.
.
The first round of breakfast omelets are nearly charred, thanks to Arthur's lack of culinary expertise and ability to gauge the delicate settings on a hob.
(And yes, there are clear differences in time periods and methods of food preparation, but it's simple instructions or, really, listening to Merlin that goes right over the king's head.)
Merlin rolls his eyes to Arthur's tensed back and shoulders, making an unconscious tut and leading the other man away from his perfectly workable kitchen appliance before more damage can be wrought. At least opening the cramped window gets rid of the dingy odour.
He put a little too much red pepper into his own omelette (the upward lip-tilt from Arthur as he ate is satisfaction enough) and spends a half an hour with an irritatingly burning tongue.
Towards the end of the morning hours, Merlin's still feeling rather chipper. And why the hell not? The aggravating desire to be "properly snogged" has been quelled, his stomach is full of home-cooked meal. Arthur is alive and well and has a full stomach, too.
Now they talk.
"You were serious?" Arthur questions, eyebrows raising in disbelief. "You're not going to make me clean the bloody floor."
"You lost the wager, mate; therefore… you… lost the wager," Merlin explains, in a voice saved for younger children with short attention spans (and he prepares for the accusations of patronizing royalty. Again). "Scrubbing the floors and doing the dishes. Those were the terms you agreed to. I did not use sorcery to win, you know that. I don't honestly remember touching a longbow since the…"
A pause hovers between them, Arthur flopped down on the threadbare couch with arms folded and a chafed line to his forehead, and Merlin standing a few feet away. Dark blue eyes glance up, unseeing to the wall, and he mentally counts it out in his head.
"… Yes, the 18th century, that's right. Not since the Scottish and English Parliaments joined together—they should have left the wine out of it."
The musing goes unacknowledged. Merlin hears a displeased noise. He doesn't care if Arthur whines or scoffs, because… well, rules are rules, aren't they? And he knows His Dollopheaded Majesty Arthur Pendragon has far too much integrity to break them in this case.
Merlin rubs a hand to his neck, flashing a good-humoured smile.
The lightweight, apple-green hoodie rides up at the hem, also flashing some of the cotton fabric of a bright red t-shirt beneath the hoodie. Warm catches of sunlight fleck into dark, cropped hair.
"Yes, I get it, your skills are profound," Arthur drawls.
Three centuries, his arse.
Another grumble builds in his throat as Merlin babbles on about more he doesn't understand—whatever the hell a Parliament was. Arthur's sure he will find out sooner than later. At the moment he's too distracted trying to find a lawful way to worm out of this promise.
He entertains the idea of pulling Merlin down on the sofa with him, perhaps making him realise they were better off there, but his integrity shoots the thought down rather quickly. He's not going to resort to some cheap tricks in order to get out of chores.
Even if it's tempting.
"Besides," Merlin adds, gesturing out behind him with an open hand towards the front door, "Don't be thick, it's a right state with the mud—"
The last syllable rolling off Merlin's tongue stalls, the rest of the conversation drifting lost as an eerie stillness overtakes him.
He wants to yell suddenly, wave his arms about, move from being rooted on the spot.
Something… something is…
Unprepared for it, a splitting, knifing pain twists inside Merlin's chest, shooting white-hot lightning for his right temple. His magic echos the sensation, but links it as non-physical, shrunk and panicked as if wounded, like… it's been punctured through.
No. Vision somersaulting him. A charging sweep of lightheadedness rocks him on his feet.
No.
Merlin bends forward, clutching tightly at the side of his head, fingers scraping into hair. Never realizing the very word comes out of his mouth, edging with distress, before the remaining oxygen leaves his lungs and a soundless scream replaces it.
Only seconds, perhaps near a minute, but the timing of the assault on Merlin's senses feels days-long. It blinds him from Arthur. His body decides to crumble, but Merlin's hands grip at his bowing knees, keeping him standing and from experiencing relief.
But relief does come, as temporary pain vanishes in ebbs.
It's broken. One of the outer protection wards. Someone—something—blasted it apart, leaving an invisible, bleeding gap. It shouldn't have been possible unless…
Outside the cottage walls, the wind begins to pick up, howling low.
.
.
Arthur notices the change instantly. No longer a small smile in place, nor Merlin's eyes focusing.
He needs no more motivation to move, because the instant Merlin doubles over and the ragged 'no' reaches his ears, Arthur's on his feet and at Merlin's side.
Hands grab the warlock, fingers clasping onto a shoulder and his side in case Merlin's knees buckle. Arthur's frown is prominent, but his eyes are dark in concern, not irritation.
The reaction had been so fast—Arthur had no time to search for a reason.
"Merlin." The name comes out low and rumbling, like a stormy wave crashing against rocks as Arthur grasps tighter at the other man. The name went against deaf ears, and Arthur's chest constricts in panic more as he repeats it. He ducks his head, trying to meet Merlin at eye-level.
Arthur can hear the winds picking up outside, the distant chime of an object in the garden signaling it, and for a moment he wonders if Merlin's responsible.
And if so, what does that mean?
"Merlin. Speak to me. What's happening?" Is he alright? What is wrong with him? Does Arthur have other concerns?
Arthur is left in the dark, and the only way to lose that is if Merlin answers him.
Merlin's fingers dig themselves into the fabric of his sweater, tugging him forward. Arthur tightens his grasp to keep them both steady. Merlin's strong enough to let him know the other man wouldn't be keeling over, but he also knows when someone is trying to hold back pain.
There's no indication of what kind he is in. Merlin isn't crying out, and the twisted expression Arthur sees at first dwindles into tension.
.
.
Stillness zaps from inside the room, leaving a crawling at his forearms and a nasty, metallic tang to the back of Merlin's throat.
The rest of the lightning-hot pain disappears from Merlin's temple, along with the rush of lightheadedness. While he's thankful for feeling momentarily steadier, it leaves him full of distorted heaviness.
Merlin's knees quake to his own weight, under his perspiring hands. There's strength enough from reeling over face-first to the ground. Arthur's name forces itself out of him, short-winded and barely able to conceal the mixture of paled horror and relief in a single breath.
Arthur.
He's here. So close that Merlin feels a warm burst of air to his face, warmth, that beautiful mortal warmth.
Fingers to the material of Arthur's sweater, pulling hard and trembling. Arthur's fingers respond, balancing him.
Merlin lifts his head slowly, eyes attempting to clear. The concentration of wrinkles to Arthur's summer-gold face deepen as the warlock's voice croaks out, "Someone's—nn—here," Merlin's lips and teeth clench, "I can f-feel it."
They are all in danger, more than Arthur understands—but Merlin has him.
That is reason enough to fight, to protect him. Now that he finally has the chance to do right.
Breaking down protection spells is no easy task. It shouldn't have been possible… unless the magic-wielder possessed remarkable skill. Those scarce few who still carried and practiced the most ancient, strongest form of magic to this world—the magic of the Old Religion.
It narrows down the list quickly. (Merlin suspected on occasion that his outer wards sealing off the very edges between other lands and his forest could disintegrate.)
He doesn't have time to prepare, doesn't have time to explain everything.
And doesn't have all the right answers to the questions undoubtedly throttling and shadowing Arthur's mind and concerns and fears. Not until Merlin can be absolutely certain who is coming.
The wind howls as if distanced from the cottage.
Swallowing down his heartbeat, Merlin adjusts his grip, one hand still on his knee and the other loosening on Arthur's collar. The next several words sound so fragile registering to Merlin's ears.
"Tell me you trust me," he murmurs, gaze open and sedate on the other man. Arthur's mouth gapes slightly. If a confused protest is to come, Merlin will eliminate the possibility. "No—please, Arthur," he urges softly, his left hand joining the right, palms sliding to the back of Arthur's neck.
A troubled look.
"I need to hear it from you."
It hardly clears up anything for Arthur. Someone was nearby, yes—there's bound to be people in the woods. But why does it have that effect on Merlin? Why does it matter so much?
Tell me you trust me.
There's no describing the sudden churning motion in his stomach. Merlin's tone so little, so not Merlin and Arthur has even more questions than before.
… So why is there a hesitation when he thinks of his answer?
Merlin has no reason to give him any doubt. Not anymore. Arthur has come to terms with the fact that his friend has magic. He knows Merlin is a Dragonlord. Yet… Arthur doesn't know everything.
Every fiber of his being feels something isn't quite right, that Arthur's still missing something, and once again the question remains.
Does he?
"I trust you."
Arthur hears his own voice, tone low, solemn, and full of meaning. He does. He always has. More than anyone.
The confusion never fades from Arthur's eyes, but they read sincerity. Having it laced in those little three words, more reassuring, more paramount than a declaration of love.
Merlin's entire body sags its relief, shoulders dropping.
The earnest light to the blue eyes meeting his already intensified. Despite not indicating an understanding of what is happening, Arthur trusts Merlin to do what is right. For them. For him. And… he just needed the verbal confirmation, the grounding reality of it.
His breathing shakes.
"Okay." Merlin nods, more or less speaking this to himself, sliding his fingers up towards Arthur's hair and pulling their foreheads together. The tingling heat of flesh calms him. Merlin repeats the okay, softly this time between himself and Arthur. Reveling in the sensation of a faint heartbeat beneath the solid barrier.
Merlin needed this more than he realises, like an act of selfishness, like he has been starved of the other man.
Maybe… god, did he?… Did he need Arthur more, need to indulge Arthur's spoken words and his comforting presence, more than his king needs Merlin's?
His gut clenches, forming like a boulder inside him. Yes… it wouldn't be such a stretch of the imagination, now would it?…
No. No, he can't drag that venomous thought on.
"The woods isn't safe as it is. I felt… it must have been one of the magical wards collapsing. It happened… too fast…" Merlin says, regaining his footing and breaking his hold on the other man.
He sorts through his memory for a few seconds—centuries worth of reversal spells, cloaking enchantments, amulets, elemental forces—
Merlin's knees end up falling, hitting the floorboards as he reaches with a whole arm underneath the tattered skirt of the couch. (Something along the lines of 'And you're planning on handling this by hiding under there?' lingers on Arthur's lips.)
And pulls out from underneath a very familiar-looking staff.
The hawthorn wood, ancient and thick, feels strong. Reassuring in its dense weight, in the impression of magical, Oghams words engraved.
Abas ocus bithe duthected bithlane.
The finespun circumstances of life and death surely to come into play now.
Merlin fists the sidhe staff into his right hand, the very one taken from Sophia and that killed her father. With some concentration, and a flickering push of Merlin's sorcery, the large gem atop glows dully, shimmering blue.
The same ghastly colour reflecting to Arthur's features.
"Whoever it is wants in that badly," he explains, watching his companion stiffen. "They may well be at the gates. That's why I need you to stay here. Magic is my fight. This isn't a test of your honour and your bravery, Arthur. Let me face them."
(You're better than me. You can't die. You can't.)
"I need you to guard Tiamat."
(I need you to stay alive for me; I need you to stay out of my way.)
"Protect her, if…"
The rest of the sentence almost isn't worth mentioning at all. The idea of dying now is far too surreal, on top of impossible. The corner of Merlin's mouth quirk humorless.
"If."
The anger inside Arthur is startling— occurring like a rising wave. Swelling without noticing, and then crashing down around him.
"Stay here?" Arthur repeats, eyes heated on Merlin.
Is he serious?
Of course he is; Merlin sounds more serious than Arthur has ever dreamed of hearing.
He feels a sense of dread trickle down his spine as the word 'If' hangs in the air, as if it was some sort of possibility.
It wasn't—they have gone over this, but even so Arthur vowed long ago. 'If' was never going to happen if he could stop it.
To be told 'To guard Tiamat' hardly goes over as well as it ever would. To think Merlin even believes it's worth a try proves to Arthur just how long it has been since they had been with each other.
The severe tone from Merlin is ignored, as is the guarded eyes.
Instead Arthur takes a step forward, his shoulders tight as he gives a sharp shake of his head. "No. This is not about honour or bravery. This is about not letting you face this alone. The dragon can hold its own in the cupboard—you're the one I'm concerned about."
"I'm not waiting inside like some bloody maiden. Magic has not been able to scare me off before, or have you forgotten?"
He has already said it, but the word kept repeating.
No.
Arthur will not allow it. This is what he's good for.
Even in this mess of the future, the overwhelming tangle of new roles and new lives, Arthur is destined to protect what he cares for. If he can do nothing else, it's to help fight.
His point has been made, and will continue to stand until Merlin realises Arthur will take no other answer.
.
.
There isn't a fingerbreadth of time to waste explaining this.
He wants to go back to several minutes ago. To when Arthur leaned back into him, when Merlin could feel a heartbeat through their foreheads, when Arthur's light blue eyes weren't accusatory and his jaw tightened.
Arthur isn't lying. He trusts Merlin.
But that doesn't give Arthur the inclination to agree with Merlin's instructions.
Perhaps it's still a "King" frame-of-mind. Or perhaps he can't stubbornly work his head around Merlin being able to handle it himself. Or—Arthur doesn't want Merlin to go alone. They never went alone. Patrols or facing enemies in battles.
At least… to Arthur's mind and to his own memories.
Merlin truly lost count how many times Camelot had to be saved, essentially using just himself as the only aid. His magic or quick thinking, it relied on him.
He faced many dangers, without Arthur, without anyone, as the centuries bled together. Mostly left without a choice, not wanting to risk fragile lives. Risk more death. And… it was fine.
He's… fine.
Something like a twinge of dark awareness comes at him, aching his side. Merlin unconsciously reaches for it, rubbing the area.
It's righteous indignation on Arthur's face. At the mention of concern for Merlin, the warlock stifles back a disgruntled snorting noise, not bothering to interrupt.
Somehow, Arthur has to understand it's reality.
"I know you're not afraid. At the very least, you're good at hiding when you're afraid," Merlin says, slowly. Voice soft and grim. "But you should heed more caution."
His eyes lock on the dully glowing staff, scrutinizing it instead of letting his expression bend under the heavy weight of his emotions. "You nearly died every time you fought against magic. Either offering up your life or circumstances beyond control. Ones I nearly failed you in. I can't stomach watching any of that happen again, not again."
Arthur expects a grimace, that scrunch of nose that marks Merlin's open protest followed by a loud rebuttal. But instead, there's nothing. No change in expression, nor does his voice rise. Merlin doesn't even look at him, instead staring at the glowing rock on the staff.
It's his voice. Quiet, slow and steady, but not reassuring. It's enough to make Arthur pause, the words attempting to sink in through the pounding in his chest.
Despite Merlin's tone, it does nothing to quell Arthur's anger.
Blond eyebrows arch sharply, eyes narrowing. The irritation flares once more, and it takes a great deal not to interrupt. In fact, he isn't sure why he hasn't cut him off already. It doesn't matter what Merlin tells him, whether it is criticism of his own strategies or his grief for Arthur's shortcomings against magic.
His answer is still the same.
"I've fought against magic before you." Arthur's voice snarls. "Why even tell me this?"
"Because there's nothing here worth sacrificing your life for," Merlin replies, grimly.
And that's when Arthur's world feels like it leans on its axis.
The simplicity in how Merlin voices this, feels it in himself—how deep his self-deprecation goes, it's liberating while at the same time humiliating.
(Who is he to put that realisation on Arthur?)
Only one responsibility matters in the end of this: Protect everyone inside this cottage. Whatever it takes.
Merlin's eyes gaze at the other man, faintly woeful.
.
.
Arthur's lips part as his body desperately tries to regain the ability to breathe. Merlin can't even look at him as the few strands of rope left holding Arthur up snap.
There's no kingdom. There are no citizens, looking up to him as their guardian and protector. There are no knights, ready to follow him into battle, no brothers in arms left to save and pick up after a fight. There is no Guinevere. No lingering hope for a sister lost to him all those years ago.
No wars on bordering lands that needed him to settle, or foreigners coming to him for aid, for the legends of the Round Table spread far and wide.
Legends.
That's all he is.
It's not only the gravity of his statement that hits Arthur.
Merlin doesn't believe there is anything for him here. He knows there's nothing for him, not anything worthy taking a stand for. Merlin wants to think that he is not enough for Arthur.
Blue eyes, enlarged and shining as he tries to regain himself. Arthur's mind screams.
You.
Merlin is what he has now, but either doesn't see it or refuses to. Arthur can't decide what hurts more.
The chance never comes, because his mind crashes in a whirlwind. Merlin does not pause to allow Arthur to regain his thoughts. Perhaps that's the reason behind biting words in the first place.
"Forgive me, old friend."
With a swipe of a raised hand, Arthur's feet fly out from under him. It sends him falling hard to the settee, knocking the wind out of him.
He gasps, heaving in. Arthur rolls slowly onto his side with a choked groan. An arm wraps around his stomach.
Merlin used magic against him.
The sweep of fury passes through his body like wildfire, spreading before he regains his breath.
Merlin—he won't do this, won't sacrifice himself for a damned dragon, or toss Arthur aside in attempt to make his point.
Stumbling to his feet, Arthur coughs, rushing towards the door as Merlin vanishes. But, of course, nothing is ever that easy. He grabs at the door's handle and turns.
It jams.
"Merlin!"
His heart pumps loudly in his ears, the noise of the growing storm outside dimming by the tycoon raging inside himself. Arthur makes a frustrated grunt as he shakes the door harder, attempting to break it free. But it's enchanted. It has to be.
In the back of his mind, he's reminded of the beliefs shoved upon him, of how magic weakened normal humans. Reduced them to saplings forced to wait for the rain under the canopy of larger, more powerful trees.
This powerlessness is awful.
Arthur's shoulder collides roughly with the door, once, twice, but still it refuses to budge. "Merlin!" he calls out again, roaring through the otherwise quiet cottage. "You can't do this!"
Nothing.
Muffled noises from outside—the screech of what he thinks is laughter.
Arthur rams his fist at the front door, his knuckles stinging on impact. Merlin is out there alone, allowing himself to be given as potential sacrifice, and Arthur is left trapped on the inside.
.
.
BBC Merlin isn't mine. WE ARE RIGHT BACK AT IT. It's December, and things are getting busier, but I'm very excited to get another chapter to you guys. THIS IS WHERE THINGS START GETTING INTERESTING. Who do you think is at the gates? What about Merlin's decision to leave Arthur out of this? BUMBUMBUMMMM. Does anyone have holiday plans? My plans are more chapters, working, more fic, and getting myself lost in a Big Bang. xD Thanks for reading! New chapter on 19th!