A/N: Just an experiment, to see if this will keep my title centered.

I might as make this a disclaimer line, too: I do not own Merlin.

Caged

Chapter 8


"I, schooled in misery … know where speech is proper and where silence."

-Aeschylus-


Merlin groaned as his aching, cold body dragged him from the comfort of a dreamless sleep. A massive headache had settled behind his eyes, and even though his lids were still closed, the weak light of dawn sent spears of pain into his head. A bone-rattling shiver ran up his back, and Merlin gradually noticed the stiff, numb state of his extremities. His feet were blocks of ice, and his fingers felt brittle and frozen, as if he bent them, they would shatter or snap off his hands entirely.

His face was both too warm and too cold—his eyes and forehead burned while his cheeks and nose tingled and stung as if covered with frost. Merlin swallowed and found phlegm caught at the back of his throat, and in trying to clear it, triggered a series of deep, wet coughs. His lungs contracted and seared in his chest, and each cough sent waves of pain through his aching head—as if someone were pounding a nail into it, hitting harder and harder as the coughing fit continued.

His hacking finally subsided, and, still gasping for breath, Merlin opened his eyes fully. The film of sleep still obscured his vision, but he could vaguely see a thin mist floating over the lake water in front of him. But then the world started spinning, and his headache throbbed more viciously inside his skull. Merlin closed his eyes again, but even in the darkness behind his eyelids, the spinning continued, a slow and clockwise spiral, turning his stomach with it.

As Merlin tried desperately stem the gut-churning nausea, another ache made itself known. His magic. It had never felt this way before. It felt sore and bruised, and sent tremors of its own through his already trembling body. Little flashes of memory reminded him of what had happened last night, what he had done with his magic.

The spinning finally stopped, but Merlin kept his eyes shut, and was reluctant to move. He felt beyond awful, and the cold reminded him of the hell he had gone through after his run-in with the Dorocha. But during that time, Merlin had suffered and endured it, because it had saved Arthur. So it had been worth it. Now, though, he had brought it upon himself without the same noble purpose, and he couldn't help feeling he deserved the pain this time.

Merlin imagined and heard angry voices reply to that thought—his mother, Gaius, Gwen, all yelling at him for thinking that way, telling him he deserved better, that he always deserved better. But he couldn't imagine Arthur saying that, couldn't hear Arthur's voice. And then suddenly he did, and it drowned out the kinder voices. Arthur's phantom voice was harsh and callous. He said magic killed his parents. Magic was pure evil. So Merlin was pure evil—that Merlin should suffer for what he had done.

Merlin mentally turned away from his depressing thoughts as his headache gave a rather painful throb that traveled through his head and into his neck. Thinking and remembering hurt too much.

With another groan, Merlin managed to move his stiff left hand, which was stretched out in front of him, and used his palm to knead his pulsing forehead. Merlin let out a small sigh as his icy hand cooled his fevered skin.

A brisk wind descended on the lake that went straight through Merlin. Shivering, Merlin almost lost his lunch again as the shudders violently rattled his abused body. He ventured a look at the lake again, and saw that the sky was overcast. The sun had risen higher and hidden itself behind a mantle of clouds. Though the mist was beginning to disperse, the morning was still bitterly cold. He had to get warm, and fast.

Merlin held out his hand, and winced as his bruised magic quivered inside him. "F-f-forb-bearnan…" Merlin's voice croaked, and he worried that his stuttered spell wouldn't work, especially since he didn't have any actual wood to help keep the fire going. But his magic seemed to stretch inside him, and the few sparks from his palm grew into a modest flame. His magic still ached, but also felt a little better, as if he were stretching a sore muscle. So he fueled the flames some more, until a good sized campfire floated just above the shore in front of him.

Warmth washed over him, covering him in a blanket of heat. The bright flames aggravated his headache, but that was nothing to the relief the rest of his body felt. He shifted and pulled out his right arm—which had fallen asleep under his side—to better warm both his hands. After his front had thawed, Merlin rolled over with a grunt, to warm his frigid back. This, however, gave him full view of the ruined forest that he had only glanced at last night. And with the sight of the devastation, the devastated feelings of the previous day welled up inside him. Merlin turned away, rolled back over to face the flames again, despite his back still being a little too cold for comfort.

Though he had physically left Camelot, he still felt trapped, and he wasn't sure how to stop that feeling. Despite the dangers and difficult situations, ever since being told of his destiny, Merlin had known what to do, or at least known the general direction to go and where his path was taking him. But he had now reached a dead-end—a dead-end that had dropped him into a hole that was too deep for him to climb out of. He had absolutely no idea what to do.

He just wanted to go home. But he wanted to go to a home where he didn't have to hide anymore, where he didn't have to lie through his teeth every day in order to survive, where he could just be himself. Was that too much to ask? It was the only reward he sought—he had said as much to Arthur, in the guise of Dragoon. He didn't need gold or land. He didn't need recognition or glory. He was just so tired of being hunted and hated. He only wanted a home instead of a cage. He had tried to build one, and it had come crashing down on him, destroyed by Morgana's scheming, Arthur's ignorant hatred and willful misunderstanding, and Merlin's own inadequacy.


A loud crack in the fire made Merlin startle awake. He hadn't realized he'd drifted back to sleep. The cheery blaze had melted the ice in his bones, and he felt all the better for it. He started to stretch when another pop sounded through the air. Merlin's brain finally caught up with him when he realized the sounds had come from behind him. And it was stupid to think that the fire had made those sounds, seeing as his fire was magical and there was no wood to make any popping noises. An invisible fist squeezed his heart, and Merlin quietly rolled over to look at the injured forest behind him. There was rustling in the undergrowth, and fear tore at Merlin's insides. Someone was near. Very near. Merlin started when the rustling became louder, and an angry grunt sounded through the trees.

Merlin knew that voice.

And that made it worse.

Sick with guilt and a hint of last night's anger, Merlin turned away from the noises and curled up in front of his fire again. The rustling stopped a moment, and Merlin heard other muffled voices, but could not tell who they were. The relative stillness was broken when the crashing in the woods resumed and became more violent and desperate, as if someone were ripping bushes out. Then the new King of Camelot screamed out his manservant's name.

"MERLIN!"

Merlin flinched at Arthur's volume and tone. He sounded angry. And hurt. Had he found out? Had Arthur come to arrest him? Had he finally put two and two together—that Merlin was a sorcerer, and the one responsible for Uther's death? Had Arthur followed Merlin's path right to him, to make him pay for his crimes?

Merlin's panic sparked another coughing fit, and once he was able, he took a few deep breathes to calm himself down. No, that didn't make sense. Arthur didn't know that Merlin was Dragoon. Arthur didn't know Merlin had magic. Arthur didn't know anything.

The sounds coming through the trees stopped abruptly, and Merlin found himself turning his head slightly towards the gently-sloped hill behind him, wondering if they had heard his coughing and labored breathing. He hoped not. All was still until Arthur spoke again, softly this time. It should have been impossible to hear the whispered words, but Merlin suspected his magic let him hear them as clearly as if Arthur stood right behind him.

"Merlin … please."

Arthur sounded just as broken as when his father had died. Perhaps even more. Merlin knew he should get up. He should answer his friend. He should go and take his place by Arthur's side. He should.

But he couldn't.

How could he face Arthur now? What would Merlin even say, or do? But Merlin bitterly realized that he knew exactly what he would have to do—what he had always done before. He would have to lie, make up another ridiculous story, slip back into his cheerful manservant façade, and hide behind his smile. And then he would be bundled back to his citadel cage, to live out his days in shadowed misery.

He couldn't make himself do it anymore.

So Merlin remained still and waited in silence. There was more rustling, and then the muffled voices faded as Arthur, and those with him, left.

Long after they were gone, though none would ever hear him, Merlin whispered his response to Arthur's last plea.

"No."


A/N: Man, I'm just giving Merlin a rough time. Thanks again for all the lovely reviews, and for the favs and follows. I was so tempted to post this chapter right after I posted Chapter 7, but I held back so that I could get the next few chapters mapped out and written. Next chapter will also be a Merlin chapter, and after that… well, let's just say that the next storm is on the horizon.

Posted: 6/7/17