Shoutout to OceanMintLeaves, whose discussion with me about Merlin and his MBTI personality type (INFP) provided a great deal of direction for this chapter. Thank you, Ocean!
Again, all recognizable dialogue is taken from 2x08, and all mistakes are my own. Hope you guys enjoy! :)
Arthur doesn't remember the ride back to Camelot.
The journey passes him by in a blur. It's as though he's trapped in a dream. One moment, he's striding from the impossible room at the magic fortress, and the next, he's miles away from where he started, Camelot's towers rising before him.
Arthur's first sight of Camelot usually fills him with a sense of pride and belonging. Camelot is his home. No leavetaking is bitter when he knows he can always return to the city and people he loves. He knows its faults as well as he does all its triumphs, and he loves it all the more for both. Since growing into his ability and deciding for himself he does not approve of his father's edicts regarding magic, he'd struggled with the weight of the sins woven into Camelot's history. It took a lot of time for him to accept them, and he largely has Morgana and Merlin to thank for that. Knowing he doesn't have to shoulder those burdens alone changed his entire outlook regarding his future as king.
There is still magic in Camelot, hidden away as it is, and upon returning home, Arthur always takes the opportunity to expand his Sense. Change comes slowly and tediously to Camelot while Uther rules, but each Sensing is enough to remind Arthur that, so long as he draws breath, he can be—and has been —the catalyst of some of those changes, no matter how small. He knows that, one day, he will be able to continue the work he and his most trusted friends have only just begun in the shadows. Camelot's potential is as great and wondrous as any spectacle she can make with her physical presence alone, and it is humbling to consider the role he will eventually play in her future.
Looking upon the citadel now, Arthur feels none of what he usually feels. He stares at the towers arching above the treeline and does not allow the citadel's magic to wash over him. He doesn't delight in the pinpricks of magic scattered about the Lower Town, nor the paint brush strokes Merlin and Morgana had left upon the city. He doesn't hunt for Gaius' gentle hand on the healed amongst his people, nor does he seek out signatures and signs of any new magic passing through.
No, enough shame and contempt for his own blindness curdles his stomach as it is. Now that Arthur cannot ignore the reminder of just how deeply his family's poison has rooted itself into this city's very foundations, fury bursts free of his carefully constructed dam, flooding him with the strength and power of a storm at sea.
Fury, for the lies.
Fury, for those he personally was forced to attack and kill in the name of his parents' ignorance and his father's hypocrisy.
Fury, for all those who burned for Arthur's existence; for being the one to know how it felt to burn, over and over and over again, and fury, too, that no one was ever the wiser.
Fury, most especially, for those whose families were torn apart; for those who live in fear and isolation and with so much tragedy written into their hearts.
Because of him. Because he was born healthy and whole. Because he was born of magic.
Arthur's ears rush and buzz with white noise, and in his chest is a snarl and tangle of emotion even his torrent of fury cannot scour away. The lump in his throat is an ember he cannot quench, much less ignore.
All those people…
All the lies. So many lies. And for what?
Arthur can't allow it to continue. And so it ends. Today.
Arthur heels his mount into a canter, ignoring the immediate response of Merlin following him. He doesn't relent his pace until they are riding into the castle's main courtyard. He dismounts, tossing his reins to a groom, and draws his sword from the sheath lashed to his saddle.
Merlin is not even a few footsteps behind him. "What are you going to do?"
Arthur doesn't register the question. It doesn't need or deserve a response. Merlin catches his arm, in full view of an entire courtyard full of guards, groomsmen, servants, and passing nobles.
Arthur sneers at Merlin, lashing out before he can think to stop himself. "You forget yourself," he warns in a low tone.
Merlin reacts as if struck, expression fracturing. Before Arthur can register the hurt he caused, his manservant's face hardens with willful pride. Without lowering his gaze, Merlin steps back, a respectful distance away. They both ignore the nosy eyes on them. "I need you to talk to me, Arthur," Merlin says earnestly, for his ears alone.
Talk to him? Arthur marvels spitefully. When all Arthur wants to do is rage? Merlin should want nothing more than to rage with him! Why isn't Merlin raging? Why isn't he sneering right back at the very person whose mere existence ruined his own?
And isn't that the hard truth of the matter? Who would Merlin have been, had he not been tangled in the mess Arthur's family created? Would he have been born with magic at all? Arthur supposes it doesn't matter either way, but regardless of the answer, Arthur suspects Merlin would have been happier, with a mother and father to dote upon him, with a slew of extended family and friends to love him for every inch the person he is. He wonders what sort of ambitions Merlin would have had, what sort of dreams he would have sought to fulfill, and it occurs to Arthur he has no earthly idea. None whatsoever. Merlin's desires and hopes are all so intricately tied to Arthur, to Albion's future and the promise of freedom, that Arthur cannot even guess.
If things had been different, Merlin wouldn't have had to fight for that freedom. He could have been free of it all: free of persecution, free of fear, free of prophecy and all the weight such things placed upon his shoulders.
(Merlin could have been free of him).
A tempest of guilt writhes in Arthur's stomach, and like the coward he is, Arthur mumbles, "There's nothing for me to say."
Merlin's jaw tightens as he clenches his teeth, but Arthur's attention is drawn elsewhere by a flash of blue to his right. Gaius hovers in the shadows near the entrance to the palace. Ignoring Merlin, Arthur meets the physician's gaze. The older man stands primly, his hands folded before him, no different than how he stands when addressing his father at court. His expression is carefully blank, but his eyes…
Morgause was right, Arthur realizes, and it strikes him like a barbed arrow in the chest. Gaius knows. And he never once told me.
More lies. More and more lies. How many more will he uncover this day?
Arthur turns his back on Gaius' remorse. His heart stings with betrayal, and without another word to Merlin, he stalks up the stone stairs, fist curled around his sword hilt. His march toward the council chambers is unhindered, anyone coming into sight wisely choosing to avoid his warpath.
Merlin does not follow.
Just as well. Arthur does not need Merlin for this.
Arthur barges into the council chambers to find his father exactly where he expects him to be. Leon stands near, reviewing several documents with the king. Uther looks up, expression promising swift and severe retribution for the interruption. When he sees who it is that entered, the harshness fades immediately.
"Arthur," Uther says. Some measure of relief filters past the thin veneer of disapproval in his voice. "Where have you been? You left the castle—the city—without a word to anyone. I've had search parties out looking for you!"
The concern in his father's voice reminds Arthur of the first time he was thrown from a horse. Of the first time he came home wounded from a mission. Of his recovery after the Questing Beast's bite. Once, Arthur craved to hear and see that level of affection from his father. He sought it out and basked in it, like a puppy begging for scraps.
Sickened with disgust and festering rage, Arthur takes a single breath to compose himself. How can his father stand there, knowing the sins he's committed, pretending to love and care for the son who killed his wife? The same son he would call "tainted" with the magic he so loathed, had he known the truth?
"Arthur," Uther says again impatiently, as though Arthur's been caught with his fingers stuck in a pie and he's waiting for some perfectly logical explanation for why a prince of the realm would do something so childish.
The treatment incites Arthur further. Tightly, each word methodical and full of imposed calm, he says, "I come from Morgause Gorlois, who trained under the High Priestess Nimueh." His father's concerned expression does not falter, though his eyes grow as cold as shards of ice with each name. "I know what you've done."
Uther does not bat an eyelash as he orders, "Leave us." Without looking at Sir Leon, he hands off the report. "No one is to enter."
Arthur waits, stiff and frigid, as Leon hustles to leave and closes the doors behind him.
"What are you talking about?" Uther asks, almost exasperatedly.
Arthur withholds a dark bark of laughter. Is that how he wishes to play it? Arthur will not cater to it.
"You were so desperate for an heir," Arthur says, still managing a tight rein on his anger, "you were prepared to use magic."
"Did Morgause tell you this?" Uther demands. "She is not to be trusted."
Arthur continues on, as though Uther had not spoken at all. "How many people are dead because of your arrogance and selfishness? How many more are dead because you weren't prepared to pay the price for meddling with a power you did not fully understand? Their blood—and my mother's for that matter—is on your hands."
"That is not true," Uther retorts. "But Morgause would have you believe that, of course. We were—"
Arthur grits his teeth against the scream building in his throat. The lies his father told so easily! The deflection he used so casually! As though his responsibility in this war is nothing but a trifle!
Or, rather, as though there was no responsibility to be had in the first place.
"This is what fuels your hatred for those who practice magic," Arthur growls roughly. "Rather than blame yourself for what you did, you blame them, as though they had any part to play in what happened to Mother. She wanted a child just as much as you did!"
"I do not know what that sorceress told you," Uther says tartly, eyes flaring with temper, "But would you really believe her word over that of your father's?"
"You hunted her kind like animals!" Arthur yells. "You destroyed families, drowned children, let the entire world believe them to be the enemy. You've sown distrust and fear into your people's hearts, turning them away from their neighbors and friends because of something you fear and misunderstand. And for what?"
Uther steps forward, brandishing a pointed finger like a weapon. "Those who practice magic will stop at nothing to destroy us!"
This time, Arthur does laugh. It sounds deranged even in his own ears. He thinks of his secret collection of broken enchanted things, safely sealed in a locked chest in his wardrobe. He thinks of Merlin, of Morgana, of the dragon Kilgarrhah and the Druids he's met and all the things he's learned about magic in the time between.
"And what have they done, exactly, but try to give you what you and Mother wanted?" Arthur snarls. "What have they done but retaliate and try to protect themselves when you began to slaughter their kind? Exactly how many have died in her name, Father? How many more will die so that you may ease your guilt?"
"I have done what is necessary to protect this kingdom!"
Arthur's disgust swells, and his eyes narrow. His father truly believes that. Somehow, in the years since Ygraine's death, Uther's convinced himself what he's doing is right. Arthur knew this already, on some internal level. He isn't sure what he expected out of this confrontation. Maybe some small part of him, the same small part who still loved his father and always would, thought (hoped) Uther might come clean, might accept these accusations against him and own up to them, as any man of dignity would.
But seeing it play out like this, with so many truths unearthed and bare between them…Arthur cannot take it any longer.
He explodes.
"You speak of honor and nobility!" he mocks, raising his voice. "You're nothing but a hypocrite and a liar!"
Uther's eyes blaze with cold rage. "I am your king and your father. You will show me some respect!"
"No."
"No?" Uther repeats in a chilling whisper.
Arthur lifts his chin. "What king are you to me, when you betray your oaths to serve and protect all of Camelot's people? What kind of father are you to me, when you cannot look me in the eye and tell me I was born of magic? When I am allowed to live while others—"
A sudden, crippling fear stills Arthur's tongue, and the words skid to a halt within his throat. He is not so startled by his near slip that he doesn't see Uther flinch at that last. Instead of sweating over what he nearly revealed, he latches on to the undeniable proof of Uther's hypocrisy.
"I betray no oaths," Uther says coolly. "Who are you to judge the decisions I have made? You do not know what it takes to be king. You make me doubt you are ready, or so much as worthy, to wear this crown!"
The dismissal of Arthur's accusations do not cut nearly as deeply as the cruel disappointment in his father's voice. And he hates himself for it. He hates that his father can still make him feel less a man, even now, when it has never been more clear to Arthur that his father is not suited to the throne.
It has to end. Arthur has to end it. Because it is his birth that started this. This cycle of violence and mistrust must be broken. The careful plans he and Merlin had so painstakingly developed with Gwen and Morgana be damned.
All of it be damned.
Arthur steps forward, impulsively yanking off his gauntlet. He throws it before Uther's feet.
Uther watches it land and turns wide eyes up to Arthur. "Have you lost your mind?" he whispers.
Arthur thinks he's never been more in his right mind. He should have considered this option long ago. The lives he could have saved, had he not been such a coward. "Pick it up," Arthur challenges.
"Arthur, I implore you. Think about what you're doing."
"Pick it up ."
Uther blinks and shudders away from Arthur, taking a half-step back. "I will not fight you."
Arthur's sword materializes in his hand. He takes a few steps closer to his father, lithe as a wolf. "If you choose not to defend yourself, if you choose not to face my challenge by the Knight's Code, I will not hesitate."
"You are my son," Uther says, lifting his chin. "You will not strike an unarmed man."
Arthur bares his teeth, even as the words threaten to dissolve his determination. A small part of his heart jolts at the pride in his father's voice. Between them lies the naked acknowledgement that Arthur, at least, has been raised to nobility and honor in the way one of royal blood should be.
Uther is right. Arthur Pendragon, son of Uther and Ygraine Pendragon, Crowned Prince of Camelot and heir to the throne, would not strike his father down.
But he's not just a Pendragon. He's also Arthur, blessed by magic, trusted friend of sorcerers, and the Once and Future King of prophecy, destined to unite the land of Albion.
Sometimes, barren fields must be burned to encourage new growth. Is this not the same? The man before Arthur has a lust for conquest soiling his veins and a dangerous amount of arrogance to define his reign. He destroys what he touches, unrepentant and unrelenting in his manipulation of the world and their people. He will never acknowledge the strife he has strewn about the land Arthur will inherit, nor will he ever come to comprehend, much less accept, Arthur's vision of peace or the beauty of magic.
It feels like an end, a true severing of all ties, when Arthur finally says, "After all that you've done, I no longer wish to think of myself as your son."
"Then strike me down," Uther says calmly.
Still so confident. So proud. Uther thinks Arthur is bluffing. He thinks he's going to shame Arthur into standing down.
Wrong on all counts. Arthur has already known the greatest shame he ever will by not stepping up sooner.
Face twisting in a savage grimace, Arthur draws back and strikes. Uther's sword swings up, quick as lightning, to parry.
Uther's expression crumples, and he disengages, staggering as though wounded. "I don't want to fight you," he reiterates softly.
Arthur stalks forward, measuring Uther's stance and planning his method of attack. The man is just as sharp and wily a swordsman as he was in his youth, but Arthur believes knows each battle wound that still troubles him to this day.
He lunges at Uther's left side—his weaker side—to exchange a flurry of blows. The swords dance in flashes of sunlight on metal, Uther always on the defensive and continuously stepping back as Arthur advances. Arthur hardly registers Uther calling for him to stop, to think, but as far as Arthur is concerned, Uther accepted his challenge, and for the crimes he so callously ignores, for the murder he committed and continues to profess is justice …
Uther's life is forfeit. That's all there is to it.
Arthur never imagined he would enact trial by single combat to cast final judgment. He thinks, now, that this is the way it was always meant to be. His blood sings with adrenaline and rage, fueling each thrust and swing of his sword. His instincts, honed to a razor edge, put him a step ahead of Uther with each attack, his blade an extension of his own arm.
Perhaps it is Arthur's knowledge of Uther's weaknesses, perhaps it is the reluctance with which Uther steps across the boundary from defense to offense, but Arthur manages to slip into Uther's guard, cracking the older man's wrist with the flat of his blade. Uther's sword skitters across the long wooden table beside them, and Arthur kicks at Uther's chest, shoving him back into his high-backed chair.
Arthur draws back his sword, the point leveled at Uther's heart. Uther, pale and sweaty from exertion, stares disbelievingly at Arthur. There, hovering at the moment of truth, Arthur stares down at the man who would call him son, the man he swore to obey as his king. Indefinable emotion ricochets between his ribs.
This man raised him, as much as a king without a wife can raise a child. Arthur…Arthur does think Uther may have loved and been loved, once. Arthur's felt it. He's known it.
It isn't enough, though, is it? No man who started a decades-long genocide in the name of vengenace surely has much love left to his name. Resignation settles like a cloak over Arthur's shoulders, severing him from the burgeoning memories that stilled his hand.
This is for all those I've felt die.
Arthur tightens his grip on the sword hilt.
For all those who could have lived.
Arthur shouts wordlessly and—
The chamber doors slam open, and Merlin's magic rushes to encircle him, a whirlwind filling Arthur from the tips of his toes to the hair on his head. It electrifies him, its wild energy and cascading power crashing upon him, concussive as a thunderclap.
Merlin sprints in, a heartbeat behind that of his magic. "Arthur! Don't!" He skids to a halt several paces behind the two royals. He isn't even prepared to use all that magic, and yet he holds it at the ready, filling the room to the point of bursting with its potential.
"Stay out of this, Merlin!" Arthur hisses, struggling to concentrate against the onslaught.
"I know you don't want to do this!" Merlin argues loudly.
Arthur almost whips his head around. This is for you! he doesn't shout at his servant. This is for you and Morgana and all those like you! It's for Hunith and all those mothers and fathers and siblings who lived without knowing a day without fear! It's for every last person we've met and fought and killed or otherwise hurt because of what he did!
Instead he snarls, "Don't I? All those people! Innocents! Children! Families! They're dead because of him! My mother is dead because of him!"
You or Morgana could always be next, Merlin! Arthur wants to scream.
Merlin takes a shuddering breath that reverberates in Arthur's very soul. It's enough to make him half-turn toward his friend. Merlin is shaking, the magic within him tumultuous and near-manic. Open disdain and pain shines jewel-bright in his fierce gaze as he wavers, but nearly as soon as Arthur sees it, it is gone, replaced by deep compassion and determination.
"Killing your father," Merlin says, voice hoarse with suppressed emotion, "won't bring any of them back. It won't change anything."
How can you say that? Arthur challenges with the firm line of his mouth. Merlin's eyes dance around Arthur's face, hopefully reading each and every thought as clearly as though he's spoken aloud. How can you want to stop this, knowing what a monster he is? Knowing what my family has done to yours?
Uther, unwisely, chooses to interrupt. "Listen to him, Arthur," he whispers.
Eyes burning, Arthur takes an aggressive step forward, readjusting the grip on his sword, which had gone embarrassingly lax. The point presses just so into his father's breastbone.
"Arthur, please," Merlin says behind him, "put the sword aside. This is not how you want to become king."
"You heard what my mother's spirit said!" Arthur shouts. "After everything he has done, you cannot tell me you believe he deserves to live!" You least of all, Merlin! He has to bite his tongue to prevent that last from slipping out. He almost wants to turn again, just to get a better gauge on what the hell Merlin is playing at, but he doesn't take his eyes off Uther. The king's collected calm is a bur of unparalleled proportions under Arthur's skin. Irritation feeds into a deeper resentment.
"He tears our world apart," Arthur continues, "blaming sorcerers as the culprits, when all the while he hides the fact he's used magic himself!" Unbidden tears slide down his cheeks. "All those people." Blinking rapidly, he hisses to Uther. "You have caused so much suffering and pain. Because of me. I never asked for that! I never wanted it! And I doubt Mother would have either!"
That elicits a satisfying flinch from Uther, and Arthur digs his sword point a little deeper into Uther's flesh. It does not yet draw blood. "I will put an end to it," Arthur vows darkly.
"Arthur," Merlin pleads. "Whatever we have just learned, whatever the truth is, regicide—patricide—is no way to start your reign!"
Arthur flinches himself this time, and Merlin presses his advantage. "Remember what Morgause said. She intended for this to drive a wedge between you and your father! You know as well as I what your actions will wreak if you go through with this, especially if it is known magic is at play! A vacuum of power, factions within the court, a divided people. "
Arthur freezes. The words are laden with more meaning than any witness can fathom, with more interpretations than Arthur himself can fathom, too. As if Merlin isn't sure the message truly struck home, Arthur Senses a soft friction against his mind, and he hears Merlin whisper, as though in his ear, "We're not ready. It isn't time."
Merlin's mental voice cracks on the final word, rent with distress and frustration and confusion and pain. So much pain. There's self-hatred and anger and a number of other things Arthur cannot hope to understand. That break in Merlin's voice—more than the reminder that the groundwork they've been laying for magic's reintroduction to the kingdom is far from sturdy—pierces through the wrathful fog clouding Arthur's mind.
"And what of you?" Merlin demands aloud. "Blood on your hands, 'kinslayer' attached to your title, and your heart burdened with guilt and self-loathing?"
Arthur feels each listed consequence like a fist in the kidney. His eyes slide closed, just briefly. "What happens to me doesn't matter," he says flatly. "Not when I am the cause of this."
Merlin's magic flares white hot against Arthur's skin, and his voice deepens into something unfathomable. "Don't you dare say you don't matter. You matter a great deal to this kingdom! You will not squander your people's faith and loyalty by denying it, no matter the circumstances of your birth!"
"Listen to him," Uther croaks, pale eyes fixed on Arthur. "He speaks the truth."
Arthur increases the pressure pressing Uther's shoulder into the chair. "My manservant has more honor than you, then! Why do you continue to lie?" he demands. "Do you deny that you and Mother used magic when you could not conceive? Do you deny that you started the Purge because she died for it?"
Uncharacteristic vulnerability cleaves through the calm on Uther's face. "I do not deny that we sought help from a High Priestess called Nimueh, who promised us a charm of fertility so that we might bear a child," he whispers, stunning Arthur breathless with his blunt honesty. He isn't sure he expected it. "I do not deny that we all misunderstood the Old Religion's rules regarding such things. Nimueh told us the charm increased the chances of pregnancy, not that it would promise a life for a death. I do not deny I am ashamed of our ignorance, and I will not forgive myself for it. If I could have given myself in her place, I would have, and I regret it with every breath I take. For all of that, Arthur, please know I will never regret you."
Arthur allows the admission to roll over him. He feels as though every nerve is ablaze, each and every inch of him flayed bare. "And the other?" he asks harshly. It is the more damning and serious crime by far. It is the one that will break Arthur should he have to add it to the load already upon his shoulders.
Some fire returns to Uther's expression. "I deny the second charge. Your mother's death was coincidental. At the time of your birth, more and more of them were falling to dark magic. Experimental, dangerous magics were becoming commonplace, and true chaos was spreading across the land because of it. We had to stop its spread before they took us all down with them."
Scathing retorts about nonexistent attempts at diplomacy and the indiscriminate methods of Uther's Purge stall on Arthur's tongue. A vague memory stirs—of Gaius hinting at something of the same history, years ago, when Arthur began to seek out his own answers to the questions he had about magic and its place in their world.
Perhaps that is the larger reason. That Uther's hatred of magic spiraled out of control isn't in question. It did spiral out of control. The entire kingdom knew it, no matter each individual opinion of magic. Without the sealed documents Arthur's coveted for years, though, can he ever truly know what to believe here? Can he be sure that he'd find the answer there at all? Arthur doubts it. Ygraine's death in childbirth and the Purge are likely far too intertwined as it is to say where the blame truly lies.
Tremors capture Arthur's limbs as he stares down at Uther, and he feels wretched enough to vomit. It would be so easy to fall prey to his darkest motives, just like his father had. Too easy. Vengeance in the name of justice is a siren call, a path forward that looks easier until its hidden brambles have cut you off at the knees. Acting upon hatred promises sweet rewards without warning of the strings attached. The short-term benefits hardly outweigh the troubles that will follow.
Merlin's arguments settle heavy on Arthur's shoulders, a shroud carrying all of the consequences he ignored in favor of swift justice. His magic lingers, too, but it is gentle now, a steadying presence. Compared to how it felt earlier, Arthur is awed all over again by the amount of self-control his servant possesses. It is uncanny. Humbling.
Merlin is right. Arthur cannot allow himself his father's mistakes, not if he truly wishes to change the current status quo.
Not for anything. Not for honor or justice, not for the dead, and not…not even for those still living. Still suffering.
Not a single one of us deserves you, Merlin, Arthur thinks fiercely. The room is blurry with furious tears. This kingdom least of all.
"Swear to me you're telling the truth," Arthur says to Uther, unable to let it go without this last demand, hand quaking on his sword hilt. His will wavers with his strength. "On my mother's memory."
"I swear to you," Uther vows. The oath rings with sincerity.
A whiplash of exhaustion strikes Arthur in the silence that follows. The density of the decision he just made sits like a boulder of molten fire in his belly. He folds forward, sword slipping from his grasp. Horror filters into his chest at the thought of what he almost did, and his lungs constrict in its chilly-fingered grasp. His knee catches him, and he slumps against the chair arm, panting and trying not to allow himself to sob.
His father's arm wraps around his shoulder immediately, gloved hand bracing him.
"My son," Uther murmurs, and there isn't an ounce of reprimand in his voice. His fingers comb at his hair, like they had when he was a boy. "You mean more to me than anything."
Arthur closes his eyes. He doesn't have the energy to respond. Eventually, though, he manages to rasp, "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."
It is his father who responds "you are not to blame," but it isn't he who Arthur's apologizing to, not necessarily.
Off to the side, Merlin bows his head. From where he sits on the floor, Arthur can just barely make out the weak, relieved half-smile on his friend's face.
It isn't enough to offset the tears he's trying to hide.
~...~
Later, much later, Arthur finds himself staring blankly at what he assumes is a new guard rotation proposal when the door to his chambers slams open. Merlin unceremoniously traipses in, looking as though he's survived staring Death in the eye—after mouthing off and tweaking Death's nose to boot—and can hardly believe he's left the encounter with his hide intact.
Arthur raises an eyebrow as Merlin closes the door with considerably more care than he had when opening it. He slumps against the thick wood, staring off into the far distance and seeing nothing. When Arthur's eyebrow doesn't get a response, he puts his quill down and asks with a heavy sigh, "What did you do?"
"Me? Nothing. Your father, on the other hand," Merlin announces in a weird, dazed tone, "just thanked me for being a valued ally in the fight against magic."
Arthur stares at his servant. Each word is perfectly understandable on its own, but in that particular sentence, Arthur isn't sure Merlin is speaking the same language any longer. "What."
Merlin heaves a shaky laugh and makes a twisting gesture in the air with his wrist that can very well mean you heard me or you're really going to make me say it again? or maybe even I cannot believe I am alive to speak to you right now.
The two of them stare at each other, incredulous, before dissolving into hysterics. The laughter is catching, and before long, Merlin leans so that he's doubled over, gasping for breath, hands on his knees.
Arthur wipes at his eyes and shakes his head, somehow feeling lighter than the situation calls for. In realizing that, he swallows the joke on the tip of his tongue and sobers abruptly. He shouldn't be laughing. A lesser man might internalize that misinformed praise from Uther as a horrible failure, perhaps take it as a blow against the morals protecting him from too much doubt. If Merlin didn't have such good humor…
Ever attuned to him, Merlin notices his darkened mood. He scans Arthur's face. "Are you alright?"
Arthur huffs. "I think I should be asking you the same. I…" he trails off, and his voice is gruff when he manages, "I don't know how to thank you, Merlin."
"What is there to thank?" Merlin asks. It is a genuine question. The younger man even cocks his head, as though all of his sacrifices are only a matter of due course.
"'What is there…?'" Arthur repeats incredulously. "Merlin! It can't have been easy!" No, he will not undermine either of their feelings on the matter, not this time. Arthur himself feels as though he's being ground to dust between two or more contradictions and more than a few regrets on top of that, uncertain which is more dominant or more painfully abrasive against his morality, heart, and soul. His definition of what is right and true is so skewed and directionless after everything that happened he feels adrift, and he imagines it isn't much different for Merlin either. "I know it wasn't easy. I could see it. I felt it."
Merlin ducks his head, and Arthur discovers at that very moment he isn't sure he's ready for this conversation. It's the first time they've been alone together since they've returned from Morgause's. The time apart has not abated a single hair of the shame, embarrassment, and guilt harrying Arthur's mind, and now, with Merlin in front of him….
Arthur thinks it'll drive him mad if any of it goes unrecognized, no matter how much of an insecure fool it makes him look.
Straightening, Merlin crosses the room to stand before Arthur's desk. "Of course it wasn't easy," he admits. He doesn't lower his gaze again. "Goddess above, Arthur, that may have been one of the hardest things I've ever had to do, and I don't know what's worse: living with the knowledge I've considered letting you kill someone you care about in cold blood, for entirely selfish purposes, or living with the knowledge that every death he orders after today is on me for intervening at all."
"On us," Arthur corrects numbly.
Merlin wipes at his face, rubbing his dry, strained eyes. "I know it wasn't easy for you either," he says. "And that—all of it…" He trails off as he struggles for the right words, shifting his feet. "It was awful, and I hate that it hurt you, and there are so many things wrong right now, so many things we'll need to reconcile with ourselves, but…don't think it doesn't mean anything—that…that you stood up for us, even if…"
Merlin cannot finish the sentiment, but he doesn't have to. The even if rings with all the things that are being left unsaid.
"But it would have destroyed you to go through with it," Merlin finishes. "And I couldn't stand by and let you do that to yourself."
Arthur can't take it anymore. His chest throbs with the effort of getting the words out. "I…would understand," he mumbles, "if you decided to leave my service."
Merlin's eyes flash, but his tone is remarkably soft when he scoffs, "Don't be a prat."
Arthur grimaces at him. "You forgive me so easily? For putting you in this situation? For continuously putting you in these situations? After everything?"
Merlin lifts his chin. "What is there to forgive, Arthur?" he asks, in echo of his previous question. "You think I place a single iota of blame on you for any of this?"
"Shouldn't you?" Arthur retorts, sharp and biting.
Merlin stares at him. "You arse." Before Arthur can get a word in edgewise, he puts up a hand to forestall him. Frustration furrows his brow. "No, I don't think so. Don't go picking a fight to drive me away. Not now."
"That's not what I'm doing!"
Snorting, Merlin raises his eyebrows and folds his arms. "Then talk to me, Arthur."
"I'm trying to give you a choice! " Arthur exclaims, springing to his feet. An ink bottle, thankfully sealed, topples over, and his chair falls with a crash. Merlin's magic doesn't so much as stir to stop the falling chair, his control over his instincts purposefully impeccable.
Arthur's resolve firms.
"I do choose," Merlin says fiercely. "Every. Single. Day. And I don't have to worry because I know you do too."
"How do you not feel trapped?" Arthur demands, still disbelieving. "Knowing now how much more convoluted and messy this supposed destiny of ours is?" For perhaps the hundredth time since leaving his father's presence, Arthur mentally tracks the history of his birth, then the Purge, and his entire life spent in Camelot, and parallels it with Merlin's childhood in Ealdor, with his decision to come to Camelot and everything that's happened since. "Haven't I taken enough from you and yours already, Merlin?" he whispers.
"Taken from me?" Merlin repeats. He blinks at Arthur as though he's seeing him for the first time. "Is that what you think?"
Arthur winces and spins to face the window. He tries to avoid the sight of the reflection staring back at him. "So much could have been different," he mutters in a strained tone.
"Sure," Merlin says easily.
"You don't regret what could have been?"
Merlin considers. "I wouldn't be human if I didn't regret," he says slowly, "but that's why we're here—now—with plans to change things . And change them the right way, the best way we can."
"All by design," Arthur grumbles bitterly. "Circles upon circles, Merlin. We're caught in a whirlpool, and I'm starting to resent how sick it makes me."
"I don't feel caught," Merlin muses. "I haven't for a long time."
"You were born with magic," Arthur deadpans. "I was born of magic. The irony isn't even subtle anymore."
"That's not how I want to look at it," Merlin says stubbornly. "Even before all of this, I knew there was a reason you, of all people, were born with your ability." Arthur opens his mouth, and Merlin's eyes narrow. "If you say anything about Fate's puppeteering right now, I will hang you upside down by your toes." The threat seems legitimate enough, and Arthur pauses, pursing his lips. Merlin's magic fluctuates, as though rocking forward on its heels, waiting for an excuse to act. The younger man eyes Arthur suspiciously, before explaining, "What I am trying to say is: other men in your position would not have used your ability to empathize with others, Arthur, and that—" he pokes toward Arthur's chest, directly as his heart "—is proof we can fight the current in the way we choose."
Stunned, Arthur stares at his servant. He remembers the first time he Sensed Merlin's magic, how he'd gone out, alone, to get a measure of the man before he could enter Camelot. He remembers dreading the thought of what someone of Merlin's sheer strength could do with all that power. He remembers considering it unnatural.
He also remembers the first moment he thanked every god he knew, and all those he didn't, that it is Merlin, and no other, who was gifted with so much magic. Other men would have long since fallen prey to the temptation Merlin's power presented. Camelot—Albion—would never have stood a chance.
Arthur never once suspected Merlin felt the same about his ability. He supposes he should have. He's had his own nightmares about what may have happened if Uther, their enemies, or any of the more vicious members of the realms' noble families ever found out.
The worst of those nightmares never end with Arthur on the pyre. No, they end with their land ravaged to the point of no return, hundreds of caged sorcerers filing past him, all rags and lank hair and eyes blazing with accusation, devoid of all hope.
"I meant what I said in the throne room, you dolt," Merlin says when Arthur says nothing. "I choose this. I choose you. Every time. You're a man worth following; a future king worth serving. It isn't destiny's threads or the history it weaves between us that matter, anyway. Not to me. It may have, in the beginning, when we were fumbling in the dark, but…" The edge in his voice fades, and Arthur half-turns back to his servant. Everything, from his posture to his expression, softens. "I've never known a friend like you," Merlin admits. "Bonded by fate or not, prophesied greatness and grandeur aside, you realize how important that is to me, yeah?"
Arthur closes his eyes. He doesn't have to reach far to imagine a lonely boy surrounded by people, yet still separated by chasms of differences; always feeling as though there was something essential missing, making him less than in his own eyes and preventing him from knowing how to bridge the gaps between even those those closest to him.
That boy's loneliness is a mirror of his own.
"Yeah," Arthur says. The tightness in his chest begins to loosen, the wounds on his heart far less bloodied and raw than they had been when Merlin entered the room. "Yeah, I do."
Merlin smiles. "I won't tell you to simply stop feeling the way you're feeling right now, but can you look me in the eye and tell me you'll believe me when I say that I, personally, am glad you were born? And born of magic, too?"
There's a familiar note of friendly mockery in Merlin's voice, and warmth floods Arthur. He looks Merlin in the eye, a wry smile on his lips. "I suppose I can do that much."
Merlin nods and steps back from the desk, looking far more at ease himself. "Good. I wouldn't want to do this with anyone but you, you know, and you trying to send me away really doesn't fit into my maniacal plans."
Arthur snorts, and some more of Merlin's humor rubs off on him. "You don't have a maniacal bone in your body."
Merlin's mouth drops open in mock offense. "Slander."
The serious atmosphere shatters then, and Arthur laughs as Merlin rambles about each instance in which he most certainly was maniacal, thank you very much, and how Arthur had better appreciate his hidden genius in this regard.
This time, Arthur doesn't hold himself aloof. He lets himself tease and goad. He lets himself forget, for now, everything he learned from Morgause and what it means. It's just him and Merlin right now, and if he's going to give a little more credit to Fate's devious nature than usual, he's going to appreciate the good that's come of it, too. Minute by minute, the icy knots in his gut begin to thaw and unravel. He and Merlin fall into normalcy smoothly, effortlessly, and Arthur has the sense Merlin is benefitting from it just as much as he is.
Just as he's getting ready to leave for the night, Merlin asks again, "Are you alright?"
Arthur looks up from his book. He's long since picked up something to occupy himself once the pair of them settled into a comfortable, companionable silence. Merlin, for his part, had slipped into his servant role again, and his hands had found things to do. He unmakes Arthur's bed now as his magic builds up a fire in the hearth to ward off the early autumn night's chill.
The creation of fire with magic is dangerous in most cases. Its uncontrollable, insatiable desire to destroy and burn is exhilaratingly terrifying. Taming it takes no small amount of skill and requires an even more significant amount of willpower. Not all can manage it, and Arthur's learned to hightail it out of situations in which sorcerers try flinging fire spells about. Hell, he's learned to avoid Morgana, too, when she decides to start "practicing."
Here, though, in a safe place, with a sorcerer who learned to stop time and bend the elements from his cradle, Arthur doesn't so much as twitch. He allows the spell's spark to catch within and does not fear its explosive flare into life and light and warmth.
Merlin's magic retreats from him, and Arthur stares at the now-dancing flames, wishing he can capture that extraordinary, awe-striking moment of creation and share it with the whole world.
If only it were that easy. It rankles that, even with stunning and obvious proof, some would choose to remain blind. It hurts even more that they aren't ready to see.
One day, Arthur promises himself, not for the first time. One day.
"Not really," Arthur answers Merlin truthfully. He almost killed his father today. Part of him still wants to. Part of him wonders if they won't be better off; if, maybe, they'd made the wrong choice. Part of him still feels as though nothing he ever does will be enough to make up for all that happened as a result of his birth.
He looks up from the fireplace, aching with gratitude for Merlin and his infallible loyalty. "But I will be."
Arthur has a lot to think about; plans to alter, finetune, and expedite, if he can. He still has to figure out what to tell Morgana. And how to tell her. He'll give her nothing but the truth, of course, but that doesn't mean he won't try to prevent and prepare for the inevitable explosion. He still has to forgive himself and work on accepting what he can't change without more time and patience.
But that is tomorrow's problem. And tomorrow? Tomorrow is a new day.
(And with Merlin at his side, how can enough of those "new days" become anything but "one day?")
