Warning: I think pretty disturbing body horror and nightmares in the beginning of this chapter. It's more graphic than a lot of the other stuff I've posted, so if you want to skip it, begin reading at "Merlin screamed." :)
Chapter Two: Like Puzzle Pieces
Merlin was sinking. It was like mud, like quicksand, sucking and pulling him down, down—only it wasn't earth surrounding him. This substance was alien, foreign. He couldn't breathe, could hardly think, as he was pulled under, under, under. What was it? What was this, all around him, in his eyes and ears and mouth?
It tasted like copper, but it was too viscous for blood—gelatin-like. He struggled. He was going to die here, suffocated. He thrashed and tried to call on his magic, but it didn't answer. The thickness of it made his movements slow and futile. He opened his mouth to scream, but all he got was a mouthful of what tasted like meat—and he realized.
He was being pulled into Flæsc, the realm of the Sluagh.
Merlin was losing strength; he couldn't think, couldn't breathe…
Something grasped the front of his tunic and tugged. He was lifted up, up, out of the ground with an awful sucking sound, like it was smacking its lips. And Merlin was on the ground, then, staring up at the man who'd saved him.
Arthur.
The prince was silhouetted by the red moon, and bloody light reflected off his eyes and crown and sword. Bits of flesh clung to his arm, where he'd pulled Merlin out.
The warlock was soaked through and dazed, staring up at the man. They must have been trapped here in this nightmarish world—he and the prince. They must have gotten sucked into Morgana's portal. Merlin wanted to tell Arthur thank you, but all he could manage were harsh panting sounds. Something lumpy and soft was lodged in his throat and lungs, and he hacked and coughed but couldn't seem to get it up.
Arthur kneeled beside him, dropping Excalibur.
No, Merlin said silently. Keep hold of it—they're here, they'll be coming for us.
He could hear their laughter already, the wet sounds their footsteps would make, or the flap of their wings. The gnashing of their teeth, tearing, ripping into him, hot fangs sliding into his skin—
"Why did you fall?" Arthur asked.
I didn't mean to, Merlin meant to say. All that came out were desperate sort of rasping sounds. He hadn't meant to be pulled under. He hadn't meant for—for any of this—
"You almost pulled me under." The prince cupped his face, and Merlin remembered the feeling of warm hands on cold skin, deep in a cave. "And then we both would've died."
"I—I—" Merlin choked. He tried to sit up, but his muscles were too weak; he was too weak. And still his magic didn't respond; he couldn't feel it anywhere, and it's absence was like a chill he couldn't shake.
"Shh," Arthur soothed. "It's alright. Don't speak. It will all be over, soon." He didn't help Merlin up, but they had to move. Merlin's sense of urgency went round and round inside him, like a fish trapped in a bowl. They had to leave. The Sluagh would get there any minute, and Arthur couldn't fend them all off with a single sword, without magic.
"You worry too much," the prince said. "Don't you trust me?"
Merlin looked into his eyes and managed to nod. He did trust Arthur—he would trust him with his life. Trust him with everything. With his whole self.
The prince leaned in close, close enough that Merlin could taste his breath—a heady mixture of cloying blood and odd sweetness. His eyes were a bright blue, shiny like metal. "Well," he whispered, "you shouldn't."
His mouth pressed over Merlin's: it was a hot, brutal kiss—and then something was inside Merlin's mouth—Arthur's tongue—but it was growing longer, longer, longer, and the warlock's eyes widened as it shoved its way down his throat and into his guts, licking and probing his insides.
He squirmed and shrieked. This was wrong—how was Arthur—why was Arthur—
His noises were muffled, swallowed by Arthur's mouth, and he could feel Arthur's lips smile against his own. He writhed, trying to get away; this was wrong—
But the prince was stronger than him, and the warlock had no magic. Arthur's hands were on his shoulders, keeping him still as his tongue began to hollow him out, scraping away his organs and muscle and flesh. It sought to devour his body, his mind, reaching to the tips of his fingers and toes.
Merlin had promised him everything, and so he would have everything.
The tongue wrapped around Merlin's heart, his lungs, drawing them out piece by piece. His stomach—his bones. It wanted everything, and Merlin had no choice but to let him take it all—everything he was and everything he would be.
The tongue withdrew upward, again into Merlin's mouth—he could taste his own blood and guts.
It pierced his brain.
Merlin deflated, bit by bit, until he was nothing, just a baggy pile of skin. Arthur withdrew his tongue—it was long and wormy, like the Sluagh's had been, and covered in Merlin's blood.
It withdrew back into his mouth, into his head, into his throat, shrinking into Arthur's normal tongue, and Merlin couldn't even shudder because he had no muscles, no nothing—he was only a shell—all he could do was watch. His eyeballs darted wildly. His flabby skin began to sink back into Flæsc. It was going to absorb him until he was parting of the pulsing, throbbing mass. Until he was more than nothing—less than nothing.
Arthur stood, retrieving his sword.
Merlin screamed, even though he had no voice. He screamed and screamed and screamed—
"Merlin! Merlin, wake up. It's okay. It's okay."
Merlin lurched upright, nearly bashing his face into the head above him, and there was an awful noise—it was him—he was screaming.
Magic thrummed in his veins, and candles Merlin didn't know existed blazed to life—his eyes burned from the sudden light. His limbs were still saturated with magic, and so he didn't need his muscles' cooperation to try and get up—he'd been lying on the ground—
"Whoa, there, Merlin. Let's take it easy, mate," the same voice said—the voice with the head. Hands stopped him from standing—they were attached to a body; that was only natural, Merlin thought hazily.
He shuddered, panting and heaving.
Merlin's awareness came in degrees: he was in a cell. Why was he in a cell? A poorly ventilated cell, filled with the candles that he'd lit. It stank of smoke, and the dryness irritated his throat. There was a water bucket in one corner, a pallet in the other. Merlin was clad only in trousers and bandages, which wrapped around his shoulder.
He glanced around the space wildly. Why was he—
Oh.
He had…
He had revealed himself. To the knights. To Gwen. To the nobility. To the guards.
To Arthur.
But the Sluagh… They, at least, were gone, though Morgana remained. He'd fought her, in front of everyone. His whole body throbbed as it remembered hitting the stone courtyard; his back and front and even his face felt like one big bruise, and his shoulder burned where the Sluagh had bit it. The cut on his face felt only a little better.
"—hear me?"
Merlin blinked, looking around. He felt dazed, as though everything were underwater. His mind couldn't seem to quite put everything together.
"Gwaine?" he asked, clutching at his blanket. What was the knight doing here with him? He was here because… Because he had been revealed. Everyone would hate him now; they would think him evil and treasonous and they would want to burn him.
"Are you with me, Merlin?" Gwaine asked. The man had dark circles under his eyes, and his beard was unkempt. It looked like he hadn't washed for at least a month: his hair was greasy and there were smudges of dirt on his face.
"What—what are you—" He meant to ask, What are you doing here, but the words wouldn't come. Nothing would come. It was like he was frozen, frozen with fear or with indecision. All he could think of was Arthur's impassive voice, the fear on the faces of the knights and soldiers.
His life was over. It was all over. Arthur wasn't ready; he was never going to be ready for magic. Merlin would burn—burn—burn—
"Never mind that now—how are you feeling?" the knight asked. "How is your shoulder? The cut on your forehead took days to scab up properly, though Gaius wouldn't stitch it up, said it was too shallow. Are you hungry? Thirsty? Gwen left some water, but she was afraid any food left about might attract rats, and an infection is the last thing you need…"
He stopped as he seemed to realize that Merlin was reeling from the information. Gwen? Gaius? Why had they been allowed to see him? To treat him? He was going to die; Arthur had told Leon and Lancelot to take him to the dungeons. Food? Water?
And why was Gwaine here? Had he been arrested? But that didn't—didn't make any sense—
Nothing made sense.
"I don't understand," he pled, his voice small. Why wasn't the knight afraid of him, like the others had been? Terror had been wide on Leon's face; so many of the people he'd seen had been drawn and fearful. And then he'd—he couldn't remember anything after that. It was disorienting and strange to be in one place and then another.
"I'm sorry, mate," Gwaine said, running a hand through his hair. "I took it a little fast. I guess—the beginning would be helpful, wouldn't it? You've been asleep for eight days or so." He paused, as though trying to find words.
Eight days? That was so long—too long. So much could happen in eight days. Why hadn't he been killed yet? A burning wouldn't have been any less effective if he'd been asleep. The flames would've woken him, if nothing else had.
"Arthur—he came down to see you," Gwaine said. Arthur had been down to see Merlin? Why? "But mostly it's been Gwen and Gaius taking care of you. Lancelot and I have been assigned to help with the cleanup—but Gwen needed a break, so I sent her home for the night, said I would stay with you," Gwaine explained. "And I thought Gaius needed his sleep."
Cleanup. And Gwen—Gwen had been caring for him?
"How many—how is it?" he asked.
Gwaine grimaced. "It's bad—over a thousand dead, more wounded. But, mate, it would've been much worse without you—"
And at the reminder, Merlin flinched. Without him? Him, who had left the door unlocked to his runes, who been stupid enough to let Morgana drag him down to be exposed to all of Camelot?
"Why are you here?" he croaked.
Gwaine looked at him oddly. "You saved Camelot, Merlin. My life, my friends' lives—hell, you saved Arthur's life. Even if—" He swallowed. "Even if you're not the man I thought you were, I won't leave you to rot. You don't deserve that, not after what you did."
Merlin shuddered again. What was he to make of it all? Gwaine was—was supporting him. Perhaps he shouldn't have been so surprised; Lancelot had supported him, after he'd helped the knight defeat the griffin. Guilt swept through him. His relationship with Gwaine had been built on far more lies than his relationship with Lancelot had been.
He wanted to reassure him that he was the same person Gwaine knew, that if Gwaine would have him, they could still be friends. But he didn't know how. So he changed the subject.
"How angry—" The warlock faltered. "How angry is everyone?"
"If you're asking whether they're all clamoring to execute you, they've had a lot on their minds. The, uh," he winced, "the king was killed."
"What?" Merlin cried. "How? Who killed him?" Was Arthur in danger? Was there an assassin afoot, a plot Merlin wasn't privy to? He'd been distracted—distracted by the Sluagh and his intention to save Camelot. Not that it had worked particularly well. And now Uther was dead.
The warlock didn't grieve him; he couldn't miss a man who would've seen him dead. But he was sorry for Arthur. Arthur, who might be in danger. Arthur, who was king now—and magicless. Vulnerable. What if someone took advantage of Merlin's absence? What if the assassin was still at large? Merlin's magic churned inside him, racing up through his legs and arms as though to encourage him to stand.
"We haven't caught the bastard," Gwaine said. "The guards found him with his throat slit—Arthur thinks the assassin likely fled in the chaos." Perhaps. Or perhaps they were still at large. Any number of factions might be responsible, and the timing was suspicious. Perhaps some spy from another court had taken their chance, or perhaps Morgana had—
Or perhaps Agravaine had killed him.
"Try not to worry too much about it," the knight said. "Leon insisted on having guards on him at all times. And Arthur's no pushover; he's able to defend himself."
Yes, but against magic? That was Merlin's job. Merlin, who couldn't be there, who might never be there again. Who might be executed as soon as tomorrow. Maybe Arthur had only been keeping him alive to interrogate him.
"Did he seem mad?" Merlin asked timidly. Did he truly want to know? "And last I saw… He wasn't hurt in the battle, was he? He's well."
"He's fine," Gwaine replied, then frowned. "But it's… difficult to know his mind. He hasn't spoken about you at all. Only refers to you as 'the prisoner' or 'the sorcerer.' But he hasn't mentioned hurting you or punishing you; he only ever asks Gaius about your health. Lancelot and I—we thought we might have to break you out, smuggle you away—"
Merlin couldn't stop his noise of protest.
"Yeah, Lancelot said you wouldn't like that plan very much. Anyway, we thought about it, but… Well, we're not sure what Arthur is going to do. Lance said we should wait and see. But if it looks like it might go badly… We'll get you out, Merlin," Gwaine said.
The warlock blinked back tears. Gwaine thought he didn't know him—and he did know about the lies and the magic—and he still wouldn't have hesitated to break Merlin out had the warlock's life been in danger. He would still break Merlin out.
It didn't seem real. None of it seemed real. Gwaine still wanted to be friends. And even if he wasn't treating Merlin exactly the same, the warlock couldn't see any fear in his eyes or sense hesitation in his voice.
"Thank you," Merlin said roughly.
"You'd do the same for me," Gwaine said, clapping him on his good shoulder. It still hurt, but Merlin didn't mind. The knight frowned. "I think, anyway."
"I would, Gwaine," Merlin said, suddenly earnest. He still didn't know the words, but he would try anyway because Gwaine deserved better than his silence. "That part of me was never a lie. I only ever lied about the magic, or things related to my magic. I never… Our friendship was never a lie. I'm still me. There's just more of me." He wanted Gwaine to understand that the knight's friendship had never been one-sided. He knew how lonely the man had been before Camelot, wandering from town to town, and he couldn't bear the thought of that loneliness creeping back in because of him.
Gwaine looked at him silently, eyes more serious than Merlin could ever recall seeing. "How long have you been practicing magic?" he asked. "And why, for God's sake—living here, you'd have to be mad."
Merlin gnawed on his lower lip. He'd so rarely spoken about this, and it was difficult each and every time to break a lifetime of conditioning. A lifetime of silence.
"I didn't choose to practice it," he said softly. "My mum said the first magic I ever did—I was maybe three days old. And I can't stop; I've tried, but it comes out in my sleep."
Gwaine's eyes widened. "That's—that's possible?"
"Not normally," Merlin replied. "The earliest magic usually appears is when a child is ten or eleven summers old. Sometimes it can appear in their late teens or early twenties. As far as I know, I'm the only one who…" He trailed off.
But Gwaine seemed to understand. The knight knew what it was like to be alone, even when you were surrounded by people. To be apart. He patted Merlin's forearm.
"That sounds… I don't even know. But you were in Essetir; isn't magic legal there? Why would you come to Camelot, of all places?" Gwaine asked.
"Legal isn't the same as accepted," Merlin said. If bitterness came into his tone, he thought he'd earned it. "Cenred tracked down sorcerers in his kingdom and enslaved them. Those who wouldn't cooperate were killed or shipped to Camelot to be executed—Uther paid bounties for sorcerers, and it was a good way to keep Cenred's mages in line. Misbehave, and we'll send you to Camelot."
"Oh," Gwaine said. "I—I'm sorry."
Merlin looked at him. "It's not your fault." It was so strange, to be sitting in the dungeons, discussing magic with a knight of Camelot. But not a bad strange. Still, worry circled in his gut. What was Arthur planning on doing with him? If he wasn't angry… Arthur could be cold, calculating, and he was going to be thinking about the good of his kingdom, now. How would Merlin factor in?
Maybe there would be no execution, and Arthur would leave him to rot.
"What magic are you doing, now?" Gwaine asked, interrupting his thoughts.
Merlin raised his eyebrows, a paltry imitation of his mentor. "What do you mean?" he asked.
"Your eyes." Gwaine gestured vaguely. "They're glowing. It's faint, but…"
The warlock raised a finger to touch his cheek, just below his eye. Glowing? But why would it be… Oh. His magic was still roaming free within himself, not condensed and restricted as it normally was. He could feel it now that he was paying attention, swirling beneath his skin. It eddied within his muscles and stretched along his bones. It felt so natural—too natural.
He closed his eyes, concentrating. Go back, he told himself. He had needed his magic to sustain his body during the battle, but there was no emergency now. His muscles were strong enough to stand on their own. Go back to where you belong.
He gathered his magic up, sweeping it from his limbs and torso and head, back to its spot just beside his heart. But it hurt, as though he were peeling off his own skin or pulling off his fingernails. His magic belonged there. He couldn't let it remain, though, and eventually it went. Reluctantly, slowly, agonizingly, it went.
Then it was gone.
Merlin opened his eyes, feeling bereft. His muscles shook minutely. "Are they still glowing?" he asked.
"No," Gwaine said, "but you got paler, if that's possible." Merlin felt paler. The room spun, ever so slightly, and he was so cold. He shivered in earnest, sweat breaking out along his brow. He sank back down onto the pallet.
"I should get Gaius," the knight said, alarm in his voice. He hovered over Merlin, his hands raised, as though he wanted to help but didn't know how.
"No," Merlin said faintly. "In the morning. Leave him rest. Just—get me some water. And I'll go back to sleep."
"What was that spell doing?" Gwaine demanded. "Did you hurt yourself?"
Merlin shook his head. "I'm not anymore hurt than I was, Gwaine."
The knight's lips pressed into a thin line, but he got up and fetched Merlin some water. It was humiliating to have him hold it to the warlock's lips like he was a babe, but his hands were shaking to much to do it himself. He drained two whole cups, his eyelids growing heavier and heavier. He felt Gwaine tug the blanket around him, and warmth pooled in his stomach.
Whatever Arthur's feelings, whatever Leon's or Gwen's or Percival's or Elyan's—at least one of his friends still cared.
Arthur could never get used to George.
The king thought that even if he'd had the servant for years, he still would've disliked how the man did his job. After Merlin, he'd forgotten how genuine bootlicking grated on him (and a small part of him, a very small part, pointed out that this irritation was perhaps maybe a little bit related to how he had terrorized his servants prior to Merlin—he'd wanted someone, anyone, to fight back against him).
The quiet rattling of plates was much less of a wake-up call than Merlin's loud clanging, but it was somehow worse. Arthur knew George was trying not to wake him up, but he'd woken him anyway, and for some reason that annoyed him more than Merlin purposefully being obnoxious.
The manservant opened the bed curtains and jumped back when he found Arthur staring back out at him.
"Er, my lord!" he cried, his hand on his chest. "I, my lord, how long have you been awake?"
Arthur didn't answer, sitting up. George, naturally, rushed to get his slippers and robe—Merlin always had to be prodded to do the same (unless he felt like being a good servant, and then he might even warm the slippers by the fire, but it was always personal, like a compliment, when he did it). The king waved him off.
"Let a little sunlight in, would you?" he asked gruffly, bending over to put his own slippers on. Oh, Merlin, you would never let me hear the end of it if you knew your absence was the one thing that got me to do things for myself.
George hurried to do as he asked—but he even parted the curtains with care, like he was afraid of ripping the thick, expensive fabric. Merlin always seemed so willy-nilly with them.
It was only after Arthur sat down to eat that George saw fit to give him the news. The manservant still hadn't seemed gotten the message that Arthur preferred a light breakfast, even though the king had made a point to eat only what he wanted to for the past eight days.
"My lord," George said, approaching from the side, "the physician asked me to tell you that the prisoner—that is, the sorcerer—rather, Merlin—well, he's awake, sire."
The king pushed himself back from the table immediately, pleased to leave his overly-sweet porridge. "You're only telling me this now?" he demanded. That meant he could begin setting everything properly in motion. The trial might begin as early as a few days. "My God, man, show a little initiative next time."
George cringed and his cheeks began to turn red from embarrassment. "Deepest apologies, my lord—I didn't know that you had desired the news so badly." It seemed he might fling himself at Arthur's feet to make up for it, at which point the king would've thrown himself out the window to avoid it all.
"Yes, yes, it's fine," he said brusquely. "Tell the guards outside to summon the knights I took Camelot back with—they're to meet with me in the council chambers in one hour exactly. And then come and help me dress—something functional, for God's sake, I don't need to wear my best doublet every time I leave my damn chambers!"
Arthur needed to have people he knew were one hundred percent loyal to him. For that, he needed these knights, the ones who'd been commoners. His father would've argued this made them less trustworthy, but the king found their lack of manners refreshing.
None of them were looking for favors for their families, back on their noble estates. None of them were seeking to use their station for ill (and if Gwaine occasionally used his sway as a knight to get a few extra drinks, it was no great thing to Arthur). None of them might have a cousin or some such nonsense in line for the throne; there was no reason for them to want him dead.
So really, they were the most trustworthy of the bunch. Well, them and Leon. Perhaps Arthur was attached because these were the knights he could say were entirely his—he had chosen them (they hadn't been sent by noble families who would be offended if he didn't knight them). He was seeing to their training and adjustment personally; he felt responsible for them as their king and commander.
"Never been in here before," Gwaine said as Arthur walked into the council chambers. "Obnoxious place, if you ask me." He supposed it was on the extravagant side of tasteful. Still, he quite liked the rich tapestries and chandelier and busts—it was artful.
The knight propped his feet up on the table only to instantly take them down upon seeing Arthur—his muddy boots had no place on the mahogany. Arthur was glad to see him happier; he'd had an uncharacteristically glum air this past week, which the king could only assume had to do with Merlin.
"I saw that, Gwaine," he said. "The table is nearly a century old, if you could manage not to ruin it. All of your wages together for a decade couldn't pay for it." He slid into his seat at the head of the table, and he was glad there was no ceremony here—none of them had risen when he'd come in, not even Leon.
"Ah, you nobles and your tables," the knight said unconcernedly, waving a hand. "If you have one, you have a dozen. No reason this one is so special."
"Why did you call us here, sire?" Leon said, ignoring Gwaine's comment. They were all clustered near the head of the table, having moved the chairs closer. "Does it have to do with…" He didn't have to finish, and Arthur took a moment to examine his knights.
All of them looked tired; they weren't shy about helping with the cleaning or building, unlike some of the others who claimed it was beneath them. If Arthur didn't have so damn much to do, he might've been out there himself, even if it was only to raise the townspeople's morale. He would have to begin the petitions, again, to make up for it. His father had always said they were there to placate the peasants, but Arthur thought solving his people's problems could only be the worthiest use of his time.
"Yes, sir Leon—it has to do with Merlin," he said. He didn't say anything afterward; he wasn't sure where to begin. At least he could be sure his revelation wouldn't leave the room; George was stationed outside, and the servant took his duty to keep everyone out very seriously.
"You can't mean to execute him," Gwaine said, all traces of mirth gone from his face. There was an angry crease between his brows. "The law be damned—he saved of all Camelot. I'd sneak him out, first—me and Lancelot would do it; we'd leave with him, Arthur, make no mistake."
The king didn't know what offended him more: the blatant lack of respect, or the blatant lack of trust. Was he truly so despicable in Gwaine's eyes that the knight thought he would put Merlin to death?
(He ignored the voice in his head pointing out he nearly had, and it hadn't even been an execution—he had almost become a murderer.)
Lancelot's head dipped, as though he were ashamed of Gwaine's words—but he didn't contradict them, Arthur noticed. If Merlin himself hadn't been so ardently loyal to Camelot, it would've been more worrying.
It was still rather worrying.
"Pray do not announce your treasonous plans in my presence, sir knight," Arthur said coolly. "If I did have any intention of executing him—which I have not said as such, thank you—you announcing boldly that you and a fellow knight would break the law altogether would not stop me. In fact, it would have likely ended with all three of your deaths. I'm certain Merlin would be pleased know that you two morons had managed to seal your own executions along with his."
Lancelot looked down, ashamed. Gwaine didn't even have the decency to look abashed; he raised his head defiantly.
"I'll do as I please—death or no—if you mean to kill the one who saved your worthless hide!" he said. "Or perhaps you mean to let him rot in the dungeons. You know, he kept asking me how angry you were, whether you'd been hurt—all his care is for you, and it seems to me you don't care a whit about him." The scathing in his tone was unmistakable.
Arthur rose from his seat. His lips were pressed so tightly together they were completely bloodless, and he couldn't stop his fists from clenching. He wouldn't have been so furious if the accusation hadn't had a ring of truth to it, but his hurt fueled his anger.
"Get up," he snarled. When Gwaine didn't do as he said, he took the man's arm and tugged him upward violently. Then, when their faces were inches from each other, Arthur decided it was time for him to speak. "If you were any other knight, and this were any other circumstance, I would throw you in a cell myself. In fact, you have only Merlin to thank that I am not tossing you from this room right now. I am trusting you, Gwaine—do you understand? I don't think it's wrong to ask that you voice your objections politely and show me a little damn trust in return!"
He threw Gwaine back into his seat, and for once the man knew when to keep his mouth shut. Arthur stalked a few paces away from him and leaned heavily on the table, trying to regain his equilibrium. He closed his eyes and took in a deep breath. You can't be acting like this, he told himself. You're king now—get a bloody grip.
"I must remain impartial," he finally said. "Giving the appearance of neutrality is key—do you understand? I've managed to make it seem as though I've been planning this for a long time. But if I reveal that I'm going to mix up the order so much too quickly, the nobles will feel threatened. I've already elevated commoners—I'm planning to elevate more. If they feel like I might take their lands and power, there might be a coupe. There might be a coupe, anyway. It will take enough of my energy to convince the common folk, never mind them. You are here because I trust you not to have ulterior motives—none of you are to breathe a word about this meeting to anyone, do you understand?"
He could tell by the looks on their faces that none of them understood, so he said, "I mean to legalize magic—I mean to do a great many things to make this kingdom a better place—a safe place, for everyone. But I cannot do that if I don't have men I trust by my side. And I would trust you all with my life, though apparently—" Here he stared at Gwaine—"You all cannot say the same."
Their reactions weren't as violent as his councilors' had been, but it was a near thing. Lancelot was staring at him as though he'd never seen him before; Elyan was looking anywhere but Arthur. Percival blinked almost continuously, and Leon had gone so pale he might have blended in with a piece of parchment, or perhaps a bucket of milk.
And Gwaine? By God, Gwaine finally looked at least mildly repentant for what he'd done, which Arthur had seen perhaps all of twice in his lifetime.
"But—sire—" Leon sputtered. "How have you changed your mind so quickly? And after—after Morgana, and all of the others. Not to mention the griffon, the dragon; nearly everything that has besieged Camelot has been magical, and all of it the vilest evil!"
"That was not what you confessed to me when the druids healed you," Arthur said. "You said that perhaps we had been wrong, to persecute them as we did—that Uther was wrong."
"My king," Leon said, a little color returning to his cheeks, "that was healing magic, peaceful magic. It could not be construed to harm—the druids have always been a peaceful people. They have defended when we've attacked, but they've never struck preemptively. Legalizing magic is not the same as stopping our unwarranted persecution of the druids."
That was not untrue, Arthur thought fairly, but if he allowed the druids healing magic, how long before some healer decided it would be fair for them to use it as well?
"I've seen the damage magic can do," Percival interjected. "It's legal in Essetir, sire. Sorcerers are—or were, I suppose, with Cenred dead—recruited for the king's service. Some of the most corrupt officials I ever met were sorcerers, smuggling tax money for themselves, killing normal soldiers with their power. If they couldn't be constrained by the king's service, sire, I don't see how they can be constrained if they're everyday men and women." Hastily, he added, "I like Merlin, sire, I do—perhaps a pardon for his service would suffice, along with his word never to pick up magic again. We could guard him, make sure he sticks to his oath."
Had the Arthur of a month ago just discovered Merlin's magic, he might've seized at Percival's suggestion, which wasn't cruel or outrageous by Camelot's standards.
"Lancelot," the king said instead of answering, turning to the knight—who had been suspiciously quiet, "how was the immortal army defeated?"
Lancelot's recovery was admirable, but Arthur still saw the panic flash across his face an instant before it vanished. "Sire, I don't know what you mean," he said. "Morgause was injured—it somehow undid her magic. She couldn't sustain the spell and it fell apart, along with the soldiers."
"A stupid spell indeed, if it hinged on the ability of one person," Arthur said. "No—if I'm not mistaken, you and Merlin defeated it yourselves, emptying the Cup of Life of its blood. And it was Merlin who injured Morgause, just as it was Merlin who drove Morgana away." At Lancelot's frantic expression—eyes wide, hands clenched into his trousers—Arthur added gently, "There's no need to lie to me, Lancelot—I know everything."
"What do you mean?" Elyan cried. "My lord, what on earth are you talking about? What does the Cup have to do with anything?"
Arthur sighed. "A month ago, I came across Merlin's journal. " He would preserve both Merlin and his own dignity by refraining from calling it a "diary." "And I read it. Gentlemen, Merlin has been of greater service to Camelot than anyone else in this room knows—save, perhaps, Lancelot."
"How do you know he wasn't lying?" Elyan asked. "It wasn't some kind of, I don't know, plant? To manipulate you?"
Gwaine snorted. "Elyan, I hate to be the one to break this to you, mate, but if the man can sling lightning around, he wouldn't need to write a whole book full of fake stories to manipulate anyone."
Percival frowned thoughtfully. "Then I assume this wasn't the first time Merlin has assisted us."
"He has saved my life—and the lives of all of my subjects—more times than I could ever count," Arthur said. "I won't lie to you: I plan to pardon him, in full."
"Then what's stopping you?" Gwaine asked. "He's lying, injured, in the dungeons right now!"
"Firstly, it's as I said before—the nobility will need ample reasoning before I can pardon him with minimal backlash," Arthur explained. "And secondly, I can't simply pardon him, not if I want to legalize magic. No, I'm going to use him as an example. We prove his innocence, and we prove magic's innocence."
"That's why you want a trial," Leon muttered. "It was well within your right, my lord, but I confess I was puzzled—it's well within your right to simply declare him innocent, too. Or, well, punish him."
Arthur ignored that last part. "I'm glad you understand."
"But I'm not sure Merlin's innocence does prove that magic is good," Percival interjected. Some assumed he was stupid, because he was large and he didn't say a lot. But he simply liked to choose his words carefully; there was a thorough sort of intelligence behind him. "Forgive me, my lord, but perhaps Merlin is merely an exception—or perhaps it's only a matter of time before he becomes corrupted."
"I doubt it," Lancelot muttered before Arthur could voice his objection.
"And why do you doubt it, sir Lancelot?" Elyan asked pointedly. "You seem to know a lot about the subject. In fact, I begin to wonder how you knew about the defeat of the immortal army."
Lancelot rubbed his face with one hand. He glanced at Arthur, and the king nodded. "I knew before all of—" He waved his hand vaguely. "This. I found out when I first came to Camelot. A griffon was attacking people, and it could only be defeated by magic. I rode out with a group of knights—and Arthur—to try and slay it anyway. I thought I was done for when I charged it with my lance, because it had killed or injured all the others. Many were knights better than I. But then my lance began to glow, and it slew the beast easier than a knife slides through butter."
Everyone stared at him, as though they couldn't believe his words. Arthur could—because he had read them, weeks ago, in Merlin's sloppy handwriting. He thought briefly of telling them about Gwen's involvement in the affair, but decided she could tell or not at her pleasure.
With how she disdained lying, she would probably tell.
"All that time, he's been practicing magic?" Leon asked. "The griffon was years ago!"
"Technically speaking, he's been practicing magic since he was about a week old," Arthur said. "If he hasn't been corrupted now, I doubt he will ever be corrupted by it."
"That's possible?" Percival leaned forward. His astonishment was reflected in Leon and Elyan's faces. Lancelot had already known, and Gwaine must have spoken with Merlin about it, as well, to have looked so unsurprised. "To be born with it—not to learn it or seek it out at all?"
"As nearest I can figure," Lancelot said before Arthur could, "it's like how some people are born with natural talents, and some have to work at them. Anyone can play a lute or swing a sword, but some are better at it through some innate characteristic." Percival nodded, but the others looked uncertain.
"Magic isn't benign as a lute or even a sword," Elyan pointed out. "Sire, I think I understand your feelings on the subject, given everything, but one man cannot have so much power in his hands. We've seen what it has done to Morgana. It might be better to banish Merlin—or do as Percival said."
Their objections were reasonable. All of them were near his age; none could recall a time when magic had been free in Camelot, or accepted in all the kingdoms. Percival might say it was legal in Essetir, but Arthur knew Cenred had abused his sorcerers badly. It had been one of the only reasons Uther had tolerated such a practice on his border—well, that and if a sorcerer grew too troublesome, Cenred had shipped them to Camelot to be made examples of.
Uther had created a wave of anti-magic sentiment in all the land; none of the kingdoms Arthur knew let their sorcerers truly be free, and the druids were forever being harassed in other kingdoms (and some had followed Camelot's example and engaged in wholesale slaughter of the peaceful clans).
"No," Arthur said. "It will be legalized. Once you all understand the circumstances… You'll see, as I did. Camelot cannot continue along this vein. And if Merlin's magic were to be restricted, or he himself banished… Camelot would quickly fall, I have no doubt of it."
It wasn't an overstatement of any kind. In fact, it was almost an understatement; aside from falling, Morgana would likely slaughter Camelot's citizens and raze the citadel to the ground. Or perhaps some other kingdom might seize the chance to conquer them. Despite their official stances on magic, Arthur knew many rulers still had personal sorcerers to give them an edge.
Magic, after all, could only be countered by magic. If Merlin's diary had taught Arthur nothing else, it was that.
"Merlin can't have been as instrumental as all that," Leon said desperately. He didn't seem to want it to be true; Arthur's first knight had been told all his life that good steel was more than a match for magic, that magic was corrupting and evil. His head had to be spinning from it all.
"He is," Arthur assured quietly. "He is instrumental, both to me and to Camelot." It felt strange to admit it out loud for the first time, but it was true.
(He could feel the cold mouth beneath his own for a fraction of a second, and he pushed the thought—the memory—aside.)
"So will you trust me?" he asked them. "Trust me enough that you will not tell anyone, that you will help me see this plan through? Will you obey me, even if you don't agree?" His other knights might have lied to him—most of his nobles would have lied to him. They would have said yes and smiled, all the while plotting against him.
But he knew he could trust these knights, when they gave their word. For all their supposed commonness, their honesty was nothing short of rare.
"You know I will, my king," Leon said, and Arthur knew he had them.
"Sire," Lancelot said, pausing before he left the room. "May I speak with you?"
The others had already shuffled out. Percival was thoughtful, Gwaine pleased—Elyan and Leon didn't seem entirely convinced, though Arthur knew they would keep their silence regardless.
"Yes, what is it?" he asked. They stood beside the door, just the two of them. Arthur wondered what Lancelot wanted to say that he couldn't bring it up in front of the others. The knight shifted nervously.
He cleared his throat. "Apologies, sire—it's just… It's so strange, that you know. I am only trying to think of how best to put it."
"Does it have to do with Merlin?" Arthur asked. Now that the meeting was out of the way, he was anxious to get to the cells. He would need to ask Gaius about Merlin's health: how quickly they moved depended on Merlin's rate of recovery, and he wasn't going to bring up anything that might distress him if he was still fragile.
He was relieved the man had woken—George had said he'd seemed sound of mind, when he'd asked the guards. Gwaine had reported similarly, so there seemed to be nothing to worry about.
Still, Arthur wanted to see Merlin with his own eyes, and explain it all to him because there hadn't been time before, and the sorcerer had been out of his mind. And then the battle… It had all happened so quickly, and then Merlin had passed out, and there was nothing for Arthur to do except try and piece his fractured kingdom back together.
"Sort of—it has to do with something Merlin told me." Here, Lancelot's face took on an unaccountably guilty look. "Some days before the battle, he confessed to me that he had been spying on Morgana, and he'd discovered a traitor in your court, my lord." The knight took a deep breath. "It's your uncle—Agravaine is a traitor. I don't know how long he's been working with Morgana—"
Arthur's mind whirled, and Lancelot's voice faded. His uncle… He had been prepared for something, after Merlin had shown such dislike for him, but this… So the compliments, the lunches where they'd spoken, the stories he'd told of Arthur's mother… All of it had been a lie? When he'd called Arthur nephew with what had seemed like genuine affection?
So it seemed it was not only his father's side that was cursed: his mother's side hadn't escaped it, either. Perhaps he himself was destined to betray Camelot, betray everyone he loved. It had to be in the blood… A sickness, lurking in his heart—because what else could explain these familial betrayals?
"—Sire? Arthur?" Lancelot was saying, and his voice came back into focus. He was reaching out to steady his king.
Arthur found himself leaning on the wall for support; his first inclination was to be alone, to order Lancelot out. He had to think, had to break in private, where no one could see him, because was he truly so horrible that his own knights thought the worst of him, that his father and sister and uncle and even his mother all abandoned him to run a kingdom on his own, filled with traitors and enemies and all he wanted was for his people to be happy—
Control, Arthur. He was king. There would be no emotional lapses. He straightened, trying to make it seem like he wasn't desperately sucking in air. Control.
"Yes, Lancelot—I'm fine, thank you," he said, straightening and brushing Lancelot's hands away. "I appreciate you bringing me this news; something will have to be done at once." An arrest? An—and Arthur shuddered to think of it—execution? Banishment?
Lancelot's wretched face was looking into his own, misery etched into his mouth and eyes. "Oh, Arthur!" he cried. "Don't you see? Merlin told me to guard him, to make sure nothing happened. And I—I failed, and Agravaine must've been the one to kill the king, so I am responsible for his death! You have to dismiss me from the service."
Oh. Lancelot was right—Agravaine had to have been the one to assassinate his father. It made the most sense with the timing. It would've been too much of a coincidence for anything else; Morgana had coordinated it. He had not thought—his thoughts seemed to be sputtering, like a flame struggling against a strong gust of wind. It finally seemed to get through that Lancelot seemed to want to quit.
"I have to do nothing of the sort," he said sharply. "I am the king, sir Knight, and so your dismissal is entirely at my hands, not yours."
"But I'm just like those guards!" Lancelot said. "I'm worse, because I knew who it was. I knew who it was—perhaps I should have told you, only Merlin and I had no proof, and we are only commoners."
That would be the second damn law to go, right after the one banning magic.
"Those guards' explicit duty was to guard the king," Arthur said. "It wasn't yours, Lancelot. That is why I banished them; they deserted their post. You were exactly where you should've been."
And if Arthur hadn't been such a coward and had only spoken with Merlin earlier… His servant would've told him of Agravaine's treachery, and this all could've been avoided. The king could no more blame Lancelot than he could blame himself.
"I—I'm glad you see it that way, my lord," the knights said. "But I cannot agree. If I had decided to follow Agraviane more closely, perhaps Uther would still be alive."
"Or you might be dead, Agravaine having slain you as well," Arthur said. It seemed his uncle was no better than his other family members—most of whom, he noticed depressingly—were dead, and by the others' hands. "I will not have one of my best knights haring off because of some misplaced guilt, Lancelot."
The knight's eyes darted, conflicted. A failed assignment—even an unofficial one—that resulted in someone's death was hard to take. And if Arthur was not mistaken, this was Lancelot's first failed assignment.
"If you were to leave your station now, you would be deserting," the king reminded him softly.
"Then, I suppose I had better stay a knight," Lancelot said, though he still didn't seem properly happy about it. He refused to look at Arthur. "You know, Merlin dreamed about this moment. He talked about how badly he wanted you to know about everything… And now you do. Really, about everything—he's going to be thrilled."
"Knowing him, he'll get hung up on me 'violating his privacy,' never mind that I'm pardoning him for lying to the king, acting without the Crown's authority, practicing magic—he'll complain about the dungeons and the food and the view and whatever else he can make up." Arthur rolled his eyes.
Lancelot smiled. "He'll probably fall over in surprise—surprise makes him clumsy."
"It comes with having such a small brain: he can't stand and think at the same time. In fact, even when he's not standing, he can't think at all," Arthur said.
"Be sure to mention that when you tell him you pawed through his most secret thoughts." Lancelot snorted. "He'll appreciate you adding insult to injury." Valid point. Arthur didn't know where or how things stood between him and Merlin—would the sorcerer be relieved? Upset? Angry? Arthur didn't know—he hadn't seemed to understand what Arthur was doing, when they'd been in the courtyard, both bloodstained and exhausted, the prince telling him he was to go to the dungeons. Even after their conversation. Which had admittedly been one-sided, but with everything…
"I'm sure," Arthur said. He would have to deal with Agravaine today—but Gaius and Merlin first.
Then, he would figure out what he was going to do to his uncle.
"Exhaustion, sire," Gaius said. "And the bite wound on his shoulder is slow to heal. Regardless, he seems to be on the mend; there are no ill effects, besides a slight fever."
The two were standing in the dungeon's entrance, the guards some distance away. The cells were mostly empty—there was a petty thief at the end, too far away to hear their hushed conversation. Gaius was wrung out, older by far than Arthur could ever recall seeing him. He had been run ragged with everything, and the king resolved to get him some full-time assistants; he was sure some healers from one of the villages could be persuaded to come.
"And me speaking with him won't… Do anything?" Arthur asked. He tried not to sound too worried, though the sensation turned his stomach inside out. "Bad, I mean?"
"No, sire, though I ask that you try not to cause him any undue stress," Gaius said.
"If I cause him any stress, it will all be due," Arthur replied. At the physician's stern look, he relented. "You know I'm not going to hurt him, Gaius."
The physician stared into the king's eyes, and his expression was hard, harder than Arthur could ever remember seeing. "Do I?" he asked. "You have not spoken with me except to ask when it might be appropriate for him to be interrogated—"
"I said talk to," Arthur said. He was pretty sure that was what he'd said, anyway. "Gaius, please—I'm not going to execute him."
"Gwen told me what you did," he said. "Reading his diary. Why haven't you released him yet, if you don't want to harm him?"
"There's to be a trial," the king said. "To determine his innocence."
"You already know his innocence, sire," Gaius pressed. "Are you not king? You could pardon him at any time now that King Uther is dead—may he rest in peace."
The king studied Gaius's face, but the old man was unreadable. Well. Honesty wouldn't serve him ill, here. "I could pardon him, but what then?" Arthur said. "He would live a life in shadows, shunned. I could change the laws, but without changing the people's minds… It might be decades more to undue my father's work at such a slow pace. I hope to speed it up, Gaius." He kept his voice quiet, even though he had ordered the guards away so they might have some privacy.
Gaius's look finally seemed to relent, and Arthur realized he'd been manipulated—the physician had meant to learn his plans without asking outright, to gauge whether he truly was on Merlin's side or not.
"With Merlin at its heart?" Gaius said. His tone was less provocative and more tired. "You would ask more than he can give. To be made an example of—it will make him a target. Do you understand?"
Arthur did understand, but if he knew Merlin at all—and perhaps he didn't, but he knew most things hadn't been a lie, not Merlin's character and feelings. The sorcerer was brave, and that hadn't changed. He was selfless and more than a little reckless; he wouldn't balk at the task.
"Would he be so unwilling if it meant acceptance?" the king asked. "If it meant freedom? For him, and for everyone like him?"
Gaius made no answer, but it was answer enough. The sorcerer would've given nearly anything for even the possibility of such a thing happening; Arthur had read that desperation in the words of his journal. He would respect it, and he would use it to Merlin's benefit. Merlin's and every other sorcerer who needed it to be free.
"I would not see him hurt," the physician finally said. It was a selfish need, to place his own feelings for his ward before everything else. To place them before even Merlin's feelings. But it was the love of a father, and this, at least, was a love that Arthur could understand, though Gaius's was not so strangling as Uther's had been.
"I wouldn't either," Arthur said. "Please, Gaius—I only ask that you trust me. I won't let him die."
"I'm afraid you wouldn't have any say in the matter, sire," the old man said. "But you're right: he won't hesitate to do this."
"I'm pleased that you see it my way," Arthur said. "Guard!" he called, and one of them came over. "The key." He held out a hand.
"But, my lord, is it wise to see him alone? What if he—"
"If he had wanted to break out or harm me, I doubt an extra man could stop him. Now, I must go and see that the prisoner is secure," Arthur said. This was the excuse he had come up with. If he were to say "interrogation," they would've expected to see him accompanied by a torturer. This way, it was still suspicious, but not quite as suspicious. "The key." The guard relinquished it with a small bow.
So the king went to Merlin's cell alone, passing through the torture chambers and into where the sorcerers were kept. He avoided looking at the instruments his predecessor had used to garner information and confessions out of criminals and spies; it seemed a good way to garner a lot of lies, Arthur thought. He hoped to never use them, if he could help it. Uther had been fond of them, he recalled, especially at the start of the Purge.
Then, he was through, and he could delay the meeting no further.
Merlin was sleeping when he entered. Arthur lit a torch in its bracket on the wall to have more light; knowing how clumsy Merlin was, he'd light himself on fire if Arthur lit the candles. His servant didn't even stir when Arthur opened his cell door with a creak—he looked as the king had seen him last, pale and sickly.
The king sat down on the stool, watching Merlin's chest rise and fall. Here, confronted with the man, his feelings came to the surface, bubbling and twisting, jumbled up in his gut. He wanted to take Merlin in his arms, kiss his lips and feel his heartbeat and make sure he really was alive and well.
Arthur knew his father would've found these thoughts sinful, though he hadn't cared when nobles had indiscretions, as long as they kept quiet about it. The king knew a few of his own knights liked to sleep with one another, and none of them had ever seemed the worse for it.
But none had been courting a woman at the time, a woman whom they loved. And Arthur did love Gwen.
He watched the sorcerer lie there, injured and exhausted. The cut on his forehead was scabbed over with red, and bruises stretched across his face. A blanket covered the rest of him, but the king suspected he was too thin and still more wounded beneath it.
Should I wait for him to wake? No, that might take forever. And even though Merlin needed his sleep, Arthur needed to talk to him more. He couldn't be expected to stay for too long.
"Merlin," he called, trying not to startle him. "Merlin."
"Today's m'day off," Merlin slurred, turning his head away from Arthur. "Dress y'self."
"I don't give you days off, Merlin," Arthur said. "And George is currently helping me dress, even though he's a dullard and a bootlicker. Perhaps I'll ask him to give you lessons. He certainly knows how to treat a king with some sense of propriety."
Merlin's eyes blinked slowly, and he seemed to come to awareness by degrees. Finally, his eyes widened, and he appeared to realize where he was and—more importantly—whom he was with. He lurched into sitting position, the blanket falling to reveal his torso, which was as thin as Arthur had suspected, though a great deal more scarred and bruised than he had hoped.
(And, if the sight made him blush like a maiden, it was too dim to make out. What was he doing, blushing at torsos? Merlin had seen him naked a number of times. This thought, unfortunately, only made him blush harder.)
"Arthur!" his servant exclaimed wildly, and he was off before Arthur could even open his mouth. "I didn't—you have to let me explain. I've never used my magic for anything—anything bad, only in defense of Camelot and you, and I've saved you, like I did with the Sluagh. You have to believe me—all those times bandits dropped their weapons, or they tripped at the best times or—or the immortal army. I would never use my magic to hurt you, or, or anyone—and I didn't choose to have it, and I promise I'll answer everything you ask, and I won't lie, and I'm sorry—"
His breath was coming quickly, too quickly, and he shuddered. His eyes were wide and glinting in the light of the flames. He seemed to have run out of words to say, all of them expelled at once, like they'd been shoved out of him. His voice had been frantic, pleading.
Arthur got off his stool, Merlin's eyes tracking him the whole time, and he sat near him—not too near, because he seemed afraid, and that hurt Arthur, hurt him more than he could describe, that his friend was afraid of him.
(Is it unwarranted? You did almost kill him, when—)
"I know, Merlin," he said gently. "It's okay—don't you remember the conversation we had?"
"What—what?" Merlin asked, bewildered. He let go of his hair and glanced at Arthur. His trembling didn't stop. "You—what—"
"Has your brain stopped working?" the king asked. "Withered away in a week? I suppose there wasn't much to begin with." The comment was meant to bring some sense of normalcy to their exchange, but it sounded mean-spirited even to his ears, especially with his manservant sitting there, looking like a rabbit surrounded by hungry hounds. He winced internally, and he tried to moderate his tone. "Really, you can't remember a conversation we had just a bit ago?"
"What—what conversation?" Merlin managed to say. "How are you—why are you—" He shuddered again, so the king tried to explain.
"I found you," Arthur said, "in the cave, next to the runes. You were exhausted, and the battle was raging outside, but I couldn't leave you. If someone had found you, they would've run you through—so I brought you to one of the guest chambers. Can you truly not remember?" Real concern ran through Arthur then; what if Merlin's mind had been damaged somehow? Perhaps he'd hit his head in the fight, and it was affecting his memory. Perhaps Arthur needed to fetch Gaius. Merlin seemed present in the moment—not delirious as he'd been before—but if he couldn't remember…
"I—that was real?" Merlin said. "I thought—I thought I was hallucinating."
It figured. "How did you think you'd gotten to the guest chambers?" Arthur asked. "Did you just float up through two floors and tuck yourself in?"
(Did you think you dreamt the kiss, like I've dreamt of kissing you, these past few nights?)
"I haven't exactly had time to think about it," Merlin snapped. "What with being unconscious and stuck in the dungeons!"
Arthur looked away. "Yes, you have been busy." It was all he could think to say. The sleeping hadn't been his fault, but the cells were. Really, though, it wasn't like Merlin was getting the usual treatment; people came and slept inside the cell with him every night, and he was given food and allowed to sleep as much as he wanted…
A prison is still a prison, Arthur. And he's been injured—injured defending you and Camelot. He doesn't deserve this, even if he has to deal with it.
"How are you not more angry?" the sorcerer demanded. "I thought you would've at least started yelling by now." He looked disconcerted at the idea, and his knuckles were white where he was gripping his blanket. Sweat had broken out on his brow, and still he kept shaking, like a frightened animal. The king wanted to draw him up and take him away from here, take him to some private place, where he could be safe and away. And then perhaps they could—
"Would you like me to?" Arthur asked, trying desperately to distract himself.
"And I'm not even in chains, and I'm here, and everyone can visit me—I've barely seen the guards, and there's been no mention of—of an execution, or a punishment, except the cells, and you don't even seem mad! How—how are you not angry?" His voice turned meek at the end, confused, and he began to wring the blanket nervously.
"I could always put you in fetters and parade you about the castle, if it would make you feel better," the king said drily.
At this, Merlin scowled. "And—and you're joking with me! Like—like nothing has even happened—did you…" There was a dawning horror on his face, and he wrung the blanket more violently. "Did you already know?" he whispered. And Arthur could see that, yes, this was the most logical conclusion to his behavior.
"I did," he said calmly.
"When?" Merlin cried. "And why didn't you—" He choked off again, and Arthur's heart ached at the frantic confusion in his words. He wanted to tell him something like just relax, wanted to pull him closer and show him that there was nothing to be afraid of, not in Arthur, but he couldn't get the words out—he had never been good at this, at comforting or helping anyone. The most he'd ever done was hug Gwen, and Morgana.
(This thought stung, though it stung less. The witch and the Morgana he'd known—his sister—they were no longer the same. Morgana had transformed completely into something hideous and unrecognizable; the woman she'd been before was dead. Arthur had not properly mourned his sister's passing and betrayal, but he felt like he had finally come to terms with it.)
"Just—" Arthur paused helplessly. "Gaius will kill me if I overtax you." That wasn't a lie, though it wasn't the reason he hated to see Merlin in such distress.
"How long have you known?" Merlin croaked.
"Not so long as you're thinking—only five weeks or thereabouts," Arthur replied. He tried to keep his voice gentle, as gentle as he knew how to speak—which he realized was not at all. But he would try, for Merlin, try to be soft to not scare him or hurt him, anymore than he already had. "And I was angry at first—furious, if you'll recall."
"You—you threw me in the stocks!" Merlin said indignantly, and Arthur was glad to hear something other than panic in his voice. "I thought you'd lost your mind." That remark he was less fond of.
"I feel like I responded very mercifully, given the circumstances," he said.
"It was very hot, and I was so tired I almost fell asleep, and my back ached for days afterward," Merlin listed, like he'd been waiting for the perfect moment to bring up his grievances. "How did you—I mean—"
Arthur sighed. Admitting to reading his diary was embarrassing, especially because he'd done it before ever knowing about the magic, and the king shifted uncomfortably. Would Merlin be angry with him? "For someone who has a lot of illegal things over the years, you aren't very good about hiding the evidence."
"My journal," Merlin realized. "I had wondered—you—you read it?" His eyes almost glazed over, and he seemed dazed. "All of it?"
Arthur wondered if he felt exposed to the king, all of his secrets having been bared before him. There was a power to it, an intimacy, knowing that Arthur knew things about Merlin no one else did—save Gwen. "I wanted to read all of it," he confessed. "Before I passed any kind of judgment on you."
There was a beat of silence.
"And what is your judgment, now that you've finished it?" Merlin swallowed, his hands still moving, and Arthur wanted to take them in his to stop his fidgeting, stop his shaking. Couldn't he see there was nothing to fear, here? Couldn't he see that Arthur cared for him—that he—he loved him—
"Thank you," Arthur said sincerely, looking into the man's eyes. He had said it to him when he'd been half-dead, slung over the king's back, and he would say it until that wretched, awful insecurity was out of Merlin's face and voice, until he believed it, believed Arthur. "For all that you've done."
The sorcerer seemed lost at the idea.
"You—you don't hate me?" Merlin asked in a small voice. "I thought you—you hated magic; you told me as much." He was such a miserable thing, and Arthur hated it, to see him so low. These thoughts had been festering for years underneath the surface.
Arthur knew it for a fact, because he had read it.
"Even before I knew everything, I never hated you," Arthur admitted. "And I don't hate you now, Merlin. I'm grateful, more than anything." He also perhaps loved him, but the king couldn't go there, not yet, and he prayed that it had all been so muddled that Merlin couldn't remember what exactly had happened in those guest chambers, eight days ago.
Still, he couldn't bring himself to regret the kiss. It hadn't been a good kiss, admittedly, but it had been honest and filled with every emotion Arthur had to give. He'd been so afraid he would come after the battle and find Merlin dead, not knowing how much he had meant to Arthur, not knowing that Arthur loved him. So he'd kissed him, hoping that Merlin would remember.
But now he hoped Merlin wouldn't.
"So then… You don't… You're not going to… question me?" Merlin asked awkwardly. "You know… everything?" There was almost a wonder in his tone, like he thought it might be too good to be true.
"Yes, I do have a question," Arthur said. When Merlin looked at him with wide eyes, he asked, "What the hell made you think writing down everything you'd ever done was a good idea?"
"You read it," Merlin said. "You know why."
"And then," the king continued, as if he hadn't heard, "what made you think throwing a blanket over it was a good way to hide it?"
"Maybe I wasn't expecting anyone to go snooping under my blankets," Merlin said crossly, and his shaking finally slowed as he seemed to accept that Arthur wasn't about to hurt him. "No wonder you wouldn't stop staring, or asking me weird questions—I thought you'd gone mad!"
"Maybe you should have prepared for the worst instead of being lazy. I swear, not a single thing was in your cupboards—do you even know what a cupboard is? You have two of them, and from the layer of dust on the handles I don't think you've ever opened either."
"Well, why were you looking through my room in the first place, like some bloody stalker?" Merlin asked. "Is it not enough that I dress you and feed you and bathe you like some child—you had to go and try and harass me in my own chambers, too?"
"I wasn't trying to harass you!" Arthur protested, though he could tell Merlin wasn't really angry. They were both trying to regain their feet, and they had fallen back into their banter to get their balance so they wouldn't fall. Even so, the king was unsteady, and he knew Merlin had to feel the same. "I—you wouldn't tell me why you were acting so—so strangely."
He wouldn't admit he'd been worried for Merlin's health—was still worried for Merlin's health, really. But the man couldn't be trusted to care for himself. And perhaps it was because he'd had three jobs, perhaps it was because he'd been too busy, but still.
"I suppose you know, now," Merlin said softly.
"I do know," Arthur said. They said nothing for a moment, and the silence stretched—not exactly uncomfortable, but not nice, either. Foreign, perhaps, in the way a familiar relationship like theirs wasn't supposed to be.
"You know," Merlin said. "It explains your behavior, but not Gwen's. You were a creep, but she chased me all over the castle trying to feed me, like I was some pig she meant to fatten for a feast."
At the mention of Gwen, Arthur started guiltily. Not just because he had told her, but because—she deserved better than him, than a man who would court her and have these thoughts. And he still wanted to court her, wanted to spend his life with her—he could imagine sun-filled mornings in their chambers together and warm nights eating and drinking by the fire, quiet domesticity. Only, he imagined Merlin there, too, where he'd never been before.
"I…" Arthur tried to think of what to say. "I told Gwen. We—we read the diary together."
Merlin stared at him, seemingly stunned. "You… She knows, too?" His voice was small again, and the lighter atmosphere they had used to shield themselves from the heaviness of it all was gone. The sorcerer didn't seem to know what to do with himself, and his hands fell limply into his lap. "You both—you both know everything." This last word was said in a breathy whisper, almost the way someone might say a prayer.
"We do," Arthur said, in what he hoped was a reassuring tone.
They sat there together, and the king tried to give Merlin time to process it all, process it so it wouldn't overwhelm him when Arthur gave him the rest of it. Because he would only get this one chance, and he was risking it, even now. He wouldn't be able to really speak to Merlin again for a long while—they would both be watched, to see if Arthur was enchanted, to see if Merlin really was innocent.
And it was all so much to explain: explain that Arthur knew, explain his plan. He could only pray Merlin would agree, because the king didn't have any other plan. There was nothing else, except forcing the law through without any support and hoping for the best.
But he didn't broach this topic, not yet. And the quiet continued.
"I'm sorry about your father," Merlin finally said. "I know how much he meant to you."
If the king had only just found out about Merlin's magic, he would've thought the remark insincere. How could Merlin be sorry about the death of the man who had hung the axe over his head, who had promised to kill him, should his secret ever come to light? But he knew the sorcerer was genuine: he did feel sorry about Uther's death, if only for Arthur's sake and nothing else.
"I'm sorry, too," Arthur said. It was all he could bring himself to say, knowing all that he did. Those same conflicting feelings rose in him again, horrible and writhing, and he shoved them down. How could he wish that his own father hadn't lived? But how could he not have wished for the bloodthirsty tyrant to have died?
Merlin watched him, carefully, considering. "He was still your father, Arthur," he said. "It's okay to mourn, even if he made mistakes." He seemed to have understood the problem in an instant, though the king couldn't see how. It was a relief, though, to know his emotions weren't strange, weren't wrong. That it was fine to feel the way he did.
Again, quiet bloomed between them. It wasn't as foreign this time; this was more like the silence of before, the silence they allowed to settle when neither felt quite right about it all.
"So, if you aren't angry," Merlin said, changing the subject, "why am I still here? Are you…" His mouth thinned, and he worried at the blanket again. "Are you going to banish me?"
"Merlin, I am not going to banish, execute, or otherwise punish you," Arthur said, irritated. But it was more irritation with himself, frustration that he couldn't seem to properly ease Merlin's fears—everyone's fears. Were they all destined to think the worst of him? "With the way you bring it up, it's almost like you want me to hurt you."
"Well, I can't think of any other reason for why you're keeping me in the cells!" Merlin cried. "How is it my fault that you haven't given me a proper answer yet? You keep just telling me you aren't going to do anything, but I'm here." He gestured to his surroundings.
"If you weren't such an impatient, panicking child, maybe I would've already gotten there," the king said. Merlin stared at him.
(The truth was perhaps more nuanced: Arthur didn't know how to tell Merlin that he was going to be put on trial before the entire kingdom, and his innocence or guilt would determine not only his place in Camelot but also whether or not Arthur would have the support he would need to lift the ban on magic.)
Merlin stared at him some more.
"Why are you looking at me like that?" Arthur said.
"I'm waiting for you to get there," Merlin replied. "Explain it."
"I—" He faltered. He was supposed to be a good orator, especially in the spur of the moment. But now… He inhaled. "You're going to be put on trial, Merlin."
"What?" Merlin said. "But I thought you—you said you understood! That you—you weren't—"
"Just let me finish!" Arthur interrupted. "Just… let me finish. You're going to be put on trial, and I am going to present evidence for—well, for everything. It's going to be a public trial, not like the ones my father preferred where only the nobles sat in. My hope is to… I'm going to make you an example—do you understand? An example for what magic can do for Camelot. You will be pardoned, whether my councilors think you're guilty or not, and then I am going to use you as a justification to lift the ban on magic. It will make everything smoother, once everyone knows—the lower town and villages are already talking about the shield, and everyone knows you've been my manservant for years.
"There isn't anyone else who fits this scenario better. Merlin, you've dedicated years to protecting this place, and once they all see that… I hope to sway them. Even if they doubt—their objections will not be anything like they might've been, before."
He waited to see Merlin's reaction—the sorcerer's eyes had not once left his own throughout his entire explanation, and Arthur was worried he didn't like the plan. Would he object to becoming a symbol? To having everyone—not just Arthur or Gwen or the knights—but everyone knowing what he had done?
When Merlin still hadn't spoken, Arthur ventured, "I—I can understand if perhaps you would like some time to think it over. Of course, if you… If you think it would be unwise to—"
And then Merlin put his head in his hands and began to cry.
Not a few tears, like Arthur had seen him shed before, but great, hideous sobs that racked his entire frame. It broke Arthur' to hear it, and he wondered where on earth he had gone so wrong—had he expected too much? Had he explained it poorly? He thought Merlin would've been happier.
"Merlin, I—" He scooted closer and laid a hand on Merlin's shoulder. He didn't know what to say; guilt welled up in him. How could he have misjudged the situation so badly? And how could he still be so bad at making Merlin feel better, Merlin who could lift his spirits with only a word or two?
"Oh—oh, Arthur," Merlin sobbed, turning to him, and threw his arms around the king's neck. And finally the king realized—he wasn't sobbing in despair—this was happiness.
Arthur drew him close, until Merlin was nearly sitting in his lap, and the sorcerer buried his face into Arthur's shoulder, trembling worse than before. He gripped Arthur's cloak, and he was flush against Arthur's torso. The king hesitantly let one of his arms fall on Merlin's back. Bruises darkened his skin all along his spine and there was a horrible scar on his hip, the bottom of it dipping below his trousers. A sekret's sting, he recognized.
Arthur brought his other hand to cup the back of Merlin's neck as he cried. He held him delicately because he didn't know what else to do, and he found himself slowly rubbing Merlin's bare back. He hated how easily he could feel Merlin's ribs and spine beneath his skin.
And Arthur found he was making noises, too, small shushing noises he didn't know he was capable of making, little meaningless murmurings. He wanted to kiss Merlin again—kiss his head and his lips so his sorcerer would forget all about his tears.
Still, Merlin quieted eventually. Arthur didn't stop, though; holding Merlin was the least he could do, after everything. Before, he might've thought the tears shameful, but it was only him, here. Only him and Merlin. There could be nothing shameful between them.
The sorcerer pulled back. "I—I—" He seemed overcome, but Arthur let him find his words. "I don't need any time to think it over, not any time at all," Merlin said. He wiped his eyes and awkwardly untangled himself from Arthur. The king was disappointed for him to go, to feel the absence of him, though he didn't mind the dark flush that rose to Merlin's cheeks when he realized how close they'd been. "Of course I'll do it; I can't—you have no idea, Arthur, how much this means to me. I never even… I couldn't hope that you would…"
Merlin was smiling from ear-to-ear, and it was the happiest Arthur could ever remember seeing him. He had almost forgotten what it was like to see the man like this. It put a warmth in his gut he would never admit to anyone.
"I'm glad you think it's a good idea," Arthur said.
"A good idea? My whole life, I've been terrified—of slipping up, of letting myself be. Because if I did, even for one second, and the wrong person found out, I was dead. Or hunted, for years and years. Cenred never let a sorcerer go in his life; once you were discovered, you were shipped off to the castle. And in Camelot—" Merlin stopped because they both knew what it had been like in Camelot—what it was like, because it wouldn't change overnight.
"You won't have to afraid of that, ever again," Arthur whispered. Merlin gave an odd sort of hiccup and nodded.
"It's so… I mean, it was just like that? You—you hated magic, after what you thought it'd done to Morgana," Merlin said. "And after Sigan and all the others. I thought you never would've…"
"It took me weeks," Arthur admitted.
(And you did nearly murder him, down in that cavern—that cavern you carried him out of, that cavern he released the dragon from… You're a coward not to say it to his face, what you almost did.)
There would be time for that later. Time for more talks, preferably not in his dungeons.
"Weeks of you acting like some kind of creep," Merlin said, snorting. "Always eyeing me, always watching… Making weird comments."
Arthur scowled. "When did I ever make weird comments?" he demanded.
"Oh, just odd turns of phrase," Merlin said elusively, which Arthur took to mean he was making it up. The sorcerer yawned widely, and the king took this to mean their conversation had worn him out—he was still on the mend.
And I definitely caused some stress, Arthur thought. Sorry, Gaius.
"I won't be able to visit you again," he said. "I can't give the appearance of favoring you too much before the trial even starts. If it appears that I'm doing something to punish you, it's for the court, not you. And Merlin…There will certainly be those who call for your execution."
The sorcerer frowned. "There have always been those who wanted my execution, Arthur, even if they didn't know about my—my magic," he said. "I… You don't understand what this means to me, Arthur… I can't believe… If I'd known, I would've let you read my journal years ago."
The king couldn't deny how simple it would've made everything, but it would've made it all complicated, too. Not that Arthur would begrudge Merlin living without so much fear.
"I would've thought you mad to give me your diary," Arthur said. "But yes." He didn't know what else to say. And Merlin's eyes were starting to close; he was fighting it, but it seemed his fatigue had caught up to him. Arthur could only hope that he wouldn't sleep for a week again.
The king stood. "Get some sleep," he said. "I'll try to let you know when… when it's all happening. Get a message to you."
"Good-bye, Arthur," Merlin said, sitting back. He watched the king leave sleepily, Arthur shutting the cell door behind him. He didn't extinguish the torch; Gaius would want it lit.
He left with the warring feelings of satisfaction and displeasure inside him. On the one hand, Merlin was well, and he was willing to go through with the trial. On the other hand, neither of them had spoken about the kiss, which Arthur didn't know what to make of.
Perhaps Merlin had forgotten in his delirium, and he didn't understand why the thought filled him with disappointment rather than relief.
Merlin almost wanted to cry again, though he'd already spent all his tears on Arthur's shoulder. He still couldn't believe it; it seemed like a dream in his mind, a far-away dream, only it had been real. And Arthur… Arthur had held him. He had drawn Merlin into his arms, held him gently, like he was precious.
When was the last time he had been held?
Arthur knew him better than anyone, now, and still he had cradled Merlin, like Merlin was something to be loved, not something to be hated or feared.
And he wanted Merlin to be free—he wanted Merlin's kind to be free, like Merlin had dreamed of. The warlock had thought it was out of reach, that it all was out of reach. But it was here, it was happening. Arthur had a plan to legalize magic, to legalize Merlin's existence. To free him.
Arthur had carried him to safety, had held him—but hadn't kissed him. This, Merlin was sure of, because surely the king would've mentioned it if he had? That had been delirium, or an actual dream.
And as Merlin drifted off, he found he didn't mind because even if the kiss had been fake, the realness of Arthur's arms around him, promising him freedom, was so, so much better.
AN: So Arthur and Merlin finally talked! And we got to some of the romance stuff! I'd love your feedback on that because I am very unsure of myself. Sorry this has been so delayed; I've actually basically had this ready for like two months now, but I just wasn't sure it was good enough to post. Regardless, here it is! I hope the nightmare wasn't too graphic-sorry for that disturbing content, but I really enjoy writing horror (if none of you had figured that out from the first part of this series lol).