accept, he places it on her doorstep.
"I'm sorry, Gwen. I wanted to tell you, I really did. I just-" he trails off, shaking his head slightly in bitter resignation, because he can see that she doesn't understand, cannot, because she has never lived with a secret that could mean death if revealed to the wrong person. "It doesn't matter. For what it's worth, I always thought of you as my best friend in Camelot; still do, in fact. And I wanted to thank you for…for being there for me. So. Um. Thanks."
He flees, tears abruptly blurring his vision and choking sadness in his throat.
The next day, Merlin wakes as the grey light of dawn fills the air, the night unwilling to relinquish its grasp on the world to day. The great bells are tolling, warning of attack, and Merlin forces his body out of bed, gasping suddenly when the burn of the cuffs increase even further. Looking down, he watches as they glow golden, burning the skin underneath, a sign that his magic is fighting to escape.
They glow as he eats a hurried breakfast, tidying Gaius's chambers hurriedly. They glow still when he finally gives in to curiosity and leaves the room, heading to the battlements to see what army dares to stand against Camelot's might.
Only to stumble to a halt when he bumps into Arthur, apparently heading to the physician's chambers. The King looks beautiful and majestic, golden hair gleaming even in the dull light, red cape flowing around him. His eyes assess Merlin, before some strange emotion enters them as they look down. Merlin follows the gaze to see the still glowing cuffs. He pales and moves back a step, only to stumble, swaying at the sudden light-headedness he feels.
"If those were unlocked, would you be able to fight?"
Merlin blinks, forcing his tired brain to focus on Arthur, on Arthur's question. Then he blinks again, before nodding, pushing down the hope twining around his heart. Arthur looks at him, then nods, before he produces a key and makes to open the bindings.
"No!" Merlin is surprised by how weak his voice sounds, but ignores it in favour of staring at Arthur, who is staring back with raised eyebrows. He swallows and continues. "Not- not here, please- I'm not- it would probably be better if you did this on the walls." Where the invaders are where I can see them and direct my magic towards he thinks but does not say, does not have to, for Arthur's face clears in understanding, and he strides off, Merlin stumbling in his wake.
Every step he takes sends agony shooting through his body, dark and ugly, twisting his insides, but he ignores it, because Arthur offered to take off the cuffs, as good as agreed that magic could be useful, and nothing, not even the black pain can destroy the golden Hope welling up inside. As they come out onto the battlements, he can't help his quick intake of breath at the sight of the ranks upon ranks of black soldiers marching upon Camelot. Even from this distance, he can sense Morgana's magic, once so pure and lively, now twisted by rage and grief and consuming madness. Arthur turns to face him, holding out his hand for his wrists, and he gives them to him, watching as he reaches out to one of the cuffs, only to pull back with a jerk, as if burnt. Merlin suddenly realises that they are burning, but he is so used to the pain that he ignores it, holding his had out instead for the key, his mind pleading to please, please please give it and Arthur complies, frowning, watching as Merlin, with shaking hands that are only partly due to nerves, unlocks his bindings.
Golden power rises almost immediately, rushing to heal his failing body. Merlin grits his teeth and focusses it all on the army instead, changing the healing magic into something dangerous, like a mother bear protecting her cubs. He is suddenly overcome, his connection to the earth, cut off for so long, suddenly back, and he basks in her forgiving arms, feels the warmthfiredry of the deserts, the coollivelypower of the seas and rivers, and the calmshadeshelter of the trees and plants and he is drowning and yet swimmimg, calm yet exhilarant, as a part of him rushes to destroy the threats to Arthur, to his friends, and the other parts protect his home, his territory, a glittering blanket of gold covering Camelot, against which the twisted, corrupted magic of the seeress and her underlings are powerless.
He suddenly knows, instinctively, that he will die, because he is overexerting himself, and the small magic he will have after this will not be enough to save him. But he smiles, still, because the people he loves (will always love, even when they no longer love him) will be safe, will be happy (happier, probably, for who would want a monster like him in their lives), and that is all he has ever wanted. He can die knowing that he did something good.
And then Arthur is there, golden and red and the light against the darkness threatening to overwhelm him. The gold disappears, and Merlin blinks to find himself on the floor of the wall, Arthur frantically calling his name. He tries to answer, to reassure Arthur (because Arthur shouldn't look like that, worried and scared, like a part of him was being ripped away, not for him, a worthless servant), but can't summon the energy to form words, barely manages enough to lift his palm up to cup Arthur's cheek, wiping away the crystal tear trailing down. Then not even Arthur's brilliance can keep the darkness away, and Merlin is falling, falling into emptiness.
So, hope you liked it, constructive criticism is always welcomed. Do review and let me know!