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.
A loud crash erupts some distance from you, where you threw the ruler with your magic seconds ago. The sound of a body hitting trees, followed by a scream.
His scream. For once, you are not the one screaming.
Your fingers curl around the blades of grass, dirt collecting under your fingernail as you lie on your back, grabbing the earth, fearing that if you let go you will fall away from reality again. Afraid of losing the magic, becoming powerless once more.
You are not powerless - not anymore.
You continue to lie there, chest rising and falling in rapidly, in tune with the quick pulse in your ears. You barely register the light gust of wind against your body where you are not clothed, your eyes watching the sky but mind focused elsewhere. You are readapting to reality, senses overwhelmed by the world.
Your body aches. Your wrists burn, as if they have been tied for days.
And everything else; every other piece of you is screaming in agony, as if it has been cut up, and reattached one too many times. Your hands grasp the earth tighter; you are almost afraid to let go.
You hear the screams from the royal cease, and movement from his direction.
You notice the odd soreness in your lower regions. It feels as if someone took a knife and plunged it into your lower back. When you begin to register the wetness down there, everything you have missed the last few months come back in a flash of images.
Then, your mind goes still, washed clean from all the sins of your past. Your body all the evidence you will ever need to convict your Destiny of his sins.
Your mind,
It gathers into one cohesive force like a stampede, sharp as an arrow, your fingers balling into fists.
Your stolen magic grows thicker, weaving a web around you, before the threads snatch up into the heavens and the earth below. The earth emits a loud rumble to match the stampede within you.
When you hear more movement from the royal your vision goes red. It finds direction - purpose. The stampede coaxed on by vengeance. Revenge is whispering in your ear, telling you about all the wonderful things you could do.
All the wonderful things you could do, to him.
You don't remember gathering yourself up, standing.
Justice. The King's judgment is today.
But you find yourself standing on your weak legs, regardless. Body swaying slightly, your vision blurry for seconds at a time as your shaking legs readjusting to being used.
You almost laugh when you see Arthur's blue eyes wide with fear at your own golden ones. But you have forgotten the sound entirely.
All you see is red. All you want to see is his corpse that you will create. All you hear is vengeance whispering soothing words into your ear. Such wonderful words you would normally be appalled at, but today you will make an exception.
Uncertainty and fear are consuming his irises.
How many times has he seen that look from you?
How many times were you stricken with that fear?
Those cruel, blue eyes of the monarch's never move away from you; they are still like stone. Face ashen, his golden skin paler than yours has ever been.
Does he not enjoy being on the other side of the sword?
He doesn't move, frozen against the tree you threw him at, as you take a step forward. Power crackling, snapping in the air like thunder as it leaves you. It is lightening, the magic that flashes from your palms. The heavens light up in weak imitation to your immense strength.
Your hand raises, and you can see his eyes grow even wider between your parted fingers; your digits are ready, itching to cast the spell that dances along your palms like fire.
The royal scoots back against the tree, reaching for the sword no longer around his hip. You are finally able to laugh.
You continue to spin the threads of magic from Avalon, winding it and bunching it into a ball in the center of your palm. The wind grows harsher; you hadn't realized you have begun to leech magic from the earth herself. The invisible gale plays in the air, awaiting your command. Your borrowed magic is everywhere, attached to every rock and tree; to every piece of matter for a mile to come. You have spared no expense to protect yourself.
His eyes continue to stare into your own. He has realized he bedded a sorcerer; the information has finally sunk in.
You flex your fingers, power snapping in the air, as you draw back the magic like an arrow on a bow.
You think you may be smiling. You will finally be free, even if he is dead.
He deserves to die, they all do.
For you; for Freya.
You summon the threads of magic around you, making one final pull on the bow.
You will spare no expense to destroy destiny.
He shakes his head in disbelief. You realize that you have been smiling this entire time.
Words - a farewell - leave your lips.
"Goodbye, Destiny." You will be free. You will go far away from here to live your own life. Anywhere is better than here - anyone is better than him.
And
you release your hold on your stolen magic, willing it to fly and shatter the terrible man before you.
Your smile falters when your borrowed magic, the arrow, does not shoot forth.
It is frozen in place; frozen in time within your being. It no longer crackles and sparks between your fingers.
The threads are no longer encompassing the world around you in a web. It is no longer abiding to your command.
And that borrowed piece of you, the tiny magical strings of your tapestry that you had stolen to make your own are iced over, have become large, bitter, ugly things in your newly repaired design.
Disbelief leaves your lips, and you take a step back. Hands, before confident, are now shaking in their casting stand.
The royal stands, and you take another step back, trying desperately to summon the energy, dipping into the well of Avalon.
This isn't right. This isn't right. Who took away your magic again?
But Avalon's gates are closed - sealed shut. The doors do not yield when you pull and bang on the mighty structures.
The monarch takes another slow, shaky step forward, as you take another step back.
"Merlin," his voice is trembling as much as his body. "You... have magic?"
You take another step back, as he takes two more strides.
The ice over your stolen magic does not thaw. It does not break.
You are now the same as before.
The same as before.
The same as when you and Freya were caught.
Those blue eyes continue to look at you as he nears you. You steadily retreat, keeping your distance from the monarch. For every step he takes you take two steps back in its place.
This cannot be happening. This isn't right.
No!
You have fallen into the divines' trap. This was supposed to happen!
"You're a sorcerer?" Arthur's words barely reach your ears.
And with another step away from him, you do the only thing a weak, injured man could do.
You turn and flee.
Sorcerer.
Enchanter.
He enchanted you,
This is all his fault. All his fault. He enchanted you; you have been under a love spell this entire time.
This is all his fault. There is no other explanation - he must have put you under a spell.
The sorcerer bites and kicks, screaming at you as you tackle him to the ground. He was too injured to have had even a chance to outrun you. You grab his trousers from the forest floor, and use the cloth to tie his hands in front of him. It will have to do until you can drag him back to the horse for proper restraint.
You keep a tight hold on his arm as you find your sword, unsheathing the deadly blade. His eyes go wide upon seeing the metal; he thinks you are going to kill him, like he almost tried to do to you when he held that spell in his hands.
You almost do kill him, but something holds you back.
You re-sheathe the blade, saying nothing as you drag him through the forest, your tight grip digging into his skin. He is screaming the entire way.
All these years... he has had magic.
All these years, he lured you in; made you think that you loved him. Made you think you both had a future together!
All those moments... all those wonderful memories. The way he made your stomach flutter when you were together, the way just one look from him would melt all your woes away.
All the times you spent together; all the times you made love.
Everything.
They had all been lies.
You have been bedding a sorcerer this entire time.
Your hand raises, ready to strike a blow across the sorcerer's face when you hear him scream. A mass of tears is running down his features, heavy with emotion. You have to look away from that gaze. Your hand still hangs in the air, ready to slam into that porcelain face to silence the noise.
But you can't. You have to continue to look away. You have to lower your fist.
You are still enchanted - it would hurt you to hurt him. Those are not your feelings; how could you have ever willingly loved a sorcerer?
He continues to scream, straining against the bindings keeping his hands together, as you continue to drag him through the thicket. He falls occasionally, the only article of clothing he wears - a short tunic - tearing slightly. Your grip tightens around his arm as you pull the vile man to his feet.
"Walk!" you bark.
His cries of distress grow louder beside you, more frantic once you both reach the outskirts of the woods; he pulls and screams more. He's yelling at you: commanding you to stop, to leave him alone. He is calling you so many awful names you do not deserve.
He enchanted you; that sorcerer enchanted you.
You jerk him forward, sending the other man falling and sliding on the ground, his bare legs kicking in the air.
"Remove the enchantment, and I will take pity on you, sorcerer!" the words leave you in a rush, heavy and boiling red. Painful and hot where you still care for the other man; they burn like salt on a wound.
Quickly you retrieve the rope from the saddle of the horse, and replace the make-shift bindings with something more proper.
"Do you honestly think I want to be treated this way, Arthur?" he screams at you, eyebrows knitted together, eyes wide and fearful, angry and defiant; a gaze that you remember glowing gold when he tried to kill you.
Perhaps being dragged back to Camelot will coerce him to remove the spell.
Something almost breaks inside of you at the thought, but you manage to push it back. It is the spell; his enchantment - your true self cares nothing for him.
He begins to pull on the rope more desperately when you tie the other end to the horse.
Once you mount the animal, you hear more of his protests as you kick the beast into movement. The rope sways and tugs as you hear him try to keep up alongside you, almost falling. You hear more of his shirt tearing when he falls completely and begins to drag along the ground, probably leaving that alabaster skin almost completely bare and open for all to see.
You want to turn around and look at him - you almost do a few times - everything inside of you commands you to dismount, cut the rope, throw your cloak over those shoulders and protect that lanky form from the outside world. Your very soul trembles and shakes the longer you hear his screams.; the longer you hear that body being dragged on the ground, naked and probably bleeding, your seed running down his legs, the more your heart shatters. It must be a strange sight to all the peasants you are passing on your way back to Camelot: the king dragging back something akin to a traitorous whore.
But, you remember, that is what he is. Those long fingers grasped your heart years ago, controlling your thoughts and making you do things you would never have dreamed of; you would have never killed so many innocents before; it was only over him that you murdered in cold blood. He used his magic and his seductive looks to get what he wanted and those magical claws have yet to let go of you.
Your eyelids screw shut when the sound of his screams become unbearable.
"You could end all of this, Merlin," you tell him. The words burn; the syllables make your tongue bleed.
However, the sorcerer does not give in. His cracked, hoarse voice is chanting the same words over and over again-he is still begging you to stop.
He is hoping that you will give into the spell, most likely. He wants everything exactly as they were before he tried to murder you.
Merlin should know you better than that.
More heads turn as you enter your capital, and you hear hundreds of gasps and screams at the sight. The sorcerer gives up on you entirely, his weak voice pleading to the crowd for someone to help him. His begging is in vain, however; you know that no one would dare defy the wishes of a Monarch.
A knight of yours, Sir Leon, runs over to you once you are within the courtyard, in front of the castle doors. He is awestruck, his eyes never leaving the raven-haired man still struggling to stand, tied by a rope to your saddle.
"S-sire…?" he stutters.
You untie on end of the rope, handing it to the man. You had never seen so much emotion all at once from the older knight.
He was bewitched as well, you remind yourself-everyone was played for a fool. No one would have guessed sweet, innocent Merlin of such treachery. No one could of had imaged those eyes to glow with evil.
"Take him to the Dungeons," you order, your eyes avoiding the pale form you can still hear screaming; pleading; begging; cursing your name and the heavens. "I will meet you there in a few moments. Don't let him leave your sight, Sir Leon."
You do not need to wait for his reply to know that he will follow through with your orders, your gaze locked away from the hysterical ex-manservant screaming and yelling. You can hear the knight struggle slightly with the light-weighted magic-user as he drags him to the dungeons, followed by the worried voice of the older man.
Your ears catch the question
"What is he guilty of, your Majesty?"
It hurts you to think about it what he is; hear the sorcerer's scream. His agony is causing wounds on you; you can feel them crack and bleed all over your body.
You need to get rid of this enchantment, now!
"He is guilty of Sorcery and attempted murder of the King."
Today is the day.
The first morning the sun kisses the earth behind the mountains, a signal to begin your journey to recover yourself. Your decade-long enchantment will finally be removed; the veil will be removed from over your eyes.
Soon. Very soon, you will no longer be a weak ruler swayed by a peasant; a sorcerer in disguise, once he is burned. You await your new set of eyes with glee, pushing down the pangs of sorrow the spell wants you to feel.
You will feel none of that remorse, for you have done nothing wrong. You are the victim, not the instigator. You are not the one that delved into the dark arts to find your way into a ruler's bed, a ruler's heart, to get what you wanted.
You were only lucky to catch the rat so early on in your reign; who knows what he would have coerced you to do in the years to come.
You hear a knock at the door, and you bid the Sir Leon inside.
"Has the moving completed?" you ask him. You have not slept in your bedchambers since your return three nights ago, the sight of the room and the adjacent antechamber holding too many terrible, wonderful memories. All the times you spent together with that sorcerer; that snake in your bed.
You have locked yourself away in the castle, with full knowledge that if you even take one look at him you would save the vile man. One look into his eyes and the spell would take control of you completely, as it has already been trying to do. You have done nothing but wrestle with it as the magical words try to lull you into letting him go. That he is yours; he was made for you. No one should throw away such person, even if the possession's falling into pieces from use and love.
It is telling you that you love him. You love Merlin. He is meant for you. Don't destroy what is and always will be yours.
It is the spell; it is nothing of you. You would never fall for a sorcerer.
"No, your majesty. It is taking some time. However, I have to speak to you about Merlin."
"The sorcerer? What of him, Sir Leon?" you inquire, emotions jumping at the youth's name. But you are stronger than the spell; you have to be.
The thought of that body you have so often held charring under the flames strikes your mind like a sword, and you wince slightly - this thought is the most difficult of all to push back down.
"He has not agreed to break the enchantment, Sire. He has not said anything new." You watch curiously as the knight casts his eyes down, as if he is ashamed to think of the peasant at all. You cannot blame him.
The next words that leave your lips stumble out, forcing you to repeat them to add coherence; your mind and your spell-bound heart are screaming.
"Begin to ready the pyre, then. He has lived long enough; execute him this evening. I will not be joining you."
The minutes tick by once the knight leaves you alone in the room. The cold, desolate quarter which would be so much more enjoyable if you had a warm, pale body to cuddle up to.
You try to shove the thought away immediately.
His execution shouldn't be long now. The pyre from Guinevere's execution is still standing - just a few adjustments that need to be made.
Very soon, you will feel the your soul being released. You should not be feeling remorse to kill a sorcerer, your almost murderer.
But you are, and the grief and guilt does not hide as it tries to engulf your entire being.
More minutes pass by, the slow ticking of time moving like molasses. Your thoughts are growing heavier, the spell pounding into your psyche as sharp as a blade. It is telling you that you love him; it is singing so many lies.
Merlin's death; it is taking too long. You should have forfeited your revenge and killed the man back at the lake.
Meanwhile, the spell continues to coo in your ear. It is driving you mad!
It is a spell, it is a spell! You could not possibly have feelings for a sorcerer!
You unsheathe you sword, stomping through the bedroom and out its doors. All the servants avoid their ruler as you hold the sword tight and ready, as you make your way through the halls.
It is taking too damn long. You will finish the enchanter yourself.
One quick swipe with your blade and you will be free of him; a single movement, in such a shorter span of time than the pyre, will release you.
One swift swipe and his eyes will dull, within a few seconds. You are now nearing the exit to the courtyard.
The light in his eyes will leave him, and he will die.
You imagine the blissful feeling that will surely follow once the spell begins to unwind from around your heart.
You now exit through the doorway, making your way through the stunned crowd as they quickly move away from you. They are just now placing the last of the wood around the former manservant's feet.
Your hold around the hilt tightens as you dart through the mass of people, and you are finally standing before the naked, broken man tied to the pole. He looks hollow and worn, his weak form lying against the pole as if he is using it for support to hold onto reality.
You raise your sword, ready to cast the final blow; to kill that vile, evil, treacherous, wonderful, beautiful, other half of yourself.
The spell will die with him; you will be yourself once more. You cannot wait to finally be your own again. You will be owned by no one!
But, the final blow never comes.
You see his face.
His gaze is red and puffy from too many tears and grief. The tendrils of guilt wrap around you instantly, unchallenged. A golden string linking him to you is re-tightening around your soul.
Your hear the faint clang of the sword as the blade falls from your hold, your hand shakily moving to touch his face. Those dull eyes come back to life every so slightly, and you see nothing but hatred and fear of you.
You love him; you really do.
You hurt the one you love.
You are not sure if you have been caught again in the net of the enchantment, the love spell; you give it no thought. Guilt and sadness, protectiveness and possession swarm back into your mind.
You are hurting, just as much as him.
No, you have hurt him far worse than he ever could ever do to you.
"Are you there, my obsession?" the sounds shakily leave your lips.
He blinks, trying to move further back and into the pole to avoid your touch.
"I hate you." His voice is hoarse and raspy; Weak and slow. Rivers of tears find their way from those eyes and down his cheeks. His body trembles when you brush them away with your gloved hand.
That's right, you realize, as he avoids your affectionate touch. He needs to feel your skin; nothing should stand in between the both of you; you won't allow it.
You remove both of your father's gloves, beginning to trace along his face.
Down the side of his eyebrows, then outlining those luscious high cheekbones. Your fingers finally find the corner of his mouth, and you slowly retract the digits when he tries to bite them.
But, he doesn't hate you, no.
How could he, when you both love each other so much?
This is all a game to him; he loves to role play the victim, after all.
That naked, bound porcelain form shivers, his chest quaking when you kiss his left cheek.
Yes, just his favorite game. He has always had such a hard time admitting his love for you.
Especially in front of an audience, you think, noting the mass of people surrounding the pyre; hundreds of confused and started onlookers.
How could you ever think beautiful, wonderful Merlin could be evil? If anything, your love has taught you that magic is something to be welcomed within your city walls; how could magic be corrupt when Merlin can wield it so easily?
"P-please, just let me go," those lips quiver when you kiss his other cheek. A hoarse scream of protest leaves him when you plunge into his mouth, your hand sliding around and below his naked backside. You can hear the gasps and cries from the crowd surrounding the pyre, but you do not care. Let them see everything. You're drunk on all that is Merlin again, your mind hazy and lusting and wanting. A veil being carefully replaced in front your eyes.
He is yours; he was made for you after all.
His heart fits so perfectly next to yours; he is filling that aching gap, the connection sparking into life now that he is with you again. You think you remember being so lonely when you were back in the castle. You must have missed him so much in his absence.
"Ready to go back home, Merlin?" you whisper in his ear, resting your chin on his trembling shoulder. He is pleading to you again, to let him go. You laugh when he curses your name, your name along with all the deities in the heavens and below.
You cut the rope binding his shivering, bare form to the pole, and gather that weak, bleeding body in your arms. He tries to fight you, but he is too tired. You think you'll allow him to rest an hour before you make love to him again.
"I love you, Merlin," you confess to the man in your arms as you carry him to your bedchambers. When he begins to cry, you hold him tighter against your chest.
You should inform him how that looks for the future companion of the monarch to display such weakness, but you are aware of how frail and fragile the porcelain form is. You have to be delicate with him; so gentle.
But, whatever the future will bring you know he will always be there with you. He is yours,after all.
He will always be yours.
Another kiss, and he shudders under your hold.
"Mine."
Merlin POV
You will feel the immense loss of life around you as you sense the souls of your allies leave their mortal carcasses behind.
Their bodies will be scattered about the earth like daisies, mingling with those of your enemies. One massive hill of death.
Camlann.
And you will be standing there to witness it all.
Their eyes will fade and die like your mind and soul had years ago. They will never return to what they once were, the end of the sword too sharp and wound too deep to allow them anything else but to disappear forever.
Just like you.
Almost like you.
You will have a lifeline, something to bind your soul to this world. Your King; your lover.
You will, eventually, not be able to imagine a life without him. You will learn to return those gentle touches; those warm kisses on your lips. You will learn how to deal with everything he gives and does to you, if for no other reason but to survive.
You will begin to seek out his praise and affection. To do anything to make him happy, see that smile on his face, and see those blue eyes that once gave you nightmares glow with glee.
You will grow to love him, depend on him. He will be the only thing keeping you from leaving this world and going to Avalon...
Because you are his; you were made for him. Destiny foretold it all.
Power will crackle and burn on your fingers as you send the magic forth, eliminating your surrounding enemies in a fiery haze; a great heat will encompass the area around you.
You will be fighting for hours on end, your body and muscles growing weak, an ugly red gash on your side from an enemy's blade.
And you will see your lover, a man whom you have grown to depend on just to breathe, fighting in the distance. He will be skilled as ever, but he will be slower with age.
You will begin to scream and run in his direction, shooting back the enemies that come near you along the journey. Their screams will be a great wailing noise as you throw them back through the air.
You will watch as he grows tired and weak, and the druid you both had allowed to escape in your youths knock your king to the ground. Your feet will carry you as fast as you can. You will have to help him! Save your other half!
"Arthur!"
"Stop fighting us, Merlin!" Her voice will catch you by surprise, her gentle, soft body clothed in cold, steel armor holding you back. Her arms will wrap around you, her chin will lie on your shoulder and her hair will brush against your face.
You will not be able to move out of her arms; her spell will freeze your body in place.
Your entire world will shatter once you hear his final scream from the distance, his blood in the air as his body falls to the earth along with the druid's. Neither man will ever get up again.
"It's okay, Merlin. Do you hear me?" her voice will be gentle and soothing. But you will hate her; she will help kill your Arthur!
Your voice will crack when you mourn his name, your vision will blur with tears and the shards of your soul will break into many more pieces.
"He won't be able to hurt you again Merlin," she will tell you, her arms wrapping tighter around your body. "I told you I would come back for you years ago in the forest; that I would save you, do you remember?"
Yes, you will remember.
The memories will be painful as they are dug back up and brought to the surface. But, you will be able to finally recall them.
And you will rest your head on her shoulder, her spell finally released. You will wrap your arms around her form, the sounds of Arthur's forces being defeated all around you.
You will not shed a tear. Not a single one as the words leave your lips.
"Thank you, Morgana."
As you will finally realise, that you are free from the shackles of destiny forever.