Originally written 7th December 2010
He's curled against the window in his chambers, face buried into a red neckerchief, attempting to block the smell of smoke and burning flesh that's rising from the courtyard below. He can hear the screams, the begging for mercy. There won't be any. His father would never bow down to a sorcerer.
His chest constricts as the fear starts to set in, hitting him like a mace. His father has had the guards doubled in the lower town and the citadel, constantly on the lookout for sorcerers since last weeks' drama of a woman swearing her vengeance on Uther by attempting to throw a fire ball at Arthur. And really, where'd she get that thing from? He doesn't understand magic and probably never will.
"Arthur?"
He rips his gaze from the window and turns it upon Merlin, who is leaning against the door – keeping his distance from the window.
"Arthur, please don't watch. It's not good for you."
He laughs, but it's not a happy sound. "Not good for me. Not good for me?"
Merlin looks to his feet so that Arthur can't see the tears welling up in his eyes. But Merlin's not that quick and Arthur sees them and it makes this whole business just that much harder to get through.
"Well, if you're going to insist on watching the rest of this, I may as well do it with you."
"Merlin, no." But he feels Merlin's arms snaking around his waist, a chin resting on his shoulder and they both watch as the fire consumes the woman and the screams stop. He's gripping Merlin's hands and desperately trying not to choke on the smell.
"It's okay Arthur."
But it's not. The woman on the pyre will always look like Merlin.
