Six Divided Men…
If there's one thing that Merlin never expected to hear from Arthur once he'd confessed his biggest, life-changing secret, it's to end up being wrapped in the man's arms. Execution, arguments, betrayed glares; yes. But watching with a quiet amazement as his Prince easily twists the sword from Leon's hand, throws it to the ground and yanks Merlin against his chest is so far from absurd that Merlin just stands there frozen.
"Er – Sire?" Stutters Leon, bending swiftly to grab his sword – or he would have grabbed his sword if Gwaine hadn't gotten there first, the tip of his boot keeping the blade firmly squished against the soil.
"The blood staining your weapon is that of an innocent man, Leon." Growls Gwaine, glaring down hotly into the furious eyes of his senior Knight. "I doubt it's a good idea to give it back to you until you can figure out how to point the sharp end at criminals...sir."
"That man is far from innocent! He has magic!" Gapes Leon, frowning at the absurdity of the situation. He; a loyal, Knight of Camelot is kneeling in the dirt whilst a Sorcerer stands but three paces from them wrapped in the arms of the Prince.
"That man is Merlin," Seethes Gwaine, "magic or no, he is the same man you believed him to be this morning. He is not a danger to the Princess and he definitely does not deserve to be bleeding freely from a wound inflicted on him by someone he considers a friend without at least hearing him out."
"There is nothing to hear, Gwaine," comes the voice of the Princess, his arm still slung around a confused looking Merlin's shoulders but his eyes resting on his Knights. "Merlin here is just joking around. I'll admit, when he wasn't here straight after I came around, I panicked. But he's fine. The same old idiot trying to make us laugh to relieve the tension. I must say Leon, I never expected you to fall for something like that so easily. Shame on you!"
"No – Arthur –" breathes Merlin, trying to summon up the courage to confess again. As if once wasn't fucking hard enough!
"Well-done, Merlin," chuckles Arthur, "inappropriate, yes, and stupid to take the jest to such extremes as to draw blood, but it has lightened the tension from the attack so your idea was a success." Merlin wants to point out that the tension hasn't gone at all, it's just morphed into astonished disbelief that the Prince can be so stupidly clueless. "I believe that this is the first time that I have applied those words to a plan of yours!"
Not even Leon can think of something to say. Instead, they just stare at Arthur, dumfounded – all apart from Gwaine that is, who is instead trying to muffle his laughter with his fist. He gets a painful kick in the shin by Lancelot and hears the fevered hiss of, "How the fuck is this funny?" but the sheer stupidity radiating from the Princess is too much to take! An audible gulp reaches his ears, and he sees Merlin steel himself against the inevitability of the outcome of his confession, and the laughter dies in his throat. His hand clenches painfully tight around the hilt of his sword.
"It wasn't a joke," blurts Merlin, the words tripping off of his tongue in a rush to get it over and done with. "I h–have magic. Everyone saw it, Arthur, when we were ambushed. I – I had to go somewhere with them, that's why I wasn't here when you were healed. I was born with it! Please, Arthur, just understand – I…I never liked hiding it from you. I've wanted to tell you so many times. B…but I couldn't. Jus – just know that I would never hurt you or Camelo –"
And the sword thrust against his neck is the reaction he'd been expecting this time.
"You've been lying to me? All this time?" Asks Arthur, his voice low but hard as steel – laced with fury and twisted by betrayal. Merlin, his silly, clumsy Manservant – a Sorcerer? The word pounds in his ears, scratches like nails against his mind. Sorcerer, Sorcerer, Sorcerer.
"I had to," whispers Merlin, eyes welling with the uncontrollable urge to weep at the pain and hatred burning brightly in the gaze of the man he loves.
"You – you," stutters Arthur, mind whirring too much to find any semblance of order to what he wants to say. He watches the end of his blade quiver with the emotion quaking through his body, the point resting against the flesh much like Leon's had only minutes before. But there is no blood, no swell of crimson – even now, he cannot bring himself to hurt Merlin.
"Sire," starts Lancelot, stepping forward hesitantly but standing his ground. That is his friend at the end of a sword wielded by an unstable man. And his Prince poised and ready to do something that he will never be able to live with once the haze of betrayal has dimmed. "Sire, let him explain. He has only ever protected you and Camelot. Even when he had to put his life in danger, even when his death was the only way to keep you safe – he faced it willingly. He is not what you have been raised to think he is."
"You knew?" Growls Arthur, twisting in the blink of an eye and lunging toward the Knight – toward someone he can bring himself physically hurt.
"Arthur!" Shouts a voice behind him, a voice that can only belong to his Manservant, but it doesn't sound like him – it's deeper, surer, powerful. Not his Merlin. A blast of wind knocks him off his feet, his sword flung to the side as his cheek connects with a rock beneath him. He feels the skin split, feels the hot trickle of blood glide across his skin and knows that Merlin did what Arthur could not bring himself to do. Merlin had made him bleed – Merlin had attacked him. With magic, his mind hisses at him.
"Arrest him!" Orders Arthur, propelling himself to his feet in time to watch Merlin hold his hands to be bound willingly by a cautious Leon.
"What? You can't be serious?" Spits Gwaine incredulously, taking a step toward Merlin, "he's saved your life more than once! Attacking Lancelot, arresting Merlin – were you possessed as well as stabbed? They are your two most loyal men!"
"Hold your tongue, before I bound you in chains with the man you feel so passionately about protecting," says Arthur, even now stung by the jealousy welling within him at the obvious connection between the two men.
"Better that than turning my back on a friend, Sire." Replies Gwaine, sheathing his sword and dangling his hands out mockingly to Leon. "Go on then," he tells the other Knight, cocking an eyebrow, "but remember that if you step just one toe out of line it'll be Percival clamping these onto your wrists before the night is out."
"I have no qualms about gagging you," growls Arthur, mounting Llamrei. "Tie the rope to the back of your horse, Leon. They can walk for the rest of the quest while I decide on the correct punishment they'll receive when we return to Camelot."
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They travel for the rest of the day, a stony silence settled over them like a stifling blanket. Arthur can feel the heated glare of Lancelot against the back of his neck; can hear the shuffling feet of Gwaine and Merlin as they try to keep up with the brisk pace he's holding the horses at. He can see the way Percival's fingers clench and unclench around the reigns of his own horse as well as Gwaine's as he guides them both. Can sense the frown dug into deep grooves in Leon's forehead; from the uncouth treatment of Gwaine, forcing a Knight to follow his horse gagged (because getting Gwaine to shut up, even when threatened is impossible and Arthur had finally rammed a wad of bandage into his mouth and tied it around his head tighter than it really needed to be) and bound like a common criminal, and the nervousness of having Merlin, a obviously powerful Sorcerer, behind him.
But more distracting than all of that is the smooth glide and fall of the flank pressing against his stirrup. Seeing the gleaming black coat of Camisado as she sticks close to Llamrei's side – following her even without a rider on her back, just as Merlin had said, is almost too much for him to bear. The angry haze that had set over his eyes back at the clearing, when Merlin had revealed the extent of his treachery, has faded, leaving a hollow ache in the centre of his chest in its wake. He doesn't know what to do.
It should be easy – the punishment for practising magic is death; no exceptions. But the idea of the light within Merlin, that unique essence that he loves so much, being snuffed out by his own doing, or anyone else's for that matter, is abhorrent. Even with the anger, the betrayal burning so brightly inside him that he cannot even bring himself to look at the man, let alone keep his secret and bring him back to Camelot; he cannot bring himself to do it. In the back of his mind though, he can hear his father's voice; hissing that magic is evil. It is a truth that he has known for his entire life, and the way that Merlin so happily lied to him for so many years and would have continued to do so if today had not happened, are not the actions of a man uncorrupted by magic.
"It is getting dark," says Arthur, bringing Llamrei to a halt and wincing as the motion is immediately copied by Camisado. "We'll set up camp here and continue towards the Perilous Lands tomorrow."
He tries not to watch Merlin for the rest of the evening, but his eyes stray to their usual place anyway. And what he sees makes him feel sick. Merlin's eyes are bloodshot, the blue drained to a milky white, his hands shaking restlessly against his thighs. And is that a glint of silver in his otherwise black hair catching in the moonlight? He looks about ready to collapse, the food Lancelot had placed in his lap has not been touched, and the water skin next to his hip has not been moved. He'd sat, staring vacantly at his hands, whilst Leon and bound him to the tree, head lolling forward until his chin rested on his chest, subservient in a way that Merlin has never been.
It hurts, like a blow to the heart, to stand and leave him there when he retires to his tent. To the tent that Merlin used to share despite the difference in their status, despite the whispers some of the other, less friendly, Knights used to murmur around the fire. It feels empty now though; cold and ugly without his presence, a startling semblance to Arthurs own soul.
He tells Leon not to bother with a guard; the chances that either would willingly leave are slim and the men are dead on their feet. But he orders him to keep the fire lit - the night is clear and not too cold but the flames will provide some light in the gloomy forest that he knows will make Merlin feel safer. Yes, he will treat them like criminals and make them sleep tied to a tree, if only because of the anger still boiling in his blood, but it is still Merlin out there and the least he can do for the man, if he even really exists, who cleaned his clothes every day for years is give him a small comfort.
And much to his annoyance, despite the anger and hurt churning away in his stomach – that night, wrapped tightly in his furs, covered from the unexpected pounding rain hammering against his tent, Arthur still dreams of pale, flushed skin beaded with sweat, swollen red lips, tangled locks of ebony hair and a heat so intense it blots out the sun.
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"Y-y-you shouldn't-t have s-spoken on my behalf," stammers Merlin, his teeth chattering against the spasms wracking his body. "You c-could have been c-c-cuddled up with your furs inside a tent right now if you'd kept-t your mouth s-shut-t-t."
"Mmph," grunts Gwaine, smacking his lips against the sodden fabric stuffed in his mouth. Shivers quaking his body as another gust of wind pelts icy water against his body unrelentingly. How had the weather gotten so bad so quickly? He can still hear the hiss of the fire as water pelts the hot wood, rendering it useless.
"There no point in us both dying from exposure when I will already be dead before the week is out." Sighs Merlin, his head thumping painfully against the tree he and Gwaine are bound to. His eyes squeeze shut against the seizures clenching in his muscles. "Thank you, though. You are a true friend, Gwaine. I hope Arthur sees sense and lifts any punishment he is thinking of giving you." A derisive snort is all that he gets in reply.
"Gwaine?"
"Mm?"
"I-I-I c-can mak-k-ke you warm-m," breaths Merlin, the energy it takes to merely open his lips draining him quickly. He knows the clamps around his wrists are Iron – specifically forged to stop the flow of magic in a sorcerer being held prisoner, but he has to try. If he doesn't, then Gwaine might very well freeze to death.
He can barely feel his magic, the ever present swell of it within him is no longer there, but clenching his teeth against the fear that induces, he focuses his will on Gwaine – on providing a cocoon of warmth. There's a relieved sigh at his side, signalling his success, and Merlin smiles, feeling his eyes droop dangerously.
He massages his wrists, the tangy stickiness of blood pressing against his fingertips, and falls into a blackness that feels much darker and ticker than sleep.
