Each line break represents an original chapter.
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Arthur POV
"I'm not a possession, Arthur! " your manservant insists, sulking in the corner. The light from the torches caress his pale features, making him all the more luscious and rare. You feel a seductive growl rise in your throat, and trap it hastily, having to tame the beast within once again.
Not yet.
"You can't continue to threaten everyone I care for! " Your eyes focus entirely on his face, marveling at the way his eyes shine slightly whenever he's upset; he looks so beautiful when he's on the verge of tears.
"I can threaten whomever I like, Merlin," you scorn, throwing your newly acquired crown on the bed. "Especially if they practice magic-"
"She's cursed, Arthur! It's not her fault! " You hear an ominous thump as his knees hit the floor, his quiet sobs almost smothered completely as he presses his face to the flagstones in a posture of worship. He's whimpering, his body shaking. You sit on the bed and watch as he convulses with desperation and grief. Each rise and fall. Each quake. "Please...," the sound of his low quivering voice barely reaches your ears. "Please, don't kill Freya! "
Your lips tug in amusement.
Despite the pain it causes him, and the grief in your own heart at watching the sight, you decide to kill the girl anyway. He's always like this, you remember. He's always emotional, always begging you to let some maiden or servant live. He's always redirecting his affection towards the wrong people. The wrong direction entirely.
You pull him close, wrap a large muscled arm around his lanky frame in a comforting gesture as you both stand on the balcony, the perfect view to watch the cursed witch burn. Your manservant is shaking under your hold, his eyes stained and puffy with grief. Torment. You kiss his forehead, lulling to him that it will soon be over. His sobs increase once the witch is set aflame; once her cries pierce the courtyard. His eyes never leave the girl below, and you have to eventually grab his chin to redirect his attention towards you.
Hatred is in his eyes. Hatred for you. Sadness. A mess of conflicting emotions. There is a great battle taking place in those swirling blues. And you're the cause of it.
You kiss his forehead again, lulling him to comforting words as the roar of the flames and the screams of the witch grow louder.
It kills you inside when he is this much pain. But he has to see this. He has to know.
He has to know who he belongs to.
Thirty dead bodies.
Thirty lost souls.
The stench of their burnt flesh lingers in the air, invading your nostrils.
You count the numbers in your head again, finding the exact sum of money you will need to pay the witch hunter.
Ten women.
Four men.
The rest children.
Thirty bodies that will never be seen running through the streets of Camelot ever again.
Thirty less evils in the world.
Plaguing the people behind the city's safe walls.
Sanctuary's gates.
You continue adding the sum until you are distracted by the quiet, barely audible sobs near the window. The faint silhouette of your manservant is leaning against the wall of your room, the day's dying sun painting his pale skin a dark orange hue. The light is highlighting his succulent features, making his high cheeks bones and lean fragile structure stand out more. Your gaze follow the particles as they dance along the porcelain cover, his exhausted face and forlorn eyes seeming all the more surreal in the light.
Beautiful.
You watch him for minutes at a time. His body never moves. Never leaves the spot. His eyes refuse to leave the window, but you are sure his mind is well beyond the confines of this room. Those blue depths mostly stare out into the distance, with no real direction or purpose. Then they would flicker down to the courtyard, studying the place where a pyre and thirty sorcerers lost their lives earlier today. Now nothing remains but burnt ash that has yet to be washed away from memory. But Merlin watches it, blue depths slightly rippling with emotion. Then his chest heaves and he scarcely manages to hold back a sob, a stray tear or two collecting in his eyes.
Finally his face goes blank once again, gaze returning to another world all his own, beyond the room. And the cycle continues once more.
By the seventh cycle you feel that you should say something to end his misery. Bring back those blue irises to this room. To you. You detest the idea that Merlin is going somewhere you cannot follow; holding back thoughts you cannot know.
Except, this time you do know. You know very well what is troubling your obsession. He doesn't like the idea of death. The idea of burning. Despite seeing the evils of sorcery, the pure heart that you fell for refuses to see what you try to teach him.
You know there is no point in sparring words at this time. Your obsession is stubborn. He was corrupted in his youth by a sorcerer back in his home village. You vaguely remember the man, only the way he would touch and laugh with your Merlin. The way your heart was enraged and your fingers would clench in the air, hungry for a throat to choke when the vile sorcerer would stand near him. The 'friend' always held that glossy gaze that shouldn't have adorned another man's face when directed at your manservant. Especially from a sorcerer.
You made sure your sword met his throat in the chaos of the battlefield.
That was Merlin's first real lesson regarding who owned his heart, and to what lengths you would go to keep it that way. He has to know, he has to understand.
He's yours.
And you don't share your possessions.
You study your manservant with a half-lidded gaze, mesmerized by the way his eyes glow in the orange light, the way his body is turned slightly to the right, the small details of his hands grasping either side of his arms. The stoic figure never moves from his position as you take in every detail for the tenth time today. You almost lost the young man not a fortnight ago, you remember, the terrible realization plucking the strings in your heart in a haunting rhythm. You almost lost that stoic figure for all eternity. Your gloved fist beats the desk in fury, sneering at the memory of the witch as her ugly head surfaces in your mind.
The enchantress almost took your Merlin from you. She came close. Too close. If the witch finder hadn't spotted the black-haired demon luring him outside the city's walls towards the enchanted forest you would have lost Merlin forever within its darkness.
Yet he still refuses to acknowledge the corruption magic brings.
And your thoughts pang in the worry that maybe, just possibly, the manservant wasn't under a spell when he attempted his clumsy rendezvous with the witch.
But that's madness.
Right?
You walk over to the sulking figure near the window, your heavy footsteps echoing across the silent room as you travel. He flinches as your arms wrap around his lanky form from behind, his luscious skin shivering under your touch as you trail gentle kisses down his neck, marking him. His chest heaves at an increasing rate, his breath catching in his throat. You hear faint hiccups of incoherent words stammer out of that mouth as you rock him in your arms, humming to him a lullaby your nursemaids sang to you as a child.
Until, finally, he shatters in your arms into a beautiful display of tears.
You have made it perfectly clear to your stubborn possession many times.
Many more times than you could count.
He is not to leave your side; he is not to leave his protector; his master.
Many cruel hands have tried to snatch him away through the years.
They have tried to torture him,
Beat him,
Spoil him.
The plague known as magic will stop at nothing to defeat the former prince and current divinely-appointed ruler.
Your footsteps echo off the stone walls as you pace back and forth through the room in worry, unleashing your frustration at any and all within the vicinity with one thwack from your fists or a skilled brandish of your sword. Your enraged gaze wanders back towards the bed once more; a soft dip is still evident in the mattress where you held the pale, crying youth all night, his lanky form shaking against your chest, under your hold. The burning of the witch still terrorized his mind, the fragile youth often waking up from his slumber, screaming into the night. Your grip around the servant's waist would tighten, a displeased growl vibrate within your throat when your ears caught the grieving whispers of the dead witch's name escape the other youth's lips in his slumber. The enchantment did not die with the burning of the sorceress; she simply haunted the frail boy's mind where he was the most defenseless.
His thoughts, his dreams.
Where you couldn't protect him, couldn't possess him.
Now the long dead enchantress has lulled what is your away, deep into the night. Far away from your city.
Far away from you.
A resounding smash echoes across the room as your fist destroys the nearest décor, your mind planning to publicly execute the villagers who had witnessed your servant wonder through the streets hours ago, disappearing into the dark, dangerous forest, but did not stop the defenseless boy.
Your blows make contact with more décor, quickly demolishing the useless, annoying masses of objects, shattering the wooden and glass crafts into several pieces. Pieces that, as they lay strewn across the floor, remind you of what will happen to your Merlin; what this strange enemy will do to him if he is not found soon.
Bits and pieces of that porcelain form,
Shattered across the unforgiving ground.
Never to be put back together again.
Your pace quickens around the room, your patience and sanity waning with each heavy foot fall.
You and your most trusted knights take off at the first sign of the sun kissing the sky, the pounding of the horses hooves dashing upon the earth as you search for your errant manservant.
There he is.
Sitting right over there, on a quite shore.
The soft ripple of the lake fills the atmosphere. A weight is lifted off your shoulders and you remember how to breath again once you see that the pale figure is unharmed; he is not torn in two, bleeding all over the floor; he is not cut up into pieces, the parts sprawled out for the wildlife to feast upon. He does not look hurt, hit, burned, or in any sort of manner physically disturbed.
No sort of magic lulled him away, then?
He is simply sitting there, hugging his knees like a traumatized child, mesmerized by the water. His eyes are unblinking and puffy, like he is in mourning, staring off into the waters as they lap to and fro caressing the shore. Absently searching for something or someone that is not longer there. The servant is wearing that same far-off gaze he has worn the last few weeks. A hardened, more worn version that you have watched develop since the day your father died.
You know that the death of your father and your ascension to the throne had bothered him. You are sure that he was worried that your newfound power would corrupt you, force your hand in ways you otherwise would not have done. You know it bothered him when many in the court had begun to flaunt their bodies at you more often once the crown was placed on your head. They wanted to be in your bed. They wanted to take your manservant's place by your side.
The boy begins to sob, chest heaving, trying to take in large gulps of air only to have it cut off by tears and torment. You want to reach out and comfort him as he hides his face in his knees. A muffled sound of grief and hysterical laughter leaves the body until his voice catches in his throat, huffing in loud gasps, the lanky form sounding as if he's choking from the inside.
You want to reach out. Take the servant in your arms. Whisper in his ear and tell him. Assure him that no one will ever take his place in your heart. There is only room for him and him only.
Always and forever.
You carefully take a step forward towards the oblivious manservant, your steps light and avoiding any fallen foliage. You approach the man with the same caution and skill you use when approaching game. The way you approached a fawn a week back, careful not to move against the wind. The fawn, you recall, did not notice your approach. It simply continued to rest there by the lake, unaware of your bow.
Merlin is the same way.
Sometimes you have to wonder how the man has survived this long with his unaware, oblivious behavior.
You take another cautious step forward once the servant finds his tears and mourning voice again.
He goes still under your touch, the servant instantly swallowing his torment as your wrap your arms around the lanky pale form from behind. You lay your head on his shoulder, kissing his exposed neck, trying to sooth him. Let him know that he can cry in your arms. Stay protected in your arms. You will always be there for him,
Always and forever.
"I will never betray you, Merlin," you whisper against his neck. He does not respond, only becoming more still and silent in your hold. His gaze is still directed out towards the lightly rippling waters of the lake.
It's like you don't exist at all.
"Don't you believe me? Do you think all those nobles have anything on you? That's why you ran away, isn't it? You weren't enchanted away."
You kiss his neck again, nuzzling the skin.
He says nothing, but you can feel the emotions bubbling in his chest. However, those watery blues still don't even regard your presence, your reassurance.
They stare out into the waters as deep, mysterious, and beautiful those blue orbs are to you. You follow his stoic, mournful gaze towards the water, searching for what has fascinated your obsession so.
What could possibly be more interesting to the servant than you?
Nothing. You see nothing in the water. Nothing is breaking the surface. Nothing is floating upon the waters.
Nothing.
You heave a sigh, kissing his neck again, brushing your lips against his ear. You were hoping it wouldn't come to this.
"What's in the water, Merlin?"
"Nothing," he finally speaks. The voice hoarse and small. Shaken and worn. He finally regards your presence, your embrace.
That is evidence enough.
"You should have just told me," you say, releasing the other youth, beginning to remove your chain-mail. The other knights you had brought with you finally make themselves known, and you order them to remove their armor as well. You tell them to remove enough clothing and armor for a quick swim. Merlin's eyes go wide at the command.
"No, Arthur, don't! " he pleads, grabbing your arm desperately, "there's nothing in there, sire, I swear! "
"Search the lake. Bring up anything abnormal you find, " you bark, ignoring the other's begging and cries, making your way into the cold lake.
Something is not right. Something is missing. You're missing something very important in this whole giant puzzle. An essential piece. You don't like not knowing what the missing piece is; it is an unnecessary pressure.
The weave of this giant web that makes up yours and Merlin's relationship. You have tried to lessen the weight of it. Cut any extra, unnecessary pieces down. Uncomplicated the design which had built up over the years. Turn it into something more simple. Cut a string, a life, a challenge, here. Take a whole side down there. Something more easily to predicate, manipulate, control.
Yet, there it is. A tangle. A tangle linked to a piece you cannot name.
The tangle is something that feels like that is trying to bring all your hard work and dedication toppling down on you. It's lying there, laughing at you. Enjoying the complications it's trudging up and the disarray it's creating. The trickster of mischief and broken things.
You thought you set that witch's soul on fire to burn to ash days ago. Yet, there she is, lying there on the ground. That black tangle in yours and Merlin's beautiful golden web. Her water-clogged body and dark remains still haunting the face of what is supposed to be a beautiful earth. She is a blemish resting on the grass. If you weren't so familiar with the face of death you would have been sickened at the sight and faint smell. She is a blemish in your simple web of love. A tangle of knots in its design.
"Why, Merlin?" you ask the youth, your voice low. You are trying to keep calm. Keep your accusations steady. Accurate; you mustn't jump to conclusions, not with Merlin.
He couldn't have betrayed you. No.
He wouldn't disobey you.
That couldn't be it. No.
There is no one else.
There must be a logical explanation for this. A reason, an excellent reason, as to why your manservant would drag the burnt corpse of the dead woman here. Why he snuck the body out of the pit, the mass grave site, you and your father have always dumped the bodies of the vile sorcerers into for years.
Why would he care so much about how an evil woman is laid to rest?
Is there something you are overlooking?
'No, ' you think, fists clenching, heart aching, images of the strings of your relationship untying themselves and collapse unto the floor below, 'it couldn't be that. He has already learned his lesson.'
No.
You feel the strings of the web become loose as you realize he is not looking at you. He is not concerned for your being; you are not his attention's priority. Not at this moment, at least. He's opting to gaze at the dead, black, grotesque corpse of the witch.
No, that can't be right.
Then there goes those watery blues. Those eyes of his going far off as he stares still like stone towards the dead female. They are rippling again. Rippling, stilling, rippling. That longing gaze.
Your fingers clench tighter.
That longing gaze is not for you.
"Why…" you voice, tone harsher. You are losing control, but you no longer care. Let the emotions leak into your poise. Allow the gates to open and a flood to ensue!
Why, Merlin?
The loose threads make a thunderous thump as they hit the floor and a, equally thunderous punch is slammed across the manservant's face. The strings of your heart mourn in a protective, caring melody as your eyes watch the lanky form fall to the ground, before your heart remembers the betrayal and begins vibrating with red; red of anger, not passion.
"Why, Merlin? " you repeat, words hissing through your clenched teeth.
"Sire!" you hear a knight call to your left from the lake. The knight is bringing something else from the pool of water, something shining in the light, but you have no time for anything else. You do not want to see anything else he may be using to betray you with today.
His eyes are not wide. He is not looking at you in shock. Your obsession silently collects himself off the ground, eyes tearing with an unknown disturbance. The muscles in his jaw are bunched, eyes cast downward in a submissive servant gesture. But he's trying, he's attempting to be brave. Stand up to a king who has the power to kill him with one word.
He should know that you would never end his life by now, though. How many times must you reprimand that lesson?
"Merlin…how could you? "
"She deserved a better place to rest-"
"That is not what I mean, Merlin! Who was the sorceress to you? Tell me! "
He goes deathly silent. Still. Thousands of emotions are threatening to crack the stoic mask he has no skill in wearing. You grab his chin, redirecting his gaze from the grass towards you. His eyes instantly avert elsewhere.
"Look at me, " you command. His gaze does not waver away from the witch. You growl in impatience, the anger bubbling up a little too fast and high in altitude.
If the distraction cannot be overcome by the other man then it must be removed. His unwavering eyes squint some when you apply more pressure, but the blue orbs otherwise remain locked on something that is not you.
You will not lower yourself to compete with a dead woman.
"Remove the body, " you order the knights, grabbing and dragging the manservant back to the horses. The younger youth does not say a word as you push him on the horse with you, your arms reaching for the reigns around his sides. His form goes still against your chest, his badly worn façade diminishing. He is still like stone, still like the body of the dead girl against your own.
You kick the horse into motion, the distant sight of your city growing closer with every trot. He says nothing to you the entire way, eyes ever defiant. Usually that disobedience would taunt your dragon within. Sending the beast to writhe about in its cage, shaking the bars, screaming in agony and lust.
However, today it is an annoyance, a hindrance.
You will solve this little problem once and for all. You are tired of teaching an insolent student. It's about time the lesson was finally learned. He is yours and yours only, and it is about time the insolent pale youth accepted this.
It is abut time he accepted his feelings for you, as you have him years ago. Embrace them rather then running from them, and into the arms of another.
You squeeze the form against your chest tighter as you hold onto the reigns, enjoying the way the body lightly shudders at the affectionate act.
Today, Merlin will finally realize how much he really, truly, loves you.
There he is. There is your obsession. He is sitting in the middle of the room, skin paler than normal, body hair standing on end from sitting in a freezing room deep within the castle. Nothing is wrapped around that body; you have not allowed him to use anything to hide that beautiful skin under.
Just a very pale, shivering, naked porcelain form sitting in the middle of a very cold room.
Those long arms are wrapped around the owner's body in a desperate attempt to gain warmth, the bloodied blanket you had offered him so generously when you threw him down here two days ago rejected in the corner. You remember fondly how you threw him upon those sheets when you had brought him back from the lake. How the form screamed and writhed under your body. How that mouth was open so beautifully. How those pale, slender fingers grasped and claws at the sheets as you rocked him against the mattress of your father's, now yours, bed.
The hand marks are still evident around his throat, red and ghastly-looking. You tried to be gentle with him - it was his first time, after all. You tried to sooth his crying tears, make his body react towards you faster. To feel the pleasure, not the pain.
Your eyes narrow at the memory of the words he told you on those sheets now lying so innocently in the corner. When you had first shoved him into the room, locking the door, pushing that luscious body down onto the mattress.
"I hate you!" that mouth had said.
Your heart almost shattered, the strings of the organ being pulled and threatening to break.
"I never loved you! But you don't care, do you? You never do! "
You grip the plate of food you had brought him tighter as you watch the other youth from the doorway. You may have been a little too rough with him, you admit. He didn't need to be hit in the face when he told you that. You had not intended for the lesson to be so barbaric. You only wanted him to stop lying to himself. It was a hard thing for two men to show their affection for one another in this world, and you understood that. You understood his initial hesitance. But he held back for too many years. He had begun to betray you, betray his true feelings.
You had tried to show him. To teach him.
Still, those waters have gone far away from here because of you. Not because of some dead sorcerers, not because of some witch. Those eyes, as they stare into the air, the blues so distant that they are also empty, have become that way because of you.
And that is all that matters.
"Merlin, " you begin, your footsteps echoing against the stones as you approach the boy. He doesn't acknowledge your presence in the room, eyes continuing to study the air. It's not until you place the food down and gather the bloodied blanket, wrapping his form under the material that you finally see the pale cover shiver.
"You don't have to be so difficult, you idiot, " you tell him, wrapping your arms around the shivering boy, your obsession's blood still a little wet on the blanket from the damp, cold room. His skin continues to shiver, and you see those more tears ripple. However, as hollow and distant as they are, they are still defiant. They will not return with your beck and call.
"Merlin, come back to me," you hush near his ear, nuzzling his neck.
Silence.
"Merlin, you idiot, I know you're still there," you try again, your hand snaking under the blanket to run along his cold, smooth stomach. The muscles jump where your fingers graze the skin, and you cannot help but smile at your obsession's return.
"W-what? " His teeth chatter, voice hoarse and unused. It's his fault for that, really. You've tried to get him to talk to you for the last two days. The stubborn useless idiot is either too busy crying or wallowing in silence to listen to you, per usual.
"Don't be so sad; anyone else would be joyous at receiving so much of the king's attention. "
There's some more silence, the only sound in the room a faint chattering of teeth.
"Say something: tell me how much you love me, " you command, hand snaking lower down his body. The form jumps slightly under your arms when your hand grazes very sensitive skin.
"Arthur, don't, "he pleads. You hush the dejected words, humming slightly as you breathe in his scent. He still smells of hay, horses, and polish. Like a manservant, which he no longer is. Nothing of you.
Well, you are going to have to change that then, won't you?
"Please, Arthur, don't! " the former manservant's hoarse voice wails as you force him gently down onto the ground, using the blanket to warm the cold surface his back is being laid down upon.
"Relax, I'll make sure you'll enjoy it," you purr in his ear, before undoing your belt with one hand, the other wrapped around those porcelain wrists ever so gently.
"Sire," you hear a deep voice behind you say as you retract the key from Merlin's prison, out of the door's lock. You sigh in annoyance, turning around to meet the man. You had thought the orders were clear. You did not want anyone down here in this wing. You did not want to be disturbed during these hours, for anything!
"Leon?" you ask, perplexed, voice giving away your agitation, your visible breath dancing in the cold air in front of your face."What is it, Leon?"
"The sword we found in the lake, sire, " the knight begins, features a little grave for an unknown cause. What has spooked your knight so?
"Yes? " you inquire.
"The Witch-finder needs to discuss the sword with you, your majesty. He says that it is a matter of grave importance. "
Merlin POV
"G-Great Dragon, " your weak lips voice, the small sound echoing off the stone walls, making the call stronger than you're actually capable of at the moment.
Silence. No response.
A faint dripping noise can be heard from somewhere in the room. Maybe that is your heart leaking, the punctured wound oozing red out your soul. You feel like you are being shattered piece by piece, parts of yourself falling into an abyss you cannot reclaim them from.
All the while the dragon lies in silence to your misery.
"K-Kilgharrah? " you try once more. The great beast is refusing to answer your call. You know that he can hear you. He can always hear you. He is simply ignoring you, leaving you to your fate as you lie as still as the dead on the stone floor. You haven't moved since the prince left an uncounted set of minutes ago. You're too tired to keep track of something so fickle and uncaring as time.
"Please," your lips quicker, as faint tears bubble to the surface.
Then, finally, you can feel the telepathic connection, the cord being wrapped around your psyche once more. The familiar link between your and the dragon's magic, as inaccessible as both of them are right now.
"Yes, young warlock? " the great beast asks, his voice low and unassuming as it resounds across your mind. He does not care for what is being done to you. That great fiery beast will never care. He is like destiny, the fates, watching your miserable existence play across a cauldron of water, completely disconnected from the stories their immortal hands write.
"Is it over? " you ask him, hope on the rise, the thought, if even so brief, lifting your mood slightly. Maybe you won't be lying down here much longer. Maybe you won't be lying in this room, cold flagstones biting into the skin your back, as you stare up into the ceiling. Hoping, wishing, praying that everything is almost over. That your move along the chess pieces, destiny's cold, uncaring bony fingers grasping you as it moves you along the black and white squares, is almost done.
The hope shatters and falls into the dark pit of your reality as you sense the dragons head shake in negation.
"Not yet, young warlock." His words are like knifes to your heart, your sanity. They rip the skin along your heart to shreds before devouring the pieces. You can't take it anymore!
"P-please, just give it back! Give it back to me! " you wail, feeling the tears well up behind your eyes. It's not fair of destiny; you had never asked to be used as a tool by the gods, a safety net, to make their desired tale possible.
You never asked to be here, in this awful city, thrown into a future you would never want. It's not worth your soul to bring about the change that Albion needs. Why must it be you that is the sacrifice to be used and bled so that possibly, just possibly, Arthur will eventually bring about the age of prosperity? You care no longer how many families you're shattered being would benefit, how many lives your torn life will save. It's not worth it, anymore. You don't want to be in this story. The jagged rocks along the shoreline are too numerous, blemishing the rest of the grand view of the beach.
Let someone else be led towards the alter! Let someone else be bled dry by the dull blade that is Pendragon!
"You cannot have your magic back, not yet," he tells you, in slight exasperation; he is tired of repeating everything to you, answering the same questions that have been leaving your lips the last two weeks.
Ever since you ran away. Ever since you finally broke down, cursing the heaven and destiny. You damned the man you were given to by the divine, taking Freya's lovely hand instead, and left with her under the watchful eye of the moon. You were both going to start your own destiny, you and her. With the woman that made your heart melt when the sun caught her skin. The lovely goddess who made your thoughts jump in disarray when you were around her; not out of fear, but out of love.
You remember casting a spell to conceal both of your presences as you broke her cage, running out of the city. Fate was a cruel player in the game of life, robbing you and her of happiness.
But you were both going to change that. Laugh in the face of destiny and conquer it. You were going to find happiness together. You were going to go where you both pleased, live where you both wished. Maybe start a family, have a life. Have happiness. Joy.
But the fates had other plans.
You were found.
Your magic was locked away from you by the divine, on the offense that you had misused the gifts bestowed upon you only meant to serve him.
Selfish, they called you. Selfish and greedy.
And then Freya. Oh poor, sweet Freya.
The beautiful woman now rests with the worms in the cold earth below. Fate wouldn't even allow you to give her a decent burial, allow you to lay her to rest in a place she loved so dearly.
No, fate was a cruel player. Touched only with a cruel, bony hand.
Death's hand, you conclude, watching as the shadows from the torches dance about the ceiling, the faint sound of the fire eating away at the wooden torch reaching your ears.
Fate is not a kind lover, and neither is Arthur.
Arthur's POV
Magic. Magic is vile; cruel. An unnatural force sucking the life out of the earth. It possesses some unfortunate people, driving them mad, slowly eating away at them, feeding off their sanity until nothing is left.
For others, it taunts them: it sings to their soul, the melody bringing out a hidden, darker side of humanity that craves for nothing but power; it makes their thoughts turn darker, more sinister. A wanting, a thirst for power that will never quenched. It makes their hands raise with a powerful motion, moving the elements, even life and death itself, with the will of their fingers and words.
Magic is evil. Unnatural. It corrupts and twists a man until nothing but a monster is left, greedy eyes wide, scanning the horizon in search for its next conquest.
Your gloved hands lightly touches the cool steel of the sword lying on the table, feeling the ungodly power emanating off the metal. The sun catches along the slick blade, bringing clarity to the markings that are so precise no man could carve them with his tools alone.
You have held many blades in your hands; wielded many weapons of death.
But, thisone…
The air about it is thick with sorcery, reeking from the cool metal you hold in your gloved fingers.
You quickly place it back down on the table, taking a step back from it in caution. Your stomach ties itself in knots at the thought that you would not be the one wielding the blade, eying the way the some of the magic from the blade has lightly attached itself to your hand.
No.
Something is telling you that if you brought that weapon to the battlefield, it would be wielding you instead.
"Magic, you say?" you question the witch finder. The man is standing on the other side of the table, eyes ever careful and weary of the weapon lying so innocently on the wooden surface.
"Yes," is his solemn reply.
You do not want to touch it anymore, no. Your eyes cannot even stand the sight of magic unless it is tied to a pyre.
But the blade, there is something about the blade. It's enchanting, magnificent; it's spell has already wrapped around your heart and soul. You can feel it's terrifying presence.
It's calling out to you, words cooing in your mind. It was made for you.
Only for you.
But, why?
"It was found in the lake; are you sure?"
The man nods. "Your knight brought it to me. He said the metal burnt his bare skin when he held it."
You give a nod in acknowledgment, your eyes watching the sun's rays dance about the perfect ore. It's enticing, bringing out something within you, like the blade is part of something else, only meant for you.
The dragon within grows at the thought of the pale form locked deep within the dungeons below.
"Who made it?"
"That," the witch finder begins, voice more grave and serious, a drop of fear laced within the tone. He has discovered something you are not going to be pleased upon hearing. "Is what I wanted to discuss with you, your majesty."
You turn around, eyes boring into his. Yes, there's is something dark and dangerous you are about to discover.
Best to get it done and over with.
"Go on," you say, regretting the words as they leave your mouth almost immediately.
"That peasant that follows you, sire," he says, you catching a slight tug on his lips before it leaves his features. He's enjoying this; perhaps it is the fun of the hunt for witches? Surely not at the thought of your obsession.
Your fingers graze the hilt of the sword around your hip, itching to hold the steel and cut the life out of the man standing before you for the offense of thinking about the youth in such a way.
"He was seen with this blade a few months back," the man continues, oblivious, as your fingers curl around the hilt, "around the time your father fought the undead knigh-"
A wonderful red cut. A long, oozing wound along the witch finder's neck. You don't even remember carving it with your blade, battle-bred mind so used to reacting on instinct. Killing on instinct. However, you would have reacted the same nonetheless.
The man's eyes grow wide, finally realizing that he is dead, and you watch in contempt as the body collapses onto the ground below. He is not the first to die by your blade for this reason; many had come before you claiming such nonsense, daring to think about yourMerlin. You've handled each and every one of them the same as this one, as the ones who dared speak such accusations and entertain such awful thoughts back when your father was still on the throne.
A satisfied smile plays upon your lips, flicking the blade in the air to relieve it of the terrible man's blood, before returning the blade to its sheath.
There's still time for Merlin today; the court obligations are still a small distance away. You will make time for the stubborn idiot; he is probably wondering where you are right now.
The air grows colder as you descend lower into the castle depths, your breath beginning to reveal itself in the air and a cold chill running all over your skin. But the cool chill and ice cold air settling in your lungs doesn't concern you. No. It doesn't bother you at all, because you know that at the end of the cold journey you will be next to and within that warm pale body again.
The release of the lock and the moaning of the door fills the halls as you enter it. The room you have gifted him is a little warmer in temperature, but not by much. You would have hoped to move him to a warmer room by this point, but once you notice the bloodied blanket still lying in the corner, and the pale naked form remaining sprawled out on the floor, you realize that the action would be too soon. The entire purpose of the lesson would be dismantled if you moved him somewhere else, no matter how terribly cold the journey is every time. The raven-haired youth would still rather bear the cold of the air then wrap himself in the evidence of your love, the evidence of your beautiful first time together. Truly together.
He would rather lie there on the ice-cold stones than acknowledge anything.
No, you still have more work to do. He has yet to accept you, accept his feelings.
"Are you there, Merlin?" you ask him from the doorway, locking the door. You still have a few hours till your next obligation as king needs to be taken care of. How many lessons can you squeeze in that amount of time?
Those watery blues flicker towards you quickly, the torch's light playing in the semi-empty pupils, before darting away again. They are growing more hollow now that you are here. You did not wish for that side-effect - you often enjoyed the fight you would see within his gaze - but if it will lead to the more desired goal, the greater cause, you will allow it.
Sometimes sacrifices must be made for the sake of love.
"Where do you go when you leave me so suddenly?" you ask the ex-manservant, approaching the other male, gathering his naked body in your arms. You rock him within your grasp, kissing those dark locks. He does not react at all, the cold skin even refusing to jump under your touch as your hand begins to rub his chest. You feel drunk like you always do around him, your battle-sharp sensing dulling in a warm, wonderful haze. The air around him, the very presence of him never fails to fill something you can only describe as a internal terrible void when you are away from him for too long.
"Why do you go, my obsession?" you repeat, nuzzling his neck, biting and sucking there. The cold skin on his neck grows a little warmer under your show of affection and possession. "Why must you always go without me, Merlin?"
His eyes never leave that far off state by the time you leave. He doesn't even quake when you wrap that him in the bloodied blanket, tucking him gently under the material.
Then, finally the lesson is learned. It finally penetrates that thick, stubborn skull of his.
You find the pale form still wrapped under the sign of your love when you return the next day, the pale long fingers tugging the material closer around his body.
A smile tugs at your lips and your heart cries with joy at the sight, instantly gathering the porcelain boy in your arms, boots hastily clicking against stone as you carry him out of the room.
"Thank you, Merlin," you hush near his ear; his eyes remaining distant as his head lays against your chest. You hold him closer against your chest as you move through the halls, the temperature in the air growing warmer as you ascend; however it will never be as warm and jolly as your heart and soul are at the moment.
"It's about time you've managed to learned something, you idiot."
Two months.
It has been two wonderful – two pleasurable- months since you rescued Merlin from that cold room. That terrible drafty room you were forced to subject him to, locking the defenseless, gentle soul within those oppressing stone walls. It almost tore your own soul into pieces to watch him suffer in misery in that dark, damp prison. However, it was necessary.
To ease his misery, his pain you had made sure to visit him often during those few days, dedicating all your free time to him and him only; he deserved it, after all.
However - despite the pain it has caused you both - the goal has finally almost been met. The tears in his eyes were worth it. Still are, the few those waters still insist to shed.
Mine, the dragon within you growls, rattling its own cage, large black claws curled around the bars. Your fingers curl around Merlin's slim wrists in imitation, watching that watery gaze ripple and swirl beneath you on the mattress. You will never get enough of the way those eyes light up ever so briefly, ever so tauntingly, the fire from the candles in the room and the flame in his heart making those blues appear gold ever so briefly. Ever so deliciously.
You cannot ever get enough of the way the body shudders and shakes beneath you. The way the boy mewls from your touches, when your hand grazes and rubs over that porcelain cover, caresses the delicate skin.
And then you reach lower,
And lower,
And lower,
Until finally he arches against you; his hot, sweaty chest pressing against your own.
But, most of all, you can never get enough of those eyes; those beautiful, enticing eyes that ripple when you lick his tears away; the way the eyes would go hollow in the beginning, only to spark back into life for a few precious moments, yet inevitably become dead and empty once more.
You have made it a game to see how long you can keep Merlin present in the room with you every day. How long you can rock more than just that pale, lanky shell against the dark mattress; rock the soul, rock Merlin,as well.
The short moments he is with you, really with you, the brief moments you are inside and around Merlin, you remember, are the happiest; they are the times you truly feel complete, the indescribable aching gap being filled.
You have even brought that magical sword with you a few times in the room, like now, noting how those ocean depths suddenly shoot back into life when his gaze locks onto the weapon.
"Magic?" those luscious lips quiver, one shaking pale foot in front of the other as he begins to climb up and off the bed, approaching the blade. You always halt him in the journey, of course, wrapping your arms tightly, protectively, around his waist, breathing in the presence that is Merlin. The real Merlin.
"Yes," you say near his ear, relishing in the way the skin shudders against your hot breath. You never let him get close to the weapon, always tucking it away in the corner of the antechamber you have locked your obsession within. You make sure to take the magical blade with you each and every night, day, evening, or whenever you visit your precious Merlin.
You do not like the fact that there is something as magical, as vile,as that sword near him, but sometimes it is necessary; a required evil aura within your lover's home.
You need to see your obsession, you need to see that spark of life within him some days. It is becoming harder and more difficult to drag out the boy from wherever he hides within his own skin.
But that despised magic attracts him, drawing him out almost instantaneously.
You would have had the magnificent weapon destroyed weeks ago if it wasn't for that fact, along with the pulsing hum, the spell that has already wrapped around your soul; the string is wrapped around it so tightly that it suffocates you some days, yet you cannot live without it. A necessary, permanent evil in your life; a monstrous, yet blissful weight against your lungs and heart.
It was made for you, the weapon, as was Merlin.
Somehow you know this.
You slowly pull his shaking body back towards the bed, pushing his form down onto the dark sheets. You wrap your hand around those wrists, lifting and holding them over the his head in a firm grip. He may fight you this time; he usually does when he is like this.
Completely there; completely whole. He screams below you, desperately trying to kick and push you away. You have learned that he likes to roleplay this way; pretends to be the victim of a violation, trapped by a monster who beats and rapes him daily. Abuses and shatters his mind and body.
You are only happy to oblige his fantasy. He plays the part so well, after all.
You kiss his forehead lightly, a small reward for his skilled acting. His mouth spits in your eyes, gaze hard and defiant. Then it screams, a string of incoherent pleas when you hit him into submission. A resounding smack against that beautiful face. Maybe another if needed.
Unfortunately the fun never lasts too long, the real Merlin leaving you as quickly as he arrived. That gaze ever distant and empty once more, staring off into somewhere. It is a place far away from you.
But that's okay, because you know that he - Merlin- still loves you.
You crush his lips with yours, his mouth hot and unresponsive. It does not fight you as you explore the warm crevice. The body does not shudder and writhe as you take him.
It's okay because you will wait for him like you always have - you know that he will come back to you sometime soon. You are a patient man; a patient king.
He will return to you,
And you will be waiting with open arms.
Morgana POV
Arthur is going mad.
"Oh my gods!" your maidservant cries near you in shock, her form frozen and brown eyes wide. You would comfort her, but you have forgotten how to move, as well.
The sight greeting you tied to the bed of Arthur's antechamber
You had never expected this; never been prepared for it.
How would you prepare for something like this?
You cannot stop your hand from shaking as you go to touch the manservant's face. His skin is so pale; his eyes so glossy and empty: lifeless.
Is he moving? Is he breathing?
Is he still alive?
You remember how to breathe when your friend's eyes, the lifeless orbs, blink. A faint shudder runs over his skin under your touch, making your innocent, concerned touch feel slimy. Wrong.
Arthur's "addiction" is growing worse.
So, so much worse.
There is no excuse, not for this.
You should have stopped it; you would have if you'd known what it would grow into.
"D-do you have a knife, Gwen?" you ask her in a shaky voice, your hands finding the ropes tied around his wrists. The skin along his wrists are not red and bleeding under the coarse rope like you would expect them to be - if he had tried to struggle, the chafing would have been a lot worse.
Your gaze finds those lifeless blue orbs once more, your heart shattering at the sight.
Arthur, what have you done?
In a flourish you cut the ropes, ordering your maidservant to summon someone you both could trust - someone who could help - while you lightly cradle the frail pale form in your arms.
He whimpers, his body slightly shaking, before becoming stiff under your hold, exposing how truly frail and breakable he has become.
He's terrified of you.
Something flickers by in his eyes before dying, growing empty and void.
Then you realize,
the revelation sick and making your gut curl and turn:
he thinks you are about to…to him.
oh gods…
Instantly you release your hold, wiping your hands on the sides of your dress repeatedly in vain; the slimy, terrible feeling is hard to wash clean. You feel as if you had just done something to him. Something as deplorable and barbaric as your half-brother has done.
Oh gods…
"Merlin…" you say slowly, trying to reach him, draw him out, hoping that no matter how deep he has buried himself the message will be heard. That it will reach whatever is left of that kind soul, whoever he is hiding. You pray to the gods that he is still there. "Merlin, we're going to get you out of here, okay?"
Nothing.
He doesn't acknowledge your words; those eyes continue to stare into the air, slightly rippling when your hand draws near. You retract it back, bile rising in your throat and anger erupting in your heart.
If only you knew it would become this evil, Arthur's unnatural obsession.
"I will save you, Merlin, do you hear me?" you plead, more for yourself than him. You can only hope you can escape this castle. You can only hope you can save not only his body, but his spirit as well.
When Lancelot finally arrives you carefully wrap the manservant in the blanket, as cautious as you can without wasting too much time, ignoring the white and red smears all over the sheets. All the terrible memories your friend must associate with the red and white patterns.
If only you had realized sooner…
Another faint whimper, barely audible, comes out when the knight lifts him up. Your heart is wrung out in so many emotions and your blood is boiling for revenge, as you escape the confines of the pale youth's hell.
"He won't ever harm you again, Merlin," you promise that void, empty gaze.
"Not while I'm around."
Arthur POV
You have been sitting in this throne for hours, listening to the bickering, this pointless argument. You idly drum your fingers on the arm of the throne to pass the time and expel your impatience.
You have better things to do than listen to this squabbling. Better people to see.
A beautiful, wonderful image of Merlin upstairs, tied to the bedpost floats into your mind.; that addicting skin sweating under the blood stained covers in the summer heat, outlining the curvature of that form. It drives you mad just thinking about that pale cover. You grow hot under the confining clothing.
Merlin's pale form lying on the mattress, sweating, breath heavy as he lies there. Sprawled out and waiting for you. Legs open wide and inviting. Lips loose, perfect to wrap around you.
Merlin,
Merlin,
Merlin!
Even in his absence he refuses to leave your mind. Your heart.
That stubborn, stubborn idiot.
You absently drum your fingers against the arm of the throne once more, ears gone deaf to the bickering of the noblemen.
Merlin, ready and waiting for you upstairs. Hot and wonderful. Blissful.
So much more worth your time than this.
You hear more bickering and yelling from the nobles as you stand, marching out of the court, patience gone. Your feet guide you, the trail familiar and learned, to your ultimate destination.; to Merlin, laying open and ready. Expectant and warm. Hot under the touch.
You cannot control the pace of your heartbeats and breathing as you open the door to the antechamber, your eyes immediately locking onto the bed.
And then, something within you breaks,
You feel something shatter, cracks along a your soul, when you find no warm pale body lying on the mattress.
Arthur POV
Betrayal,
Worry.
You had hunted for hours, three days to find him - to rescue your love from the terrible hands of someone who you had grown to know as a sister.
Known.
The betrayer is no such thing, anymore.
And neither are your 'friends'.
"You see that, Merlin? She won't be able to hurt you, not anymore," you whisper to him, carefully moving aside a few of those raven locks around his earlobe. You hold him tighter in your embrace, your arms wrapped around his chest while you hold him against you.
He hasn't said anything to you since you rescued him a night ago. The pale form hasn't moved, let alone spoken. Nothing when you had rescued him from your 'sister's' icy grip, nothing while you held him, telling him that he would be okay. Nothing as you brought him back home - not even a scream, his favorite game, as you made love to him.
He hasn't said anything to you. It kills you, your insides shriveling and shattering, while your blood races and boils with anger. Burning; hungry for blood.
You kiss his neck, tightening your hold, laying your head on his shoulder.
He's back.
He's really back. You had thought you would have never seen your former manservant again.
You kiss his neck one more time, his eyes continuing to stare mindlessly forward.
He is probably still so scared, so scared by what happened. So traumatized, having been taken from his home, from you,dragged around for days in only a blanket by people he had thought were 'friends'.
Your being was almost shattered when you realized that they had done the unmentionable - you can't imagine what happened to his soul.
"Everything is going to be okay, alright, Merlin? They won't hurt you ever again, no one will," you comfort him. You remember how to smile when those eyes, eyes you had missed so much, ripple.
He's staring at Guinevere, the evil woman tied to the pyre. The only offender you were able to capture; your ward and the knight had escaped your grasp.
"You're evil, Arthur! " the woman's, no she-demon's, voice rings in your memory. "We will stop you!"
A thick, coarse rope is tied tightly around the dark woman's arms, her coal colored eyes dull and void of life. Eyes as black as her soul, a sight you should have seen more clearly before everything happened. Before Merlin became so quiet and heartrending.
She's staring back at your Merlin, but you are not jealous.
No, because she is going to die and her remains will be buried far from this city, far from him.
A faint, forced smile tugs on her lips, an expression you are surprised the witch remembers how to make, her features wincing slightly where her skin is black and blue; at least the guards you had given her to made some use of that dark soul.
"Everything is going to be okay, okay Merlin?" her voice cracks, barely a whisper; barely audible or understandable, shaking and slow. She's talking to your Merlin, in a mocking imitation of your words.
The nerve.
"That's enough wood!" you bark, the halting the peasants placing the smoke-less logs around her feet. A special type of wood that does not smoke when burned. She will not be given the mercy of suffocation, your 'friend'; she'll meet death's scythe slow and painfully. She will feel every once of her skin burn for doing what she did. Die like the pretender she is.
You grab the torch, gently holding and curling your obsession's pale fingers around the end of the wood.
"Would you like to do the honors, Merlin?" He doesn't respond.
You guide his hand towards the pyre, one of your hands large around his hold, and the other around his waist.
When the pyre is set aflame, you think you may have seen a tear threaten to be shed in that still blue gaze.
In the end you couldn't kill a single one of them.
Not a single one of them,
The traitors,
that hurt him.
Not long after the flames began to dance and eat away at the wood surrounding the woman's feet, the kidnapper was rescued. The sudden flash of man on a horse – Lancelot - took you completely by surprise; you were unable to react.
He sped past you. You were only just able to pull Merlin back in time before he was snatched away from you again.
But the former knight got away with Guinevere.
You were not able to kill a single one, not able to bring justice upon any of them.
Your fists pound into your father's desk, startling the knight.
"Is there no one I can trust in this whole kingdom? Who let him in?"
"He…surprised us, Sire," you hear Sir Leon vaguely respond.
You pound your fists against the desk again, screaming – what, you don't remember. You barely register thrashing and throwing papers and objects off the desk.
All you know is,
She got away.
The witch got away.
She hurt your obsession, and then she got away.
Is there no justice for a King? No justice for his lover?
The, the terrible thought strikes you like an arrow. Cold, unforgiving, blood-curling words.
…what if…
Then, you remember Merlin, turning your gaze to watch him standing near the window. A still figure in front of the brightly colored glass. A faint breathing, chest slightly rising, as he stares off towards the courtyard. The unused pyre lying and waiting for the one that got away.
He's hurt, they hurt him so bad.
…what if they come back?
You approach him, your soles clacking against the old stone. He does not react when your fingers graze his cheek. The patterns of the colored glass is painting the porcelain in so many colors where the sunlight shines through it. Only his eyes are the same unnatural blue. Such lovely eyes, soft warm skin. So wonderful, beautiful Merlin.
…What if they come back for him?
"We lost them near the lake, your majesty. We think they may be currently in Cenred's kingd…" the rest of the knight's voice is silent to your ears.
The lake.
That dammed lake again.
You reach down, grabbing the other youth's porcelain, slender hand. Such small hands for a man, so feminine. Such long, slender fingers.
That lake.
First there was the witch so many weeks ago, and now your 'sister.' So many terrible memories at that lake. A blemish on your kingdom's map.
But...
You can fix that. You and Merlin, together, can fix anything.
Together.
You remove the glove, your father's glove, covering your right hand. You retake his hand in yours, feeling the warm skin more now with your naked calloused fingers.
Merlin needs to feel your skin, your presence to support him. Nothing should be in between you both. You won't allow it.
"Do you want to fix it, Merlin?"
You squeeze his hand. His chest heaves slightly, a deep long breath, those eyes never acknowledging you. He is so hurt by them. You were finally bringing him back, after all this time, and they almost destroyed him.
"Let's go to the lake. Let's fix this and make our own memories there - happy memories."
A light kiss on those lips. They are still, like the rest of his stoic form.
But his hand, you feel it slightly move in your hold.
And all your troubles melt instantly away.
You move a lock away from his ear, voicing the words. Maybe they will reach him. You can only hope.
"Let's go make our own memories there, Merlin."
Merlin POV
You do not know where you are anymore.
Not that you care.
All you see are colors. Moving shapes, but you cannot distinguish what they are. They are simply blurs in your vision, and you do not bother to investigate them further.
You hear sounds. Yes, you hear plenty of those. You think they may have been words at some point, but you cannot be sure of that, either. As long as you remember how to nod your head, and reply with a 'yes' when you hear that one particular voice you don't care for the words.
You do not care for anything. You don't remember how to.
You do not care for the moving, human-like pictures or the sounds that they make. As long as you try to pay attention to that one particular voice and golden picture, and only that one, so that you do not feel something you sometimes cannot help but remember;
Pain.
As long as you don't remember what that is, you can remain calm. You remain within the beautiful utopia of your mind.
You feel something - is it a hand? You do not care - hold yours, pulling you through all the moving pictures. Pulling you through the picture-like halls, picture-like town…
As long as you remember to nod when that one particular voice tells you something you do not care what happens.
You think you feel yourself being propped up onto a horse by that picture, that voice.
That is what they are, aren't they?
It doesn't matter.
"Let's go make our own memories there, okay Merlin?" the sounds say, as you feel something - an arm? - snaking around your waist, and feel the thing under you begin to move.
"You want to go to the lake, Merlin?" the sounds repeat. You don't know why they bother; you don't understand what they are saying. They sound like muffled nonsense to your ear.
The sounds, that particular voice, repeats itself, the thing wrapping around your waist tightening, and you remember how to nod.
You don't want to feel the pain. Not that, again. Ever.
You think a vast amount of time rolls by, but you forgot to keep track, the thing under you continuing to move forward. The other thing around your waist tightens, something breathing near your ear.
Just remember how to nod. That's all you need to know. All you need to remember how to do.
At some point the golden human-like image lifts you off the - was it an animal? - and emits more of those strange word-sounds.
Something breathes against your ear, making more of that noise - that voice - and something else begins to rub against your chest under your shirt. It massages your skin, moving along your chest in a more vigorous, quickening pace.
Another something finds itself just above your waistline. You think you might know what they are, but you don't care.
That is, until something bites your neck-
Pain!
That man, that man is here - and the voice, hot breath against your earlobe, coos in your ear.
The sound is so gentle and kind. Caressing; Arousing.
No!
No, that man is not there.
"Merlin, come back to me. Look where I brought us." More of that noise. You think can understand some more of it now. That is not a good thing, never a good thing.
The hand - you remember it's called a hand - moves away from your chest and into your hair. Soft lips, gentle at first, touch yours. But then those teeth bite your lower lip - pain! That man is here.
No.
He's not there.
No.
That man is not there.
His hand is not running through your hair.
No, no, no, no…
Gentle - cruel gloved fingers caressing your scalp. They are not sending pleasurable, wonderful signals to your nerves. Making you feel something you have no desire in feeling. Creating an internal civil war between your body and mind.
More pain.
No, he's not here.
You are not here.
Your mind does not want this, but your body does. It craves something you despise, you hate.
Those touches are not wonderful.
No.
Your body is wrong.
There is no warm mouth, gentle lips sucking on your throat. There is nothing wet and loving there against the skin on your neck. No wet, warm trails of affection being placed up your neck and along the side of your face, a tongue and hot breath caressing your ear.
"I love you, Merlin. Come back to me," no, those words aren't there. They aren't being spoken by those lips against your ear. The world is dead, silent. Nothing exists, especially those words.
By that man. That prince. That monster.
Because he's not there.
And neither are you, for that matter; you are in another place, another time entirely.
There is no arm around your waist, a wandering hand reaching lower down your abdomen. No gloved hand as it slides along your skin, reaching lower for something down your body. Nothing is snaking lower, and lower, till it finds its way under your waistline, grabbing you.
You do not want to scream, the sound bubbling up your throat, because it's not happening.
You aren't being laid down on your back. Nothing is straddling your legs.
No more sounds are being whispered near your ear.
Lips pressed against your own. Sudden and rough.
No, you aren't feeling any of this, because it's not happening.
Nothing. You feel
Nothing.
"Merlin, wake up. Look where we are."
Nothing.
This isn't happening.
You are not feeling your lower garments being slid down your hips and legs, the material gathering along your knees. Those hands aren't down there, he is not down there.
No, of course he's not - this isn't happening.
"Look where I brought us, Merlin," you do not hear the warm lips say as you feel them place a kiss on your forehead. A rough, calloused, warrior's hand grazing up your leg before settling on your hip.
But something is there; magic. You can feel it.
Somewhere…
"Come back to me," you think you hear that voice growl. You ignore it; there's something more desirable near you. All around you, singing in the atmosphere.
Magic; it's somewhere near you, the tiny magical particles dusting off and into the air. You can feel them as your lungs breathe in oxygen, the tiny specs dancing inside you. The wonderful, warm familiar weight that you have missed so much. You can feel it lighting your senses on fire everywhere. A spark in your brain; your thoughts.
It's a lullaby. It is coercing you to come out of hiding. Telling you it is safe once more.
Like an ignorant child you blindly follow.
You begin to remember how to exist. The haze begins to move away in your mind. Slowly, slowly, the mist is ceasing to exist.
Everything is becoming so much clearer. You begin to acknowledge the soft, frail blades of grass against your back, ticking your palm as the tiny hundreds of green shoots lie under your hands. Your fingers absently curl over the blades, the dirt collecting under your nails. The warmth of the sun as you bask under its light, a cool breeze making you shudder where your lower garments were removed.
Water, you think you can hear water.
The magic; it's somewhere. It's closer and it's healing you. You feel the pieces beginning to permanently mend themselves back together.
There is something emitting it near you. It is not much, and it is certainly not yours.
But it's there…
And you want it.
Each inhale of the essence that is, simply is, collecting and dancing in your body, pulsing in your veins. You can feel the hot energy, know the raw power. It is tamed, unlike your own; this magic has had centuries to grow and mature.
Natural. The kind that grows steadily with each passing century. Growing, calming with each rising and setting sun.
Where is it?
What is it?
Water.
A picture of the lake you buried Freya in enters your mind.
The gateway to Avalon? Why are you here? When did you get here?
You are sensing the magic of Avalon.
You begin to mourn for your own power. The tingling pressure of tears against the back of your eyes. You shudder when you do not feel a tongue lick them away.
You crave to feel the magic pulsing through your body once more. Greedily you inhale the magic-soaked air. With each inhale, exhale you feel your shattered pieces begin to mend. The pieces permanently returning. Their severed threads tying themselves together, the pieces becoming once more whole
Almost, almost…
As the threads are weaving themselves together, there is one corner missing. Your magic.
In its place is the tiny spark of power you are stealing from the air around you. The power that you are borrowing is swirling inside your chest and stomach, dancing inside your heart.
Turning, turning, turning.
You are weaving it inside you. Trying to make it yours.
With a faint 'click' inside your brain you remember how to use it, to control it. It is a small amount of magic, entirely foreign to you, but it feels wonderful nonetheless. Each breath, each gulp of air you pull into your body is bringing you closer to what you once were.
You were Merlin.
That's right. That's who you were.
And with the final thread back in place,
you finally remember how to return to the world once more.
Only to fall back,
into a nightmare.
The face of that man, smiling above you.
"Welcome back, Merlin."
And you scream, unleashing that hot rush of power.