Author's Note: So sorry to anyone who was reading this story - I did have the whole thing written, and got distracted from posting. Anyway, I'm posting the last five chapters now to have them up. Enjoy if you'd like! :)
XIII.
The words have barely left Arthur's mouth - spontaneous, desperate, but he can't stand here and watch Merlin burn, not when his blasted idiot of a manservant has the nerve to meet his eyes and look at him like that, like there is nothing in this world that matters more to him than Arthur - no, Arthur cannot allow it, not if there is something, anything, he can do to prevent it - when Uther whirls on him, battle-hard instincts making him quick to react, to push Arthur back one step, then another and another, until he is up against the railing. There is something in his father's eyes, something hard and sharp and furious, and something in the way that his hand flexes in the direction of his sword that makes Arthur understand.
For this defiance, no matter what Merlin does next, even if Merlin stays and burns, there will be no forgiveness.
"You would dare?!" Uther roars.
Below them, there is commotion, the people confused and alarmed and disoriented and scattering. Behind Uther, he sees Morgana surge forward a step, sees Gwen grab her hand.
"Arthur!" Merlin, below him somewhere, his voice as desperate as Arthur has ever heard it. "Arthur, jump!"
There is no time to think. There is only the time to trust his own instincts, to trust what he sees on his father's face and what he knows of his servant.
To choose.
It is less a jump and more of a fall, awkward and uncoordinated. Uther grabs at him, misses by less than an inch. And then Arthur is falling - falling - falling -
He is aware, in the hairbreadth of a second before he impacts cold cobblestone from heights he would be unlikely to survive, of movement; beneath him, a wagon appears, full of soft hay. He lands, and then slides off, onto his feet, adrenaline pumping through his veins.
"Seize them!" Uther thunders, and only then does Arthur become aware of the fact that Merlin has somehow freed himself from the pyre, is at his side, has closed his hand over his wrist. His eyes are wide and frantic, standing out against the livid purple bruises that color his face.
Merlin shoves him, breaking the stupor. "Run!"
Arthur obeys.
They go together: out of the courtyard, into the streets, the clatter of pursuing guards behind them. People scurry out of their way, watching with wide eyes as their prince and his manservant fly past. And Arthur knows, he knows, Merlin is doing magic behind them, making it clear that his sentence was perfectly just and that nevertheless Arthur had freed him, and he can't look back, can't bear to think of what he has done, not yet, not yet, not yet -
They make it to the city gates, which are just sliding shut. Arthur starts to falter, but Merlin growls, "I said run, Arthur!" with endlessly more authority than he has any right to put behind the command. Arthur looks at him, beside him now, keeping pace; he looks just in time to see the gold flash in his eyes, and then to stumble a step as the gate flies up again, sending one guard tumbling helplessly to the ground.
Merlin closes a hand around his arm and pulls. "Don't stop!"
They keep running.
They don't stop.