A/N:
This fic was inspired by some of the themes and meta-questions raised in the early chapters of N16's fic Creature of Magic. Seriously, her fics should come with warning labels (Caution: May inspire plot bunnies! Read at your own WIPs' risk!), because this is the second plot bunny to spring directly from reading her work. Back in September 2020, I read the early chapters of Creature of Magic and left a rambling, gushing review on Ch. 10 about how great her fic was, how many interesting questions it raised, and how I wasn't going to give in to a new plot bunny. Naturally, I gave in to that plot bunny the very same day and penned a draft of the first scene of this one-shot. (Then it took another eight months for the rest of this to come together, haha.) Thank you, N16, for giving me the approval/nudge to post this!
Also, a massive thank-you to MagicLia16 and BlueandBronze for their gracious beta-reading. They provided an incredible amount of constructive feedback, Brit-picking, and reassurances that this was not, in fact, too angsty to post. Speaking of angst...
PSA:
Merlin is not in an emotionally or mentally healthy state for basically all of Season 5, sadly, and therefore the same holds true in this fic. If you—or someone you know—ever find yourself in a similar state of emotional/psychological/existential crisis, please know that real help is available, and it's both worthwhile and courageous to reach out for that help. If you're not sure where to start, I've included some resources in the A/N at the end. Please know that you are valuable, and you are not alone.
(End of PSA)
Commence the fic!
False Prophecy
It had all been a lie.
Merlin stared at the dusty page, unable to wrap his mind around the shocking revelation. It had all been a lie. The dry vellum was cracked at the edges, and the illuminations were faded: a testament to the age and authenticity of the text. The gold leaf accents, though, still gleamed as fresh and bright as the day they'd been applied to the stylised dragon curling around the capital T. The flickering candlelight glinted off its shimmering scales and glowed like magic in its eye as it mocked him for his naïveté. It had all been a lie.
Merlin had come to this hidden room in the library—the same room where he'd once found a goblin—as soon as he'd been able to slip away after they'd returned from Ismere. He'd hoped one of the dust-covered tomes might hold some answers to the questions that haunted him.
At Ismere, he'd told the Diamair he didn't want the crushing burden of all the knowledge it bore.
The Diamair said I was wise, he thought, huffing a bitter laugh, but I wasn't wise enough.
He'd given in to the temptation and asked it about Arthur's Bane. The Diamair's answer, coupled with Mordred's reappearance and subsequent knighting, had left Merlin with even more questions and even less resistance to the siren call of seeking answers. It had all been a lie. He shook his head in a vain attempt to clear it as he continued to stare at the faded, fateful words in front of him. He'd come looking for answers about prophecies, yes, but this was not the answer he'd expected. This was a bucket of ice water thrown in his face; the cold shock left him numb as he read the paradigm-altering words again:
'The many variations of the prophecy of the Once and Future King, though widely circulated, are of unknown provenance and are without corroboration or attestation from any reputable prophetic sources. The most orthodox traditions consider any iteration a heresy: false and insidious.'
A heresy. His great hope, his anchor—nothing more than a lie. He had lied to everyone in Camelot, again and again, for a lie. He had betrayed his own people, watching from the shadows and refusing to intervene to save them, all for a lie. He blinked hard as the words blurred.
'There are accepted prophecies which speak of magic incarnate: a being called Emrys. There are also accepted prophecies that mention a mighty king as a contemporary of Emrys.'
Hope flickered. Maybe it wasn't all—
'However, there is no accepted prophecy which delineates the relationship between them.'
A knot formed in his gut, twisting as he read. What was his magic for, then, if not for Arthur? What was he for, if not to serve Arthur's destiny?
'Of the accepted prophecies regarding Emrys and the King, the most notable and best-corroborated example appears in the Triads, which is most frequently translated: "The three which destiny has bound together: the one called Emrys, the Once and Future King, and Camlann's bloody plain."'
It was like a sorcerer's execution in the castle courtyard; he couldn't tear his eyes away from the words even as they burned up everything he believed in.
'In light of that triad and corroborating sources, a strict orthodox interpretation must remain agnostic towards all details beyond these: Magic incarnate—Emrys—and a mighty king will both be present at a battle in a place called Camlann.'
What was his magic for? The answer stared up at him from the brittle vellum: Camlann's bloody plain. Violence was now the only surety in his suddenly untethered existence; perhaps it always had been. Dead eyes stared back at him from his memories on the long, dark nights when sleep eluded him—too many to count, but count them he did:
Agravaine and his men, lying broken on a cave floor. Edwin Muirden, pinned to the wall by the axe buried in his chest. King Uther, staring up at the canopy with vacant eyes, dead by Merlin's hand as Arthur stood by in growing horror. Morgana, betrayed eyes falling shut as she gasped in vain for the breath he'd stolen from her.
And then there's Nimueh, Aulfric, and Sophia—all scattered into ash. The bodies piled up in his mind's eye, faceless and nameless: bandits, assassins, foot soldiers, and mercenaries. Other names and faces were burned into his scarred conscience: sorcerers and sorceresses, both the ones he'd fought and the ones he'd failed to save. On the darkest nights, he wondered if maybe they'd all been the latter. Not to mention dozens of creatures of magic over the years…
The doubts and fears he'd long suppressed resurfaced like banked embers fanned into flame. Maybe Gaius was wrong all those years ago. Maybe Merlin—Emrys—really was nothing more than a monster. The next paragraph only added fuel to the fire.
'As it is believed that the one called Emrys will be immortal—'
What?
No, no, that couldn't be right. No man was immortal. His darkest doubts uncoiled and stretched like waking dragons, curling their scaly tails tight around his chest as they whispered: Are you sure you're a man and not a beast?
He sucked in a painful breath and read on.
'—there is no indication of the date of said battle, other than that it cannot pre-date the first appearance of Emrys. The outcome of the battle is unknown, as are the fates of the mighty king and any other participants. It is likewise unknown whether the King and Emrys will be friends or foes.'
The words were like a punch in the gut. Arthur might be my enemy?
Merlin stood abruptly, scrambling back from the book and knocking his chair over in the process. He paced back and forth in the narrow space between the reading table and the revolving bookcase. Conversations welled up from his memories, echoing in a cacophonous jumble in his head:
"I know I'm a prince, so we can't be friends."
"Friends don't lord it over one another."
"I always thought if things had been different, we'd've been good friends," Merlin had said. "Yeah," Arthur had agreed easily.
"I'd never have a friend who could be such an ass," Merlin had said. "Or I one who could be so stupid," Arthur countered.
"I came back because you're the only friend I have, and I couldn't bear to lose you."
"If he doesn't accept me for who I really am, then he's not the friend I hoped he was."
"You're a loyal friend, Merlin."
"Merlin! I've had my heart broken enough already today. I don't want to lose another friend."
"Arthur values your opinion above almost all others."
"You ever say anything like that again, and I swear you'll join Gwen in exile forever."
"You shouldn't push your friends away, you know? Not now. Not when you need them the most."
"You're wrong, Merlin. I don't need anyone. I can't afford that luxury."
"Surely not everyone who practices magic can be evil."
"You knew Will was a sorcerer, didn't you? You know how dangerous magic is. You shouldn't've kept this from me, Merlin."
"I am indebted to you, Merlin. I had become...confused. It is once again clear to me that those who practice magic are evil and dangerous. And that is thanks to you."
The insinuation in Merlin's own words to Sir Mordred after the knighting ceremony—mere hours ago—haunted him: "You know, if Arthur knew you had magic, things would be…very different."
What would make his own circumstances any different from Mordred's if the truth came out? What was there, honestly, to stop Arthur from becoming Merlin's enemy the moment he learned of Merlin's magic? Had Merlin overestimated the bonds of friendship he believed time had forged between them?
The questions swirled around him like a whirlwind, faster and faster.
Had it all been wishful thinking? Would Arthur ever accept him? Was the golden age of Albion nothing more than a foolish dream?
In the eye of the storm, Merlin thought back to what he'd said to Arthur just before Arthur had called off the wedding to Princess Elena.
"Destinies are troublesome things. You feel trapped, like your whole life is being planned out for you and you've got no control over anything, and sometimes you don't even know if what destiny decided is really the best thing at all."
Merlin had told the Diamair that sometimes he felt the weight of his destiny crushing him, far too heavy to bear. Now, though, the weightlessness of its absence—of having nothing but perpetual uncertainty and violence and immortality—seemed infinitely more terrifying.
"All right, out with it."
At Arthur's command, Merlin looked up from where he was sitting beside the low-burning hearth, systematically polishing all the bits and pieces of Arthur's armour until the piles strewn around him gleamed like a dragon's hoard in the flickering firelight.
"Out with what?"
Arthur leaned back in his chair at his desk—barely visible behind mountains of parchment to review before the Mercian envoy arrived for the peace talks tomorrow—and waived his quill vaguely in Merlin's direction.
"You've been moping like a lovesick girl for the past six days since we got back from Ismere. It's annoying. So," he said, jabbing the sharp end of the quill pointedly at Merlin, "out with it."
Prat. "It's nothing. I've a headache. Not sleeping well, is all."
He tripped over the half-truths as he piled them up, one on top of another. Lying had gotten much harder without a cause worth lying for.
Arthur narrowed his eyes. "Have you talked to Gaius?"
"I don't need a sleeping potion; I'm fine."
"Uh, no, you're really not."
Arthur pushed back his chair, tossed the quill on the desk, and crossed to where Merlin sat. With a put-upon sigh, Arthur plopped down on the floor beside Merlin and gave his shoulder a decent shove.
"Ow, you prat," Merlin muttered. "That hurt."
"It wasn't that hard," Arthur said, giving him another shove as though it somehow proved his point. "And you're hardly skin and bones anymore, Merlin. Training's done you a world of good. That old excuse won't work anymore."
Merlin settled for glaring silently before going back to his polishing…until Arthur whipped the polishing rag out of Merlin's hands and chucked it across the room.
"What was that for?" Merlin gaped, throwing the piece of armour he was apparently no longer polishing back onto the hoard. "It's bad enough you give me a ridiculous number of chores; why can't you just let me do them in peace?"
Arthur's eyebrows rose. "Is this about your workload?"
"Yes! No! Never mind," Merlin said, clambering to his feet to go after the rag.
Arthur grabbed his arm and yanked him back down. "No, not until you tell me."
"You don't own me."
The words came out harsher than he'd meant. Arthur let go of his arm, a stricken expression in his eyes.
"I know that," Arthur said quietly. "I'm not…I didn't mean it like that. I just…"
The flinty bitterness in Merlin's heart, festering for the past six days—or maybe the past ten years—softened just a bit.
"I'd, um…" Arthur cleared his throat, running a hand through his hair. "I'd hoped that after everything we've been through, you'd know you can talk to me. About whatever it is."
Merlin searched Arthur's face for some sign of deception, for some sign that he'd be walking into a trap if he dared to answer. There was no lie in his king's eyes.
"Arthur, I…"
I have magic. And I use it for you, only for you. I was made to serve you, Arthur.
But that wasn't strictly true, was it? His magic wasn't for Arthur, not like he'd believed it to be. His heart broke all over again because it wasn't true, because the prophecy was a lie. There was no assurance that Arthur would ever look at him with that unguarded gaze if he knew who—what—Merlin truly was, no matter how much Merlin wished for it and no matter how long he toiled in the shadows. There was no destiny tying them together. Merlin craved that bond between them, but he was only deluding himself.
"…I can't."
Arthur's expression shuttered, but not before Merlin saw the hurt in the widening of his eyes and the downturn of his lips.
"Well," his king said archly, rising from the floor with a warrior's grace, "I'm not going to order you to tell me, so you'd best get back to work and stop distracting me."
The twin dragons doubt and fear had kept Merlin awake far into the night, breathing searing words into his scorched soul. At some point after midnight, he'd given up on sleep as a lost cause and, slipping past a lightly snoring Gaius, had set out for the library once more.
Nearly three hours later, he pulled yet another book from the shelves and skimmed it for anything about prophecies. Finding nothing—Nothing useful, anyway—in the book, he flung it across the room. It skidded across the floor and slammed into the growing heap of leather-bound disappointments and dashed hopes. He turned to reach for the next book, but his hand missed it entirely; he caught himself on the shelf as he stumbled.
I need to sleep, he thought desperately, but I can't rest without knowing something, and if I can't rest, then how can I possibly sleep?
He sagged against the bookcase and rubbed his eyes.
It's too much and not enough, all at the same time. The bare scraps of information, the lack of sleep, the endless not-knowing…
A half-hysterical laugh escaped his lips.
No wonder Morgana's visions drove her—
His breath hitched.
Oh.
He'd once thought that perhaps he and Morgana were the same, back when he was naïve and full of hope. He'd since concluded he'd been wrong about that, but…
Perhaps we are the same, after all. And if I was wrong about that, then…
He slid to the floor and put his head in his hands.
...Perhaps I was wrong about everything else.
"Merlin!"
"What?" Merlin snapped, not caring in the slightest if he sounded as petulant as he felt.
Yesterday evening's half-truths were full-fledged realities this morning: his head ached, he'd barely slept, and he still knew nothing for sure.
"I asked," Arthur repeated, his tone almost conversational despite his gritted teeth, "if you had gotten lost on your way back from the armoury. You were supposed to be back here with my second-best sword half an hour ago."
"So?" Merlin gestured with the second-best sword to the full rack of spare training ones—lightly dented but entirely serviceable—less than ten paces away at the edge of the training field. "I mean, what's wrong with the rest of those?" He widened his gesture to include the Knights of the Round Table gathered nearby. "Good enough for the knights but not for you, sire?"
Arthur's jaw twitched and his hand curled around the hilt of Excalibur, which was—Merlin noticed belatedly—already strapped to Arthur's hip.
Wait, so why did he ask me to…?
"I told you barely an hour ago that the sword was for the diplomatic envoy from Mercia."
Merlin shrugged. "It's just a stupid sword; why does it matter?"
"It matters," Arthur hissed, "because it's a gesture of hospitality and respect to offer one of my own swords for his use during the ceremonial training demonstration. It matters because you've insulted a guest of Camelot—an extremely tetchy guest who's here to re-negotiate a particularly tenuous part of the peace treaty."
Merlin knew he should have remembered all of that, but his head hurt, and he wanted nothing more than to go back to bed and pretend his life wasn't falling apart. He tossed the sword and scabbard in the mud puddle at Arthur's feet with a mucky splosh.
"He's your guest. Next time, get it yourself."
Merlin turned to leave, but Arthur caught his arm in a vice-grip.
"I suggest you rethink your words. Or your tone. Preferably both." The king's words were quiet and dangerous. "Or else."
"Or else what?" Merlin spat, trying—and failing—to tug his arm free. "What do you honestly think you can do to me?"
"I think the correct question is what can't I do—I am still the king, Merlin, even though it's clearly slipped your mind for the past week."
"You wouldn't be if it weren't for me. King, that is."
The sharp, bitter words slipped out before he realised what he was saying. Arthur's grip tightened; Merlin could feel a bruise forming.
"I know I've always allowed you a great deal of latitude with me," Arthur said slowly, "but I honestly thought that all this time you knew the difference between trivial jests and serious matters." He released Merlin's arm with a rough shove even as he failed to hide the hurt in his eyes. "I guess I was wrong."
The king stepped back and beckoned to the Knights of the Round Table, who'd been trying desperately to pretend they were out of earshot as the exchange had escalated.
"Percival! Escort Merlin to his chambers and see that he stays there. Elyan, Gwaine, Leon, Mordred—with me."
As Percival obeyed with thinly-veiled reluctance, Arthur turned back to Merlin and dropped his voice. "This conversation is not over."
"You did what?" Gaius squawked at Merlin as Percival reluctantly repeated what had just transpired at the training field after Merlin refused Gaius' demands to elaborate.
Merlin sat in sullen silence on the steps up to his room, rubbing his temples as Gaius' eyebrows and voice climbed steadily higher with each fresh wave of incredulity. The harsh sound only added to Merlin's splitting headache.
"Yes, Gaius, I am an idiot; thank you for your assessment."
Gaius folded his arms and glared at Merlin. "Sir Percival," he said after a long pause, "Would you excuse us for a moment?"
"But, um, Arthur said—"
"Don't worry; he's not going anywhere."
With that, Gaius crossed to the foot of the stairs with a speed that belied his age, yanked Merlin up by an ear, and bundled him up the steps into the tiny room before shutting the door firmly behind them.
"Ow!" Merlin yelped. "What was that for?!"
"Oh, I don't know, how about mouthing off to the king, for starters!" Gaius poked Merlin in the chest with a bony, judgmental finger. "You're lucky you're here instead of the dungeons! I knew you were reckless, but I truly thought you had more common sense than this."
Gaius glanced at the door and dropped his voice to a hiss.
"Are you trying to thwart the prophecy!? Because how else do you explain your appalling behaviour?"
"I don't know!" Merlin shouted.
All the emotions he'd been holding in for the past week came bursting out all at once. His magic was in turmoil; he felt the fire in his eyes as Gaius stepped back in shock.
"I…I don't know," Merlin repeated as he collapsed on his bed to stare blankly up at the cracked plaster ceiling. "I don't…I don't know anything anymore."
"What are you talking about?"
"There's this book," Merlin said, gesturing vaguely with one hand, "that says…um…"
His only remaining shred of self-preservation gripped his attention with white knuckles. He sat up.
"In the library," he whispered, "there's a book that says…" He scrubbed a hand across his face to hide the tears forming in his eyes as he dared to speak the words aloud for the first time. "It says that the prophecy's a lie."
"What?"
"Not just a little lie, either. Apparently, it's a full-fledged heresy. No repealing the laws, no uniting the land, no golden age…"
"What!?"
"…Oh, and apparently I'm immortal…"
"What!?"
"…And possibly not even human," Merlin added, frowning at all the implications he'd rather not consider.
"Merlin!" Gaius hissed, cutting him off before he could expound on any of the finer points. "That—all of that—is absurd."
"How would you know?"
"Because of Kilgharrah, and the Druids, and the—"
"But what if they're wrong, the lot of them? What if none of it's true? Gaius, I—" Merlin's hushed voice broke. "What if everything I've done, everyone I've lost and everyone I've—" He choked down the horrible word, curling in on himself. "What if all of it was for nothing? What if my magic's not meant for anything?"
There was a long, painful pause as emotion after emotion flickered across Gaius' weathered face. At last he spoke, casting another glance toward the door as he sat down beside Merlin on the bed.
"I want to see this book—later—but until then, I must ask: Do you want the prophecy to be true?"
Merlin's voice was barely a whisper. "Yes." More than anything.
Gaius smiled and reached out to pat his knee.
"I see I've been remiss in not educating you on the various conflicting theories about the nature of prophecy in the Old Religion. Suffice it to say, some theories maintain stringent standards of orthodoxy—a prophecy is either absolutely true or absolutely false—while other theories hold that there are many possible paths, but some paths are more likely than others. We can talk more later," he continued softly, nodding toward the door again, "but for now, hold onto that yes, my dear boy."
Shortly thereafter, Gaius had been called away to attend to an injury in the lower town. Percival was particularly reticent, and Merlin wasn't in the mood for small talk anyway. Instead, Merlin passed the afternoon lying on his bed, alternating between staring listlessly at the ceiling and nodding off from sheer exhaustion, only to jerk awake again minutes later to repeat the miserable cycle.
Late in the afternoon, a voice interrupted Merlin's jumbled thoughts.
"I'm here for Merlin."
Merlin lifted his head from the lumpy pillow.
"I'm sorry, your highness," Percival said sincerely, "but Arthur was very clear that I was to keep Merlin here."
"Oh, no, sorry," Queen Guinevere said, "I'm not taking him anywhere. I only wish to speak with him."
There was a pause. Merlin heard the faint jingle of Percival's maille as he shifted uncomfortably, then the queen spoke again.
"Please, Percival, don't make me order you."
The strained sadness in the queen's voice broke something deep inside of Merlin. He let his head fall back on the pillow, blinking away tears as he heard Percival step aside with a deferential 'My lady.'
The soft rustle of silk approached the foot of the stairs to Merlin's room. He sat up quickly, wiping his eyes with his sleeve.
"Merlin?" the queen called, tapping on his door. "I'm going to come in now."
"Okay," he said faintly, standing to acknowledge his queen's presence.
She took one look at him and shut the door behind her.
"Sit," she said firmly, in an eerie echo of the tone his mother had always used when he was in a lot of trouble.
Merlin sat.
The queen crossed her arms. "Do you want to tell me what happened earlier?"
Not especially. Aloud, he said, "What've you heard already?"
"Not much, but enough."
Merlin glanced up at her, confused.
She sighed but didn't soften her stance. "Arthur would hardly talk about it, and Elyan didn't go into all the details, but I know you were rude to Arthur—much ruder than usual, I mean. Why?"
"I…"
There was too much to tell—destiny and a maybe-false prophecy, along with all of his hopes and fears, not to mention his highly illegal magic. He couldn't tell her. He'd said too much this morning, but now there wasn't anything he could say. She was angry, and Arthur was angry, and Merlin deserved it.
A question tumbled out of his subconscious. "What made you change your mind about Arthur?"
The queen blinked at him. "What?"
He was nearly as startled as she was, but he couldn't very well take back the question now, especially not when he realised he truly wanted to know.
"The very first time I met you, you said Arthur was a bully," he clarified. "What made you change your mind?"
Her brow crinkled for a fraction of a moment before she answered, "You."
"Me?"
Queen Guinevere uncrossed her arms, and suddenly—like shedding an invisible mantle—she wasn't his Queen anymore; she was just Gwen, his very first friend in Camelot.
"Budge over," Gwen said, gesturing at the bed, and plunked down beside him in a billow of skirts as he obeyed. "Now, what's this all really about?"
Merlin looked down at his hands to avoid her insightful gaze.
"What did you mean, me?" he asked again.
"You stood up to him, for one."
"But standing up to someone doesn't make them not-a-bully."
"No, it doesn't," Gwen agreed, "but after that, he began to change. Or, sort of, not exactly…"
Merlin looked over at her. "Huh?"
"I mean, he wasn't a bully all the time, even before that; I'd seen the way he was with Morgana growing up."
They both winced at her name as Gwen continued, "They argued like, well, siblings, but it was clear enough that he did care about her, and about his father, and about his duty to Camelot."
"But he threw knives at Morris."
"He did," Gwen agreed, making absolutely no attempt to excuse her husband's inexcusable behaviour.
"I still don't see what that has to do with me, or with Arthur being not-a-bully." He picked vindictively at a hangnail until Gwen took his hand.
"Look at me, all right?"
He nodded and forced himself to look his friend in the eyes as she spoke.
"Arthur wasn't a terrible person through and through, but he was spoiled, arrogant, and a bully to certain people on a regular basis. He wasn't very kind to people who were beneath him. Though, to be fair," Gwen added, "he'd never mistreated the serving girls, not the way some knights used to take advantage."
"Used to?"
"When Arthur came of age—became Crown Prince and officially the First Knight of Camelot—he quietly put a stop to it. I'm surprised you didn't know."
Merlin shrugged. I did have a lot of other things going on…but I can't exactly say that, can I?
"Anyway," Gwen continued, "after you came to Camelot, started standing up to him—saying exactly what you thought and believing in him to do the right thing even when no one else did—well, that was when he started becoming a better version of himself."
She gave his hand an encouraging squeeze.
"That's what I meant, Merlin. You've always brought out the best in him. He's always had the potential to be a good man, a good king, but I'm not sure he'd have gotten there if it hadn't been for you."
Merlin honestly didn't know what to say, which turned out to be all right because Gwen wasn't quite finished.
"I'm not sure I'd go so far as to say that Arthur wouldn't be king if it weren't for you," she said, pointedly repeating some of his ill-chosen words from that morning, "but he wouldn't be the kind of king he is without you."
So what did that mean about the prophecy? he wondered, even more conflicted than before.
"Now," Gwen said, standing and brushing off her skirts as she shouldered the mantle of being queen once more, "I have to go oversee the final preparations for dinner with the Mercian envoy, but I just wanted to speak with you first. And I'm sure Arthur will, too…when he's ready."
Her eyes softened again as she held Merlin's gaze.
"I don't know what could've possibly happened to shake your faith in him like this, but I hope you two can work it out." She turned to go, adding almost to herself, "…I think it would break his heart if you can't."
Merlin swallowed thickly around the lump of shame in his throat as Percival let go of his arm and knocked on the door to the king's chambers late that evening.
"Enter," Arthur called.
Percival nodded to Merlin, stepping aside to let him pass.
"Thanks," Merlin said quietly, pausing with his hand on the door handle. "And I'm sorry."
Percival shook his head ruefully. "Not me you need to apologise to."
"I know."
"Well?" Arthur's impatience-laced voice drifted through the heavy door.
Merlin took a deep breath, nodded to Percival, and stepped into Arthur's chambers, closing the door behind him. Arthur stood by the fireplace, staring pensively into the flickering flames. The king glanced up, barely looking at him before giving an order.
"Sit."
Merlin sat. He picked at a hangnail, watching the tense line of Arthur's shoulders as the king continued to stare at the fire. After what felt like an eternity—Might've been a whole minute—Merlin couldn't stand it anymore.
"I'm sorry," he blurted.
"Are you, though?" Arthur asked, turning to look at Merlin at last. "I find that hard to believe, given your behaviour all week." He crossed his arms. "Care to explain what you meant this morning about how I 'wouldn't be king if it weren't for you'?"
Merlin panicked, just a bit, because it was both true and false at the same time—far more than Gwen knew—but he couldn't very well explain that, could he?
Arthur broke the strained silence with a sigh. "If you no longer wish to be in my service, you should just tell me, instead of sabotaging Camelot's diplomatic relations with Mercia."
"Sabotaging?" Merlin echoed, horrified. "I didn't—"
"You did. I spent all afternoon and evening smoothing over your snub to the Mercian envoy and trying to get the treaty negotiations back on track."
"Arthur, I—"
"No. I'm not finished."
Merlin snapped his mouth shut. He felt tears prickling in the corners of his eyes.
"Guinevere and I did finally manage to repair the damage over supper," Arthur continued, "no thanks to you. Camelot will not suffer for your actions, but only because this envoy happened to have been present the last time Mercia negotiated with Camelot, when—as you may recall—you also disrupted the proceedings."
The mortaeus flower. "He remembered…?"
"We reminded him," Arthur clarified pointedly. "When he remembered that your courage saved countless lives, because if I'd been the one who'd drunk the poison—"
"—Your father would have gone to war."
"He absolutely would have," Arthur agreed. "So, eventually, we were able to help the envoy see why I'd be willing to keep you around, despite your…other faults."
Merlin dropped his gaze, shame burning red-hot beneath his skin. "I'm sorry."
"You said that already," Arthur observed flatly, running a hand through his hair. "Merlin, your behaviour today was completely inexcusable."
"I know."
"Any self-respecting king would have you sacked, maybe even flogged."
"I know," Merlin repeated, eyes stinging with unshed tears.
"But because of everything else you've done, not just the poison, but everything else we've been through—facing that dragon, and the dorocha, not to mention the Perilous Lands, Excalibur, the round table—Merlin, I can't…I can't just…" Arthur trailed off, dropping into the chair across from Merlin and rubbing his eyes. "So I'm going to give you another chance—one chance—to explain yourself."
Gaius' words echoed in Merlin's mind: Do you want the prophecy to be true?
Yes, he thought, Yes, I want it to be true—more than anything. But what could he possibly say that could fix this? The whole truth might fix this, or it might sever the last frayed threads still holding their friendship—our destiny?—together.
"And, so help me, Merlin," Arthur added, leaning forward and pressing both palms on the table, "do not tell me you were 'just tired' or 'had a headache.' We are way past that point now."
Merlin forced himself to nod as he tried desperately to decide what to say. Unbidden, a memory surfaced from his childhood: Will grinning mischievously even as Merlin fretted about what to tell his mother after the incident with the tree and Old Man Simmons. 'Tell the truth,' Will had said, 'but tell it slant.'
Tell the truth, but tell it slant.
"I, uh…" Merlin cleared his throat and fixed his gaze just above Arthur's right eyebrow to give the impression of sincere eye contact. "I got some bad news, just after we returned from Ismere."
The eyebrow rose. "Go on."
"Some bad news about"—Our friendship, our destiny—"a close friend, someone I've known for years."
"Someone in Ealdor?"
Merlin shook his head and looked away. "They, uh, weren't in Ealdor at the time," he said quickly, "but, um, the bad news—it was really bad. And, um, I didn't know if they"—if we—"were going to make it or not. Still don't, honestly."
His eyes flicked back to Arthur just in time to see his icy expression thaw.
"Why didn't you tell me? Do you need to go to them?"
The hint of concern that crept into Arthur's voice warmed Merlin's heart as it fanned the smouldering embers of his faith.
"I don't think it would help if I left now…but, um, thanks." Merlin had to clear his throat again before he could continue. "The bad news…I, uh, I didn't take it well—obviously."
"Obviously," Arthur agreed with a hint of a sardonic smile.
"I've not been sleeping much, and, um, I didn't say anything to you, to anyone, because I didn't—and I still don't—know how to talk about it, not really."
Arthur nodded and sat back in his chair before giving Merlin an appraising look.
"I understand now why you were upset this whole week, but you still haven't explained the things you said to me this morning."
"I think…" Merlin said slowly, fidgeting with a hangnail again, "…I think I've been having a hard time with being here in Camelot, with acting like everything is still normal, when all the while I don't know how it's going to turn out."
He glanced up at Arthur and slanted the truth as best as he could.
"I, um, wasn't thinking clearly, and I was thinking about my friend"—about you, about us, about Camlann—"and about what I might've done if I hadn't come to Camelot." About the terrible things I wouldn't have done, and about the monstrous things I might yet do, long after Camelot is gone. Merlin took a deep breath. "But if I hadn't come to Camelot, you wouldn't be king."
Arthur raised a warning eyebrow.
"Because if I'd never come to Camelot," Merlin hurried on, "I couldn't have saved your life that first time; you'd have died long before you could've become king. So when you pulled rank—which, uh, you obviously have every right to do, my lord—I just, um, I guess I just snapped."
Arthur looked at him searchingly for a long moment. "Do you want to stay?"
"Stay?"
"In Camelot. In your job. With—" Arthur cleared his throat. "Uh, with your friends."
"Yes," Merlin breathed, stunned at Arthur's implicit forgiveness.
In that moment, he knew he was exactly where he wanted to be. Gwen had been right. Whether by choice or by destiny, his bond with Arthur was real, and it mattered. Even if the prophecy turned out to be false, Merlin knew now that he'd stay anyway—whether for one lifetime or just the first of many. Something tight in Merlin's chest let go for the first time in—well, he wasn't sure how long, honestly. He closed his eyes and relished a deep breath. Time seemed to slow around him as a memory resurfaced, but this time the memory tasted like freedom, not condemnation: Sometimes you don't even know if what destiny decided is really the best thing at all.
He thought of Kilgharrah's cryptic and conflicting pronouncements, of the Druids' impossible expectations, of treacherous crystals and fragmented visions, and of ancient tomes full of harsh assertions.
Sometimes I feel like I'm being pulled in so many directions I don't know which way to turn.
He could spend a lifetime—lifetimes—chasing elusive prophecies that promised everything from golden utopia to blood-drenched immortality, only to have the ground shift unexpectedly beneath his feet.
But this, here?
This was solid: the relationships he'd forged in the place he'd chosen to call his home. This was held together by shared sacrifices and shared meals—by loyalty and forgiveness and laughter—day after day for ten years. This had stood firm, even as Merlin himself had fallen apart. And perhaps one day, prophecy or not, this could survive all of the un-slanted truths he longed to speak.
He opened his eyes and met Arthur's gaze with conviction.
"I want to stay, Arthur. I've told you before: I'm happy to be your servant—and your friend, if you'll let me—'til the day I die."
Arthur's answering grin was radiant in the firelight.
A/N:
No, I didn't answer whether the prophecy was true or false. No, I didn't confirm whether Merlin was actually immortal or not. Yes, I did both of those things on purpose. And, no, I'm not sorry, haha ;)
Just how much divergence happens hereafter is up to your imagination, but I think it's fair to say that this diverging version of S5 could turn out quite differently from canon if Merlin no longer felt so isolated and trapped between competing prophecies. Without impossible expectations and paranoia weighing him down, he would be free to act on his principles instead of over-analyzing every choice as though he's playing chess against the universe. He would be free to follow Arthur like the Knights of the Round Table do: out of loyalty, friendship, and shared principles, rather than because his whole identity and future hopes are bound up in whether Arthur lives or dies. It still wouldn't be easy, not least because Merlin's emotional wounds run deeper than his physical scars, but it would almost certainly turn out better for everyone.
Credits:
Will's suggestion to "tell the truth, but tell it slant" is a reference to this poem by Emily Dickinson:
Tell all the truth but tell it slant—
Success in Circuit lies
Too bright for our infirm Delight
The Truth's superb surprise
As Lightning to the Children eased
With explanation kind
The Truth must dazzle gradually
Or every man be blind—
Resources (as per PSA in opening A/N):
If you want to talk to someone but aren't sure how to get connected, contacting a helpline is a great starting option; I encourage you to check out either of the links below. You can talk to someone about how you're feeling right now and discuss your options for constructive next steps and available resources for further support. There are traditional phone helplines and texting helplines, so you have choices about what you'd be most comfortable with.
National Suicide Prevention Hotline (USA, 24/7, toll free): 1-800-273-TALK (8255)
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