Summary
His magic revealed before he was ready—Merlin is banished from Camelot. Arthur has turned his back on him, because of who he is—because of what he is, confirming Merlin's worst fears of never being accepted. For three years, Merlin lives his life running—never staying for long in one place, terrified that he would be revealed. He has suffered much—a new collection of scars stain his body—and his hope feels all but gone.
He barely even remembers what he felt like living in Camelot. He barely remembers the warmth of a caring embrace. He has been reduced to nothing but a hollowed ghost wandering the five kingdoms.
Trigger warning: Depressive and suicidal thoughts. Violence and some graphic descriptions of injuries.
I don't own Merlin.
The days blend together, night bleeding into day bleeding into night bleeding into day. He can't remember what week it is, the passage of time only notable by the seasons shifting—the warm, humid embrace of summer replaced with fiery leaves that gracefully fall from branches replaced with a world of white, so pure and delicate and frigid enough that he almost looses his fingers to frostbite and his life to hypothermia and starvation replaced with rain that washes the world clean and flower buds thriving. The first year had come and gone so quickly, though he remembered little of the liveliness of spring and summer and only remembered shivering in a cave—his skin stretched tight over his bones and gnawing hunger deep in his stomach.
In truth, he couldn't tell how he survived that winter—the cold that blanketed him, snow clinging to his eyelashes, leaving white flecks across his vision. He could barely remember the day he had found the cave—with it's shield and cover from the storm not quite raging outside. He had been alone, so fretfully alone and frightened out of his mind—unable to sleep without the recall of dirtied fingers reaching for him, twisting his fingers in the wrong direction until they broke, ripping the nails from his hands, flaying his skin from his bones with a weapon that might have been considered beautiful.
Merlin tried not to think of it, though the hand not rubbing circles on the rim of his cup, traced the raised scars banding across his wrist, as he contemplated the liquid swirling inside. The mead was dark, ripples of light only catching in the candles scattered around the inn he had paused in seek of respite from the chill threatening to settle across the lands. Outside, the last of fire-bright leaves were clinging to branches by threads—so quickly to detach when the wind pushed hard enough, and the emptied trees resembled claws seeking to pierce the gray-clouds hovering ominously in the sky.
The town of York was small and quaint, and it seemed that everyone knew everyone—sectioning themselves off and Merlin felt even more like an outsider. He had never been able to locate a place that he belonged to as much as—he shook himself, unable to even think the name of what had been his home.
He hadn't moved on—though he meant that in the emotional sense as he had been physically moving from place to place throughout the past three years—and he couldn't bare to think of what he had left behind. Something inside of him had died that day—Merlin knew that, recognized that easier than he recognized his reflection in any sort of looking glass. Maybe it was his hope, his heart, the light he had coveted—trying to shield it from the world that sought to smother it.
Dreams were nothing—not anymore. And, there was little use in pleading for anything out there to welcome him, to take him in and soothe his broken spirit. Merlin closed his eyes and tried to think of where he might go next—he had taken to wandering the roads, ignoring where on the map he might be, he might have crossed into Camelot lands, but his mind acknowledged none of it.
He might have been banished from Camelot—bereft of friends and family—but he did not care if a patrol might recognize him and drag him in manacles before the king. Merlin, simply put, did not care.
He couldn't bring himself to care what might befall him.
Merlin had failed. Failed the people who were so reliant on him. Failed his legacy, the ancestors who had come before him—his father, his father's family who had lost their lives to a world so hateful and cruel. The thing that came with his failure was apathy. He watched time pass, apathetic towards what used to arise some form of emotion inside of his heart. "You look like you've had a rough time of it." The barkeep commented, washing out a tankard with a grimy piece of cloth.
Glancing towards the man, who's state of dress was eerily reminiscent of the inn he worked in, Merlin catalogued the dark, knotted hair, the hazel eyes, and the sun-weathered skin. The man was not as built as a knight might be, though he was tall and towered over many of the occupants of the room—even those who were standing. Merlin arched an eyebrow, thinking of what to say. Any conversation he had had in recent years was sparse and normally Merlin made a polite—or rude, in some cases—escape from the probing gazes.
There were also the gazes that never failed to lessen Merlin's sense of self-worth, the ones filled with pity and judgement as they beheld Merlin's features. He refrained from tracing the scar disfiguring his face.
It had come from when someone—a cruel sort of person—had tired of Merlin's silence and sought to derive some form of enjoyment if he could not get hoarse screams. The man had traced Merlin's eye with a sharp dagger, not digging in, but taunting him with any minute slip could result in Merlin losing his eye. Then, the man had dragged the dagger in between Merlin's eyes and down his cheek until his jawline. Merlin had screamed and tried to pry himself away from the torture, but the man had held firm.
Instead, he kept going, fanning out small cuts from the first large one until Merlin had lost consciousness. He had turned Merlin into someone who could never hide from what had befallen him—seeing it reflected in every gaze he met, even alone, he could not hide from his cruel torment.
Perhaps, it was another reason Merlin had sought respite from the cold. The tendrils of cold air caused his skin to cover in gooseflesh and tighten around his scars—making their ache and pain more prominent and not something ignorable. Though, he had not lowered his hood and kept his face angled downwards, unwilling to case his environment any further. His magic had taken over where Merlin refused to, alerting him to the miniscule shifts in the figures inside the room—their own intentions similar to Merlin's.
He counted fifteen people—fifteen lives: two barkeeps, a serving lass who traveled form table to table, a rowdy group of seven men who were in constant state to one-up each other, another man heating a vat of stew, three men, silent and shadowlike, and a lass that lingered by the door.
Merlin could guess at their stories, their lives—and that some had given him a wide berth for his countenance and the glimpses of scars they could spot. His hands were scarred, one finger bent oddly where it had never properly healed from the first few breaks and snaps, and he carried the evidence of darkness in his movements. It wasn't a darkness Merlin likened to evil, but one that occurred when one was bereft of a caring embrace.
"I wonder what gave it away." Merlin murmured in response to the barkeep's earlier note on Merlin's stature. He took a heavy gulp of the mead—refraining from showing his distaste for the substance, though he could afford little else. The amount of coin he had was sparse as he refused to accept payment for most things he did. In the times when Merlin integrated himself with the world, he was careless with his magic—more careless than he had been in his youth, he reflected wryly—and got by through the little coin he earned helping others.
He still thought himself apathetic to the world, though perhaps that belief in his character was not quite justified as Merlin still thought to put his training to good use. He could still feel the loss poignantly when he failed to save a life, failed to free one of his own from the imprisonment of the fearful.
Sparing a quick glance around the room, he noted that the three shadowlike figures tucked away in the corner were conversing quietly with the lass traversing from table to table. She seemed uncomfortable in their presence, something Merlin likened to the fact that the small entourage kept themselves isolated and far away from others. They were doubtlessly sorcerers like Merlin, he mused to himself, though they did a poor job of hiding it.
The barkeep, when Merlin refocused on him, was studying Merlin critically. "You're a quick fellow, aren't you?" He questioned rhetorically and Merlin thinned his lips. He didn't offer any verbal response to the man, inclining his head slightly. "York is a rather small place; we get very few visitors." The man continued, stating the comment with false idleness.
Merlin appraised him thoughtfully. "I'm just traveling through." He downed the rest of the mead—briefly thinking of an old friend who would have done the same. The same old friend who Merlin had last seen from the other side of iron manacles, the warmth wilted quickly in his chest at that—quicker than it had come, if he were being truthful.
He had never fathomed out Gwaine's opinion on magic before his own was revealed far before he was ready to face it—and before his king was ready as well. When he first met Gwaine, Merlin had thought that perhaps the knight had been open to it, having traveled many places and seen countless people from all walks of life. Though, perhaps that had been a wrong assumption to make—it was likely that witnessing all of the disasters Morgana could wreak without facing any moral dilemma had hardened his heart to magic.
"So, will you be wanting a room, then?" The barkeep inquired, Merlin's thoughts reforming as he contemplated the man's question. He could spend the night in the forest—though he had done the same thing for over a season. The thought of a bed and four walls did bring with it some comfort—the bed more so than the four walls, while they could play the part of shield, they could also form prisons as easily as safe-havens. "We have a few open, two silver for the night." He spoke again.
Merlin counted the coin inside his cloak. The large item had been something he had found abandoned by the world—it was warm, and the dark green color kept him inconspicuous and allowed for him to hide his face from the world. "I suppose so." Merlin had counted four silvers, though he removed two from his pocket and scooted them over the counter.
The man, Ulfred, Merlin recalled his name as the man had offered it when Merlin requested a single tankard of mead to fill his stomach. "Very well." He whistled and the lass sidled over—her expression slightly tinged with exhaustion. "Farrah, show this man to one of our rooms." Ulfred ordered her and Merlin slid the tankard back to him before following the petite auburn-haired lass to one of the doors.
It led to a long, sparsely lit corridor; wooden doors separate by perhaps the length of his arm. The end curved slightly to show a wooden, uneven staircase, though the lady did not climb it and instead led Merlin to the last door on the right. "Here you are sir, if you have need for anything, please alert one of us." Farrah spoke apathetically as she produced a key from her skirts and unlocked the door. Merlin stepped through the threshold and accepted the keys from her callused fingers with a hint of a smile curving his lips.
"Thank you, my lady." Merlin offered, a quick perusal of the room revealed a thin cot with a homemade blanket over it and a table beside it with a lone candle sitting in a candle holder. "Have a safe night." He deposited his meager possessions on the cot, producing the well-loved satchel from where it had been hidden in the folds of his cloak.
Farrah nodded, "You as well, good sir." There was a hint of warmth in her voice before she shut the door and Merlin heard her footsteps fade as she reentered the bar-part of the inn. He could feel the tension settling across his shoulders and elected to take a spot on the bed as he waited. He didn't have to wait long before the door handle turned and the three shadows he had spotted entered—they were covered in fine, black cloaks and Merlin caught the hint of an insignia on one man's gloves as he lowered his hood.
Merlin exhaled. "I suppose it was too much to hope for a peaceful night's rest, aye?" He quipped, lowering his own hood. The only light inside the room was from the silvery moonlight through the small window above the bed, the furniture having faced the door.
The man with the lowered hood smiled. "Quite so, Emrys." He inclined his head in a gesture of mocking respect.
His eyes goldening in warning, Merlin thought of showing them why exactly Emrys was referred to as the most powerful sorcerer to walk the Earth, but instead lit the lone candle—casting the room in warmth. "I suppose it would be pointless to ask who sent you." Merlin arched an unimpressed eyebrow.
"I suppose it would be." The man folded his muscular arms across his chest, the opening of his cloak revealing the silver hilt of his sword at his hip. The miniscule shift in stance showed what might happen if Merlin did not subject willingly, though he was unafraid of these men or who had sent them to his doorstep. Merlin had figured that the mercenaries on his tail would eventually catch up to him, though he would have preferred to not confront them—as it would never end well for them.
Merlin clicked his tongue, magic searching the man for any charm that might be offering him protection and coming up with nothing. He blinked in surprise, "The Lady Morgana must be growing lazy." Merlin reclined slightly, unimpressed by the subtle underestimation of him. "How little protection she has afforded you." He concluded.
The man tapped a finger against the hilt of his sword. "Funny you should mention protection." He smirked, revealing his disastrous state of dental hygiene. Merlin thought of teasing him with it, remarking on the countenance of a man who could not take care of himself.
He nodded in false understanding. "Of course. A sword made of steel and iron is supposed to terrify me." Merlin waved a hand and the sword levitated over to him. The man scowled, fingers grasping for the sword as Merlin caught it and spun it in a circle. "It is quite sharp." He pricked his finger on the tip and watched the crimson liquid bubble. "But a rather pathetic weapon." Merlin tossed the sword on the floor, the weapon falling with a loud clatter.
The three barely exchanged glances before one unsheathed his sword and ran for Merlin. Merlin continued to hold his position, before he pushed himself up on his forearms and flipped himself over, landing in a crouch on the pillow as the shorter male sliced open the cot. Merlin pursed his lips, knowing he would have to repair that later before he grabbed the sword off the floor and brought it up to block the incoming blow.
Another man took advantage of the opening and tried to drive the sword in Merlin's side, and he grasped the edge of the blanket before flinging it over the man's head. The first man, the one Merlin had been exchanging pleasantries with sneered. "You are playing a dangerous game, Emrys." The venom dripping from the title was acrid and Merlin rolled his eyes—knowing the very few that recognized him and sought to challenge him out of the foolish notion that they could best a warlock.
"I'm rather enjoying my odds." Merlin quipped reflexively. His eyes goldened as he grasped the man's shoulder—the one who was struggling to pry the blanket off of him and spun himself around, dodging the shorter, stouter male who had flicked the sword from Merlin's grip. Merlin dubbed him Stout, his creativity effortless, while the other was dubbed Blanky. His back was against the wall, though he side-stepped the wide swing that Leader tried to pin him with.
He smirked, grabbing the man's shoulder, and launching himself upwards to kick out at Blanky's head, the other man colliding harshly against the table and not moving from the spot. He was likely unconscious, though Stout's energy turned venomous and fueled by potent anger. "You're going to regret that, boy." Stout launched himself across the bed, ignoring the advisement from the Leader.
Merlin shrugged carelessly, freezing the two in time as he plucked the sword from Stout's fingers. "And you're going to regret stepping into my room, tonight." Merlin tapped his chin thoughtfully. "Oh wait, you already do." He smirked once more before slamming the hilt against the side of Stout's head and unfreezing him to send him toppling to the floor.
"Are you sure about that one?" The leader was suddenly moving quickly, digging a dagger deep in Merlin's ribs. Merlin felt his body sag in surprise and his magic unhelpfully noted the poison on the blade. "Lady Morgana sent his one as a special treat designed specifically for you, Emrys." He murmured in dark amusement in Merlin's ear, twisting the dagger.
He could feel the cloying dark magic seeping into his blood and knew that his time was precious at the moment. "I'm sure." Merlin murmured, fingering the hilt of the sword that levitated to his grasp before driving it upwards and through the other man's ribcage. He made a face as he watched the life seep from the man's eyes and the blood travel down his cheeks. Merlin unsheathed the sword form the leader's body, the man dropping to the floor like a stone, and he sighed as he deposited the weapon on the floor.
The dagger was still inside his chest, and Merlin quickly tugged it out—knowing that leaving the poisonous weapon inside would worsen his condition more so than preventing any more blood from escaping. He wiped the blood from his lips and peered down at the bodies on the floor—one dead and two others unconscious. A part of him felt a drowning sort of guilt that he had had to kill someone, though it was an act of protecting himself, as he stumbled clumsily to his bag and plucked it up from the ground.
Merlin paused—knowing that the barkeep had likely been paid off to take him to the room and leave him to the whims of the three mercenaries—as he contemplated the state of the room.
It would be very easy for him to just leave, disappear into the night, but he'd rather not give the other two a chance to come after him once they awoke to discover their leader dead by his own sword. Stooping with one hand pressed against his front, he grasped the homemade blanket and pushed the two together before tying it tightly around them. He would leave no trace of where he was going, but it would be nice to have the head-start before Morgana opted to send more people after the wayward warlock.
He had been eluding her for years—since she had first got her hands on him and subjected him to what it was like to be less than nothing—and he would continue to play their game of her attempting to get him under her thumb.
She was driven by revenge, so hateful and twisted, though, she was smart enough to know that she would need him on her side. She would need his power if she had any hope of leveling Camelot—especially considering Merlin's frequent traveling allowed for him to reinforce the wards around the kingdom, preventing her from entering and laying waste to what had once been their homes.
Merlin finished the knot before his vision went white as he stretched his body the wrong way—the wound at his midsection protesting the movement valiantly. Merlin closed his eyes and tried to regulate his breathing. He would not—could not collapse in this room. For one thing, he left himself vulnerable to revenge-twisted mercenaries and for another, he was not looking forward to explaining this instance to the barkeep. He grasped the wall for support before heaving himself out of the room and dropping the key on the floor.
He slipped out of the back door and was gone before anyone could even entertain the thought of checking on whether the mercenaries had finished him off.
Traveling all over the five kingdoms had left Merlin knowledgeable about hidden areas and carving out safe locations for himself, though he found himself often returning to the cave his father had inhabited before Merlin had located him. The cave had been left untouched, the items Balinor used only covered in a bit of dust and he could barely bring himself to sort through the things—worried that by doing so it would not preserve the items as though Balinor had left for a quick hunt or walk.
Merlin could easily recognize the poison of those delusions—but he found that he didn't care whether his sanity remained intact. He heaved an exhale, sliding down the wall and onto his makeshift sleeping area—he had laid his cloak out and would normally wrap himself in it while he used his satchel as a pillow. Merlin had very few things—two tunics, a neckerchief, the beaten-to-hell pages of Gaius's grimoire, and a few treatment things for first-aid. He had stitched himself up after the dagger had found it's place in his ribs and relied on his magic to instinctively heal the internal bleeding.
The fact of that Merlin loathed the most was that the leader had gotten the drop on him—he could still not figure how the man had escaped Merlin's freezing him in time, though he suspected that perhaps there was a small enchantment on him that was shielded from Merlin's magic.
He also loathed Morgana's desire to consistently attempt to capture him—she had had him once, had ordered his torture, the diamond-encrusted whip paid for by her. Merlin shuddered to think of that item, it would have been beautiful with all of the diamonds, but it was a painful instrument to his torture. It had easily torn the skin from his bones and Merlin had been unable to cope with more than eight lashes from the whip—though they had continued after he had fallen unconscious.
For a moment, he wished that he hadn't escaped and wandered the road brokenly. He wished that he had gone to Camelot when he was in such agony, but he had pulled himself form doing so. The only thing left for him in Camelot were the angry words of the king who had banished him—and Merlin figured he had been lucky to only receive banishment, at least in the eyes of the court, as he had revealed his magic saving the king's life.
His repayment was his life.
Though, Merlin didn't have much of life, now. He supposed he was too broken, too much of a hollowed-out shell of who he had been to enjoy the life that had been afforded to him. A life unable to see the man who had stepped into the role of being Merlin's father-figure. A life where he had no friends and no family and his mother—Merlin could not face her, could not let her lay eyes on what he had become. He didn't want her to lay eyes on his face—see the damage for herself.
Merlin supposed that he was like his father now—more like him than he had ever been. Though, perhaps Arthur was not Uther and wasn't hunting him, but he was still living a life in isolation—staying away from the people he loved to protect them from the rot he caused. He imagined that his hands were rotted, that rot was a tangible orb that hovered in his palms and encased anything he touched. It was a trait befitting a monster—though Merlin had never sought to pretend that he wasn't a monster.
He knew he was one. He knew that he had perhaps been one before his scars made him look like one. Merlin pressed his fingers absently against the stitches on his side, he would probably have to restitch his skin back together—as at least one stitch had broken when Merlin's feet traced the path to his father's home.
Perhaps, it couldn't be considered a home.
A home should have noise—should have people and love and happiness. There should be light inside of a home instead of cloying darkness. Merlin sat up and retrieved something he had found in his father's thing—it was a crystal.
At first, he had been horrified to discover a crystal amongst his father's belongings—remembering all-too-well his experience with what seeing into the future could bring—but then he realized what differentiated this one from the others. It was small, like a piece of the crystal of Neahtid had chipped off and Balinor had collected it on his escape from Camelot and fit in the palm of his hand—barely the size of a fingernail. Merlin had strayed away from touching it for a long time, too afraid of what the visions would show him.
Then, he had found his father's grimoire. His father hadn't used the crystal to show the future or glimpse what could happen or what should or what will happen. He hadn't been overrun by all that was inside and outside of time—he had used it to look for Hunith. He had used it to keep an eye on the woman he loved—the woman he wished he could have married. Merlin had cried when he first read those entries and then used the crystal on a whim and beheld his mother.
He wished he could have gone to her—wished that he wasn't too afraid that going to her would lead Morgana to her or that she would turn him away for his disfigurement. The latter may be a ridiculous fear, but Merlin mused that there was hardly ever sense in fear.
Fear did not reside in the corners of logic, but in emotion.
Now, he stared deeply into the crystal—unblinking though tears built at his eyeline as his mentor's face solidified in the reflective surface. Gaius looked the same as he had always looked, purpose lining his expression though Merlin had sometimes seen the man grieving so deeply that it pierced his heart. In those moments, he wished he could have reached out—though he kept himself from doing so.
For one thing, returning to Camelot would mean that Merlin would endanger Gaius for helping someone who was banished from the lands. He would be heaping trouble on Gaius's shoulders, and he could not, would not do that. Instead of lingering on the painful memories, Merlin refocused on Gaius's expression—the man was talking though the crystal did not afford Merlin the opportunity to hear what he was saying, his lips moving soundlessly.
Sometimes, when Merlin had a rare moment of good humor, he would insert strange sayings into Gaius's mouth—though he did not find an iota of that humor at the moment as he watched his mentor's face transition from purpose to pain to determination.
He wished he could reach out and sooth the pain from his father's expression. A foolish wish, but one that caused Merlin to break his concentration on the crystal as he lowered it and closed his eyes. Extended use of the crystal tended to tire him out, as he was channeling seer magic—something that had never been Merlin's forte—and he massaged the headache. He knew that he shouldn't scry for Arthur—that doing so would only eat away at him as he watched his king from a distance.
Merlin longed for the brotherly camaraderie of before the reveal—when him and Arthur could tease and taunt one another and pull pranks on each other. He longed for the moments when Arthur would treat him as an equal and not just the foolish, idiotic younger brother. He longed for when Arthur used to care about him.
Maybe, the king had a fraction of himself that did care—but Merlin knew that there would be no reconciliation for them. There had been too many lies—most told by Merlin—and too much pain they had both endured since the reveal. Merlin had suffered for months, each night praying and begging the gods to save him—for Arthur to save him. But, he had been given no savior. Instead, he had suffered until his magic snapped and his mind snapped, and he had lost touch with the foolish youth that he had been.
Opening his eyes, he held up the crystal once again and stared into its glowing white depths. An image shifted and then he saw Arthur. The king's countenance was lit by orange—perhaps surrounded by a fire—and there was a smile on his face and amusement in his eyes. He looked younger than he had looked in years while Merlin felt as though he were older than time itself. Merlin wished he could have been there, could have seen for himself what might be so humorous that it caused Arthur to lower his guard.
"I miss you." Merlin whispered the confession. He felt the words in his soul, shuddering through him and he was surprised when Arthur's expression shifted from joyous to confused. He hadn't known that Arthur might hear him, and he had no desire to see the hate sparking in his brother's eyes, so he closed his own and threw the stone away from him. It hit the floor and bounced slightly, though it remained unbreakable—as shiny and pure and innocent-looking as ever.
The first time he had heard the rumors, he had been confused and thought that someone must have misheard a conversation or that another was seeking to oust someone as a sorcerer and practitioner of magic. "It's true, I tell you, the king means to life the ban on magic." The first individual Merlin had heard say it was when he had been hunting—having need for more sustenance than berries. He had managed to put on some weight, though he tried to keep his eating habits to the minimum—he would not take more than he needed from the environment. He would not hunt more than he needed to in the name of survival.
There had been a scoff, "Yeah, right. The king of magic-hating Camelot intends to welcome magic." The voice had matched Merlin's derisiveness. He didn't understand—he had failed destiny, had he not? It was why the gods had punished him so deeply. It was why he avoided facing Kilgarrah with the knowledge of how he had broken Albion before it could even form. "You have been frequenting the cups for too long."
"I tell you, it's the truth."
"It's rubbish is what it is."
Merlin had crept away, having had enough of listening in on their conversation. He didn't want to believe the first man's words—Arthur had too many reasons to loathe magic for him to be willing to welcome it into Camelot. He had rather thought that perhaps the first man had misheard something or been fed the wrong information as a sympathizer of magic. That didn't stop him from using the crystal to look for Arthur and he had found him with a pinched brow and been unable to decipher the king's moods that used to be as familiar to him as his own.
With a sigh, Merlin stooped down to pay his respects to the hare he had shot with an arrow he had fashioned himself. He loathed the concept of hunting, but he needed the food once more as it had been a few weeks since he had managed much of anything. He froze though when he heard approaching footsteps and nearly leapt back when he caught a glimpse of red and silver. Merlin crouched lower, grasping the hare, and preparing to run but he was not afforded the chance when the knight garbed in Camelot's colors pushed aside some branches and entered the clearing.
The man froze—"Oh, sorry, mate. I had no idea I wouldn't be alone at this time of year." The knight smiled easily, eyes pointedly glancing around the snow-topped leaves that demonstrated winter.
"It's alright." Merlin spoke gruffly. He had forgotten that he was hunting near the citadel—but he had thought his need for survival had overrode the common sense of not approaching the central point of where he had been banished.
Galahad seemed slightly appeased by his words. "Are you alright, sir? I believe the citadel is open to travelers if you are in need of shelter." He queried, concern for someone he deemed to be worth being concerned over in his voice. Merlin did not think that the knight would give him the same curtesy had Merlin's hood been lowered. Nevermind the fact that he was illegally stepping foot in Camelot, his face disturbed people and he knew that anyone with good sense would not invite him around if they could avoid it.
"I'm alright." Merlin spoke in the same gruff, tone. He tried to not seem outwardly too unfriendly, but his desire to get away from a knight of Camelot seeped into his voice and the knight's smile flickered. "I thank you for the generous offer, sir knight, though it unnecessary. My home is not far from here." That was a boldfaced lie, as he had transported himself here from Balinor's cave—where Merlin had taken up residence to buckle down for the wintery months.
The knight nodded. "Of course. I understand." Galahad seemed to pause, wetting his lips as he searched for words. "You're a Druid, aren't you?" He finally spoke and Merlin froze, leaning back on his haunches.
"I'm sure I don't know what you mean." Merlin declared.
Galahad shook his head. "I don't mean you any harm. I swear it on my honor as a knight." He pressed one gloved hand to his heart. Merlin eyed him warily, wondering why a knight of Camelot would recognize him as a Druid. "Your cloak, I've seen it on the Druids that come to and from the citadel for meetings with the king." Galahad explained and Merlin thought his heart might stop inside his chest.
Druids? Visiting the citadel openly for meetings with the king? "The king's meeting with Druids?" Merlin murmured, recalling the conversation he had heard a few months previous. He had discounted the rumors as false, unable to reconcile the fact that Arthur might be lifting the ban on magic—that Merlin might one day be free.
Galahad nodded, inclining his head questioningly. "Yes. He intends to lift the ban on magic." The man spoke with some level of pride in his voice. Merlin could feel tears pricking at the corners of his eyes. The thought of being free—of not being frightened that someone would catch him and tie him to a pyre—resounded in his head. It sounded unreal, like something he had imagined, and he found he had no clue what to do with this sort of information.
Doubts resurfaced—what if Arthur meant to life the ban on magic only to draw sorcerers out of hide to purge the lands? Or, what if Arthur only meant for other sorcerers to be freed and still hated Merlin? "Why? I thought the king hated magic." Merlin whispered without thinking, he could feel thoughts spinning inside his head—an infinite number calculating the possibility that he may be able to one-day return to Camelot. He had rather thought he would spend the rest of his days wandering the Earth like a ghost.
"He did." Galahad nodded and the smile on his face was sad as he took a seat on a downed trunk—wiping off the clumps of snow beforehand. "But, then a friend opened his eyes and now he has finally been able to lift the ban on magic." The knight continued.
There was grief in his expression, thick and poignant. "How—How long has he been planning this?" Merlin queried.
The knight seemed to contemplate his answer. "A little less than two years." Merlin felt his stomach bottom out at that—he had been stuck wandering the world, trying in vain to recover from his scars and he could have gone to Arthur then. He could have gone to him and possibly been welcomed back. His abstinence, his staying away had only brought him more pain—though maybe Arthur wasn't doing this with Merlin in mind. Perhaps, he was doing it for the reason that he had discovered the circumstances of his birth.
Merlin pressed his fist to his mouth to stifle the sob—the concept of being free. It was too much to bear at once. He had felt the weight of death all of his life—in every beat of his heart. He didn't know a world where his king wasn't hunted and slaughtered. He didn't know a world without that fear, and he didn't know why the weight on his shoulders felt so different now then it had when he had awoken this morning.
"Whoa! Are you alright, mate?" Galahad seemed surprised and shocked by the show of emotion that Merlin had been unable to hide with the knight in front of him—peering closely to see under the shadows of Merlin's cloak.
He stuttered, mouth shaping words that he could not get enough breath to say. "I—I—I've never been free." Merlin whispered. "I don't know what it's like. Please. Please, tell me, Sir Knight that you are not playing at a cruel joke. Please." He pleaded with the knight, voice beseeching.
The man softened in understanding. "I am not lying, mate." Galahad informed him, the same softness in his expression in his voice. His brow furrowed suddenly, expression twisting with confusion. "I'm sorry, but have we met before—I recognize your voice from somewhere?" The knight questioned and Merlin felt his heartbeat kick up a notch and he found himself ill-prepared for being confronted by the knight.
Merlin remembered Galahad—he had been there when the knight was knighted and had even petitioned with Lancelot's help for the man to be knighted as he had been born a commoner that had enough heart and skill to fend off bandits from plundering a village. He didn't know if the knight had known him enough to be able to decipher his voice when his face remained hidden underneath his hood. Another thing Merlin didn't know was whether the knight would arrest Merlin for breaking the rules of his banishment.
He had been banished for magic and conspiration against the throne, the time he had saved Arthur's life twisted to make him look like the perpetrator. Merlin was terrified that the rescinding of the ban did not impact that, and he didn't want to chance seeing someone from his past—someone who had turned away from Merlin. Someone who might glimpse the scars on Merlin's face and think him deserving. What he remembered of the knight tallied that fear as ridiculous, but Merlin had his own thoughts.
His thoughts were that he deserved the scars—deserved the pain. That he needed to repent for his sin—repent for being a monster and wasn't this a fitting punishment for him? To have a challenge smiling?
Merlin's smile had been his armor, and now he had none of it left. He had had to forge armor from what remained on himself, and that armor was weaker than his old set. Perhaps, the metaphor was ridiculous. But, Merlin had perfected his smile—his trademark grin. Now, he appeared over three years later with nothing left that remained of the youth that some in Camelot might remember.
Though, the majority doubtlessly remembered him a sorcerer with golden eyes rather than a manservant with a dopey smile.
"I should go." Merlin did not answer the simple query—needing to get far away from this. He didn't want this pain and he ignored the way that Galahad's eyes widened and the understanding forming on his brow that showed that he did know Merlin from somewhere. He didn't want to stick around to see that recognition darken Galahad's countenance. He didn't want to see the moment that Galahad's sword turned on him.
Galahad grasped his arm. "Wait." He pleaded. "Please. Just wait a second."
Merlin shook him lose, shaking fit enough to fly apart. When he glanced towards Galahad, the knight's eyes were wide with surprise and concern. "No. Let me go. Please let me go. I promise, I won't come back, just let me go." He tripped over himself in his haste to get away and his hood fell off his head. Merlin squeezed his eyes shut, expecting the hatred but opening them one at a time when not hateful words descended upon him. He looked towards Galahad.
His expectations of seeing hatred crumbled as Galahad stood there, eyes wide and there was stark horror on his face. "Merlin?" His voice was a rasp. "Oh gods, Merlin! You're alive!" A smile spread across his face, before it dimmed. "Oh gods, what happened to you? Who did this to you?" Galahad crouched down, easing closer and his hand shot out to press against Merlin's face—the scar that resided there.
"No. Please. I'm sorry. I'll leave." Merlin scrambled backwards and Galahad's expression became pinched.
Merlin wondered at the image they made, a knight reaching out towards a banished man. "Merlin, wait." Galahad tried to stop him, but Merlin was up and running—tripping clumsily through the forest. He had to get away, he could feel it in his mind, the panic and the fear and the second rejection that awaited him in Camelot. "Merlin, wait!" He could hear Galahad calling behind him, cajoling him to stay—to not go anywhere. "I thought you were dead. For all of these years, we thought you were dead. Don't go, Merlin, please." The breaking of Galahad's voice caused Merlin to clumsily turn.
He ended up going sideways over a branch and landing funnily on his side—Merlin hissed out a breath between his teeth as it jostled the old wound from the poisoned dagger oh-so-long ago. Scrambling to his feet, he waited with one hand pressed against his side as Galahad caught up to him. "You—I don't understand—you thought I was dead." Merlin found that the words puzzled him as much as he turned them about in his mind.
The memory of seeing Gaius sobbing in the crystal one day appeared in his mind—Merlin had thought that his mentor might miss him, but not that his mentor thought him dead. Galahad caught his breath, shoulders rising and falling quickly as he hunched over to do so. "You've gotten fast, Merlin." Galahad commented after a second, not elaborating on why they thought that.
"I thought you all wouldn't have cared if I died." Merlin whispered, not in the presence of mind to acknowledge the point. With the multitudes of downs he had had since the day he had been banished; he had tried so many times. But, every single time he tried to end his own life, he recovered quickly—his magic unwilling to let him die. It was the cruel way Merlin had discovered his immortality.
He still remembered that day—it had been a few weeks after he had escaped Morgana's clutches. Merlin had finally glimpsed his reflection and it had broken him even more, he had been unthinking as he grabbed a dagger and drove it deep inside his wrists. He had felt his life pool out of him, and his heart stop and he had slipped away thinking that he would not longer suffer. That it would finally end—the endless cycle of torment and pain would finally leave him at peace.
When he awoke the next morning, he had been so angry that he had been denied the chance to be at peace. He had wanted to die and the fact that some force out there wouldn't let him had torn him apart even further.
His immortality had been a curse.
A curse that he suffered to walk the Earth for all of eternity, alone. With no one to offer him any comfort or solace or hold him when the pain became too much for him to bear. There was no one to talk him off of the ledges he found himself on, though there was a force that brought him right back up when he jumped off.
Galahad made a protesting noise deep in his throat. "Gods, Merlin, no." He waved his hands emphatically. "We were ripped apart when we thought you had died. Gwaine—he—he found your neckerchief in a bloodied room of one of the reaches Morgana had occupied. We—We—We thought she had tortured and then killed you." The knight exhaled shakily, his eyebrows lowering, and he closed his eyes—looking pained. "Arthur—he—he tried to find you. He wouldn't accept that you were dead. It broke him when we could find no trace of you, anywhere."
Merlin closed his eyes as he, too, remembered the day he had escaped Morgana's clutches. He had been bending to retrieve his neckerchief—needing it like it was a lifeline when he heard approaching footsteps. At the time, he had thought he had known that it would be Morgana's men coming to avenge their comrades. He hadn't known that it would have been Arthur and the knights.
They had been right there. If he had waited just a moment longer, all of these years of suffering and silence and loneliness would have been avoided. He could have avoided running for so long.
When he reopened his eyes, his tongue darted out to wet his lips. "I thought Arthur hated me." Merlin whispered quietly, knowing that he sounded like a small child. "I thought that you all had hated me." He announced in a louder voice.
Galahad shook his head quickly. "No. Gods, Merlin, no." He spoke with some level of desperation in his voice. "We could never—I could never—None of us could ever hate you. You—You were—You are our brother." Merlin did not try to stop the tears from falling as his legs buckled and Galahad caught him. It was the first time someone had held him in years, and he relished in the embrace. He needed the embrace, and he didn't know why he had denied himself comfort for so long.
He had thought himself a monster, unworthy of love or care or kindness.
Then, he could feel Galahad's fingers on his scar and could see the tears coursing down the knight's face—his pain so vibrant and real that it hurt. "I'm so sorry. Gods, I'm so sorry. I didn't save you. I didn't protect you." Galahad crumpled and they held each other as both fell to pieces—uncaring of the winter-cold air around them or the snow that started to slowly fall. Merlin could feel much of what he had buried pouring out of him, his mind and soul left bare for the world to see and pick apart.
Despite what Galahad wanted, Merlin didn't return to the citadel with him. He needed a bit of time to come to terms with the fact that everything he had told himself had been wrong. He had thought himself so unloved—so unwanted—and to know that it wasn't true scared him. Merlin was terrified, even still. The ban on magic had been lifted—Arthur had freed him, even if the king was unknowing and thought him dead. Arthur thought he had died. The concept of that rolled through Merlin's mind and the fact that it had hurt Arthur so badly.
He knew that he needed to go back to Camelot—his home might still be willing for him to claim it as his own. But, he didn't know if he was ready for it. He wasn't the same person he had been when he left—the person who had been hopeful that with time Arthur's mind would change. That if he kept protecting Arthur from a distance, that the king would eventually acknowledge the fact that it was not magic that was evil but the hearts of people. He had lost a part of himself, and he feared that that part was the only part people cared for.
It was why he found himself sneaking into Camelot at night—he wasn't sure if he could deal with so many presences during the daytime and he was afraid of how highlighted his scar would be in daylight. Merlin walked the familiar path that would lead him to the Court Physician's chambers, his meager possessions and a few things that had been his father's—namely, his father's grimoire and the crystal—in his satchel that was slung over one shoulder underneath the forest green cloak.
Merlin glanced at the guards on watch—slipping past them with ease with his invisibility spell. The citadel still thrummed with the magic Merlin had left in his wake, the protection charms he had threaded through the foundations and his wards against Morgana. The magic, though, was only recognizable to him and perhaps that was why Gaius had believed he was dead. His heart panged at the thought of his mentor—at the pain Merlin had unintentionally caused with his isolation and inability to seek out those he loved.
He wondered if his mother thought it too and that thought hurt him as well. Merlin made a mental note that he would need to go to Ealdor and tell her that he was still her son—if she would have him with all of his flaws and weaknesses laid bare.
Merlin pushed open he door and paused as he surveyed Gaius asleep on his cot in front of the fire. The man's face did not look much different from what Merlin had seen in the crystal—though seeing him now made Merlin drop to his knees. He could see so many smaller details now—details that had grown in his absence—and he stood shakily to close the door and drop to one knee beside his mentor. Merlin bowed his head, removing his hood as he clasped his hands and sat them atop Gaius's cot, resting his forehead atop them.
"Merlin?" Gaius's voice was thick with disuse and sleep, sounding like he was just clawing his way back to the world of those awake. Merlin lifted his eyes to his mentor, who blinked blearily as though not understanding who was right in front of him. They studied each other for eternity and Merlin could see the moment that it clicked inside Gaius's brain, for the man lurched forward with a strangled shout, "Merlin!" Gaius hugged Merlin, squeezing with a strength that belied his frail appearance.
Merlin could feel his head pounding—tears falling. "Gaius." His voice was choked, and he broke on the word. "Gaius." He grasped the fabric of Gaius's nightshirt and squeezed tightly, as if the fabric was a lifeline and the only connection he had to keeping his mind focused on reality. His back twinged unfavorably at the position and his right knee was pressed sharply against the floor, but he ignored the physical remnants of the pain he had endured and survived.
Tears fell on his hair as Gaius rested a chin atop Merlin's head, holding the youth to him and whispering his name over and over. "You're alive." Gaius whispered, adding the thought to each whispered sentiment of Merlin's name. "All—All this time. You're alive, my boy, you're home." Gaius's voice continued after a few more minutes of them sitting in that embrace and Merlin could feel his heartbeat calming.
Against his ear, he could hear the steady rhythm of Gaius's heartbeat. It reminded him of when he was younger and had rested his head on his mother's chest to remind himself that she was still there after a bad dream. His dreams as a child had been much like the reality of his time these past few years—except, it was him that kept the distance between himself and those he loved and not the yawning chasm of death. "I'm home." Merlin confirmed, knowing that Gaius would need to hear his voice.
In the safety of the fatherly embrace, Merlin could feel the years sliding away. He was still scarred and battle-weary, he hadn't had a proper night's sleep in years—his dreams broken by faces that only sought to bring him pain. His hands were so bloody, the lives he had taken a rogue on his skin. He was still all of those things and more, but where there had been a hollow darkness for years, there was starting to be a candle of hope.
Something he hadn't felt in so long. Something that terrified him as much as it warmed him. He was terrified of what it meant to hope for things—to allow himself those moments of belief because he had suffered so much when his belief had failed to be his savior.
Eventually, after several long minutes that could have stretched into hours for all Merlin cared—Gaius pulled away, his knobby hands on Merlin's shoulders. A thought had Merlin lighting a few of the candles so he could see what new lines existed in his mentor's features. Gaius looked slightly older, his white hair thinner than it used to be, though there was a new weightlessness to his features that Merlin had never glimpsed before—a freedom easing the lines in his forehead.
It took a moment for Merlin to remember that that weightless attribute stemmed from the lifting of the ban on magic—he had never realized that the same chains he felt so acutely also were wound tightly around his mentor. He had never thought they would get to this point, he realized, where they were both free. Sometimes, when Merlin was younger, he could picture what it might be like to be so free, but that image had turned fuzzy and muddled as he got older. In some instances, he had thought that he might never get the chance to see their freedom reflected in Gaius—not because of the many years it would be, but because he thought that he might give his life so that Arthur would lift the ban.
Gaius put a hand on his cheek, his fingers tracing the line that went from the bridge of Merlin's nose to where his jaw met his ear. There was aching sadness in his mentor's gaze, so stark and raw that Merlin wondered how he could ever think that Gaius would turn him away—would be unable to recognize him. "Who did this to you?" Gaius whispered, desperation lining his words.
Merlin rested a hand atop Gaius's. He closed his heads and leaned into the warm touch. When he reopened his eyes, he found the courage to breathe the name. "Morgana." Merlin answered. His mentor's eyes turned sad, and he closed his eyes—them both feeling the acute pain of how far Morgana had fallen from their reach, her loss echoing through the air. "Well, her and a man by the name of Warren." It was the first time Merlin had spoken the man's name and he found his throat closing as he remembered the man.
"When?" Gaius whispered. "When did they do this?"
Merlin closed his eyes, his fingers tightening around Gaius's hand and his head lowered fractionally. "I don't remember." He answered honestly. "It—It was a little bit after I was banished from Camelot." His tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth, and he knew he would not bee able to say any more of what happened. Though, it had been over a year—maybe even close to two—he had never given himself the chance to get any semblance of closure. He had been too focused on eluding Morgana and whatever mercenaries she might send after him.
Gaius's hands were shaking—small tremors and his eyes and face were wet when Merlin glanced at him with worry upon noting the way his mentor's hands shook as he held Merlin's face. "Why—Why didn't you come to me? Why didn't you come home?" His mentor queried, voice raising slightly.
In spite of himself, Merlin could not maintain his composure. He lowered his eyes and gently pried his face from Gaius's slackening grip. "I—I didn't think anyone wanted me to." Merlin confessed quietly. "I'm broken, Gaius. I'm so broken that I can't breathe sometimes. I didn't think anyone could look at me—look at me and see this—" He gestured towards his face at that moment if the point wasn't made clear, "—and be able to love me." Merlin's hand dropped to hang limply at his side.
A few beats of silence passed as Gaius processed those words. "I have failed you, my boy." Gaius finally whispered and Merlin glanced up from studying the floorboards to look at his mentor in confusion.
"You did nothing to fail me, Gaius."
The man looked away, "But, I did." He insisted. "I should have never pushed you to leave Camelot—I wanted to keep you safe from Arthur's anger. But, I never thought—I never thought of what might happen to you on your own. And what's worse? You were so badly hurt that you thought you didn't have me anymore." Gaius grasped Merlin's hands in his own. His eyes were riddled with despair. "Gods, Merlin, forgive me."
Merlin met his gaze, his eyes and face wet with tears. "There is nothing to forgive." He removed one hand from Gaius's and tapped it against his forehead. "Things became—they became so convoluted inside my head. Everything twisted itself into something different, and that—that is something I could never blame you for." Merlin told him in the strongest voice he could muster. He loathed the thought of Gaius accepting any blame for this—even Arthur could not be fully to blame.
Arthur and Gaius and the people he had left in Camelot hadn't orchestrated his imprisonment and torture at Morgana's hands—and everything that had followed. They couldn't have known he were so hurt. "You should." Gaius closed his eyes.
"But I would never." Merlin assured him. They sat like that for a long time, the silence speaking for them—Gaius's guilt at not being there and Merlin's years of fighting and surviving. "You should be getting some rest, Gaius." Merlin informed the man, standing so that he could help Gaius settle int to sleep. He caught the worry and naked fear in his mentor's gaze—that tomorrow would come, and this would all seem a dream. Merlin smiled, then, a soft smile that was a mere fragment of his old smile. "I will be here when you rise tomorrow, father." Merlin bent to whisper in Gaius's ear.
Gaius's expression smoothed out, his fear assuaged and there was a quiet joy on his face at the title. Merlin smiled as he watched his mentor fall back asleep, kneeling on the floor with one of Gaius's hands clasped in his. He would not leave Gaius's bedside, not even as the sun painting stripes across the floorboards, or the citadel started to shift into wakefulness. He would remain at his father's side until the man awoke—as he had promised.
There had been a small amount of fanfare when Gaius awoke—Merlin at his side and the mentor had shed a few tears and wrapped Merlin in a quick embrace before rising to prepare for the day. Merlin had kept a respectful distance as his mentor washed and dressed in his robes, his eyes appraising the chambers in the light of day. They looked much as he remembered—an assortment of organized chaos on every surface and Merlin ran his fingers along the wooden surface of the table he and Gaius had breakfast at on multiple occasions.
His smile wilted when he caught sight of his reflection and he turned away from the window. The scar on his face was jagged and the larger one a reddish-pink while the small hesitation cuts on the edges and branching outwards were turning pink-ish white. Merlin clenched his jaw, unwilling at that moment to be in any sort of company, until Gaius's voice drew him away from the direction his thoughts had taken. He still did not think himself much for good company as he had spent the past few years avoiding the world.
"How long are you here?" Gaius glanced at him in askance, his hands shaking slightly as he prepared two bowls of porridge. Merlin softened when he caught the edge of vulnerability in Gaius's voice—an unwillingness to lose Merlin.
Merlin shrugged. "However long you'll have me." He glanced towards the staircase that led to where he used to sleep and hesitated. Merlin had no idea what had become of that room over the years—whether Gaius had refilled it with equipment in Merlin's absence or if the man had been unable to bear touching the items there. Gaius had assured him when he left hat the room would be ready and waiting for him when it finally came time for Arthur to lift the ban, though Merlin did not whether Gaius's belief of his death had ruined that comfort and luxury.
Gaius followed his gaze, expression pinching momentarily. "It is the same as you left it—if you'd like to take a look around. Breakfast will be ready soon." He informed Merlin with forced casualness. Merlin hesitated for a moment longer before accepting the invitation towards it and climbing up the stairs at a slow pace. He was pitifully aware of the way Gaius's movements stalled as he doubtlessly noted the fact that Merlin moved with a different grace—one of the many changes.
Pressing a hand against the door, Merlin undid the latch and pushed it open. He had to blink multiple times as he adjusted to the room. A thin layer of dust covered the surfaces and he swallowed roughly when he noted that the cot was still wrinkled. The threadbare blanket Merlin had used was still half-on and half-off the white surface and Merlin could spot a pair of his old boots stowed away in the corner, untouched. The entire room looked untouched, in Merlin's opinion.
There were still some clothes left on the floor and he stepped over them and sat down on the cot. His fingers brushed haltingly against the threadbare blanket, and he could feel the nostalgia creeping along his marrow. Merlin winced, his free hand pressing against his side loosely as it twinged unfavorably at the chilliness wrapping around the room and he noted that the window was open. Merlin had been banished in the dead of summer—and now he returned in winter and the window had been left open.
He let the tears fall, eyes closing as he relished in being home—in the comfort of his room—for the first time in so many years. He lifted the satchel from his side, reopening his eyes as he slowly took Gaius's grimoire out. Merlin could recall memories of the times he had lain away and read the book in sparse candlelight. He remembered the fond and thrilling memories of trying out new spells—some with hilarious results.
"I could never bring myself to change anything." Gaius whispered, appearing in the doorway. His eyes were troubled as he surveyed the room. "Even after they told me you were dead—I—I just couldn't." Gaius spoke, stepping over the messy items on the floor and seating himself next to Merlin.
Merlin grasped his forearm, "Thank you." He breathed. Gaius nodded, his expression losing some of its tension as he removed something from his robes, a piece of fabric that was tied around his wrist. Merlin eyed it with some level of curiosity, fingers brushing against the rough fabric, the material sliding through his fingers. "Where—Why—?" Merlin's voice tapered off, unsure how to phrase the questions he had about the article.
Normally, fabrics tied around the wrist were smooth and soft and for Gaius to have something so coarse knotted around his wrist was strange. "When—When Gwaine found your neckerchief, we had Gwen split it so that we could carry a piece of it with us—always." Gaius explained and Merlin finally registered where his fingers remembered the texture of the material—it was his neckerchief; the blue one he had worn and the one he had left behind.
"I was such a fool." Merlin whispered, his hands dropping to his lap. He hadn't worn the other neckerchief in years, unable to bear the thought of losing it, and instead stuck to a blue tunic and his cloak or a gray one and the cloak. His red tunic had been too destroyed by Warren and Morgana for Merlin to be able to wear and he had been forced to use the cloth as bandages to ward off the cold of winter.
Gaius opened his mouth to say something, but they were interrupted by a voice downstairs. "Gaius? Are you in here?" Lancelot's voice queried. Merlin could feel an ache settling in his chest at the thought of his old friend. Gaius moved quickly down the stairs and Merlin followed him hesitantly. "Gaius." Lancelot sounded relieved and then concerned and then his eyes moved past Gaius to where Merlin hovered at the third to last stair. His eyes went wide, expression changing from relief to shock.
Merlin smiled softly. "Hello Lance." He greeted.
Lancelot swallowed thickly. "Merlin?" He took a step forward, and Merlin could read from his expression that the knight was almost afraid to believe what he was seeing. He waited for the knowledge to settle inside Lancelot before the man's face broke into a huge smile and a sound that was half-a-laugh and half-a-sob escaped from his lips. "Merlin!" Lancelot nearly tackled him; his joy palpable. "You're alive! Gods, you're alive!" Merlin had to close his eyes to prevent himself from breaking down too much in the knight's embrace.
He could feel the hope that Gaius had kindled slowly being given life inside his chest. Merlin gripped the back of Lancelot's tunic and squeezed it tightly into a fist. "I've missed you too, old friend." Merlin confessed in a quieter voice.
He wasn't quite ready to let go, though he did let Lancelot pull back when the knight did so. Lancelot's hands were on his shoulders and his eyes were cataloguing every small detail. Merlin noted the way Lancelot's expression flipped from bright, gleaming joy to dark, seething horror and anger. He opened his mouth, doubtlessly to ask for the names of the person who had given Merlin a few of the notable scars—and Merlin had to refrain from outwardly rolling his eyes. Both Galahad and Gaius had questioned him on it and Merlin was no keener to speak Warren's name as he had been the first time.
"Please, Lance, can we not ruin this with the darkness?" Merlin requested quietly. "I don't want the pain of what happened to tarnish this moment." He continued in the same pleading voice, willing for Lancelot to back down.
Lancelot's expression steeled before a few heartbeats passed and he softened with understanding. "Of course, we don't have to discuss it now." He held up a hand and Merlin felt a familiar amusement in his chest. "But, we will discuss it, eventually, right?" Lancelot reminded Merlin in a stern, no-nonsense voice and Merlin nodded.
He was not looking forward to that discussion. "Of course." Merlin agreed placatingly. He glanced towards where Gaius had finished preparing two bowls and had now added a second before electing to take a seat. "How have you been Lance?" Merlin questioned, desperate to know what he had missed and what the crystals could not tell him. He could see their faces—know that they were still alive, though he could not see the moments in their lives.
Lancelot smiled. "I have been well-enough, I suppose." He rested his chin on the palm of his hand, his elbow propped against the table. "I have been courting Lady Emmaline for a little less than a year." The knight added, a hint of pinkness residing over his face. Merlin could not be happier for his friend in that moment—Lancelot had finally healed his broken heart from Gwen, and he remembered the sweet, if not fiery nature of Lady Emmaline. She was a short, petite thing with wild curls of red and blue-green eyes.
"I am so happy for you." Merlin spoke truthfully. Lancelot reached across the table and grasped his forearm, their grip easily sliding in the standard knight's manner of comfort and greeting and farewell.
The knight's smile widened. "Thank you, it means so much." He shook his head, "More than words can express." They lingered there for a few moments more in that small world before they both withdrew, and Merlin spooned some porridge into his mouth. "I suppose you have heard, then? That Arthur lifted the ban on magic a fortnight ago." Lancelot questioned and Merlin paused in his chewing to deliberate on answer.
He finally swallowed. "I heard whispers—though I didn't think that this day would ever come." Merlin glanced downwards. "I know little of what it is like to be free, old friend. It's a welcome change, don't get me wrong, but it's frightening at times that this could really be my life." He confessed quietly. He didn't add that he had spent the past three years feeling as though he were destined to wander the Earth as a ghost—as a meaningless vessel, as destiny's plaything to leave to ruin and never to victory.
"It should have come sooner." Lancelot spoke after a moment. "I'm sorry, old friend. For all that I don't know. For all of the suffering you endured alone. I can promise you—on my honor as a knight—that I will spend the rest of my days atoning for not being there for you in your darkest hours." The knight continued, his expression becoming weighed down by sadness and guilt and blame that Merlin thought was rather unfair.
Merlin placed a hand on Lancelot's shoulder. "I—Thank you, Lance." He whispered. He pulled back to wipe at his eyes. "Now, tell me, has Arthur decided on someone to fill the position as Court Magician?" Merlin changed the subject. He did not know if Arthur would ever want to have him in that position—as Merlin had spent many years hiding a key fact of his existence, but he held a small fraction of hope in this moment that perhaps Arthur could extend to him forgiveness and the will to start anew.
The knight and Merlin's mentor exchanged glances. "No." Lancelot answered with a small, knowing smile. "He has been rather picky on who he wants to fill the role for the first time in over two decades. His words in the last part, not mine." The knight continued.
Thoughtful, Merlin stirred his porridge. It might be possible that Arthur would accept him, and he would not be faced with rejection for the second time, but he still worried. The lifting of the ban could still be in its early stages and what if Merlin's presence shifted that. He was just a scarred bastard from a village that belonged in Essitir—perhaps the court would be unable to see past that and Arthur would be better off selecting someone that he held no history of friendship with.
"I would try not think as you are, my boy." Gaius rested a soothing hand on Merlin's shoulder, and he jumped. Thankfully, neither Gaius nor Lancelot acknowledged Merlin's flinch when he was surprised.
Merlin angled his head to glance at his mentor. "Have you become a mind-reader in my absence, Gaius?" Merlin asked with an added gasp for the dramatics of it. Gaius rolled his eyes after a moment and flicked Merlin's left ear—the ear opposite of his disfigurement. The thought of those wounds caused his mood to sour as he wondered whether or not the council would also voice a protest against someone as disagreeable to look at as Merlin seated next to them and at their table.
"He may as well have." Lancelot stage-whispered. Merlin felt his lips quirk at a half-smile, and he could see the sadness residing deeply in Lancelot's expression. It was a look that Merlin did not like—not only for the reminder of his suffrage, but simply because he did not like to see people he cared for made to hurt. They deserved every iota of happiness, and it pained his slowly-beating heart to think that he could ruin their joy—cause it to rot. "That is not an expression I like to see, Merlin." The knight spoke after a few moments passed of them contemplating one another.
Merlin's eyes averted to his porridge, and he blinked a couple of time to keep the wetness from trailing down his face. "I'm not the same—Lance." Merlin whispered quietly. "I don't—I don't know how." He continued, his throat closing, and he unconsciously raised his fingers to his face—the visible scar that was very difficult for people to see past.
Lancelot grasped his fingers and pulled them away from his face, Merlin's eyes darting towards him. "I'm here, old friend." Lancelot whispered back in the same tone, his voice a soothing murmur that made Merlin feel comfortable enough to consider rest. He hadn't slept for two days, and he could feel the exhaustion and weariness ribboning along his bones and arteries and veins. "I want nothing from you, Merlin. You can do as you have to. You don't have to be a certain way or think or act a fool—that is not the reason you are my brother." The knight finished, voice raising in slight increments.
The words soothed him, bleeding the tension from his shoulders. Merlin leaned backwards as Gaius ran his fingers soothingly through Merlin's hair, offering a small passage. "You need to get some rest, my boy." Gaius murmured, lowering himself to sit next to Merlin.
He thought of protesting the idea of sleep—thought of informing the two that he was fine, that he would be fine, but the yawn that slipped out countered any argument he might make. "Rest, little brother." Lancelot kneeled at his side. The knight rested his hands on Merlin's shoulders, drawing soothing circles against the fabric. Merlin nodded and stood carefully, his hand absently shooting to form a protective embrace at his side.
Lancelot seemed to note the gesture for what it was, and his expression darkened—knowing that Merlin had been fighting recently and having been unable to come to his aid—and adjusted accordingly. He slung Merlin's left arm over his shoulder and took on some of Merlin's weight to guide him towards his room. They made quick work of the stairs, though Merlin shivered as he recalled that the window of his room was still open, and his eyes goldened as he shut it.
The knight detangled himself from Merlin momentarily to adjust the blankets on the bed—a frown on his face as he realized that they were dust-covered and cold from having not been used for so long. Merlin didn't mind that fact, if anything, he appreciated the small reminders of the past and he could feel the familiar discomfort of his pillow and the cot springs underneath his back. He sat up with a little help from Lancelot and took off his boots, unwrapping his feet from the makeshift bandages Merlin had made.
He had need for the bandages to offer his toes some protection from the frostbite. Though, they had soaked through as his boots were not well-made enough to last him as long as they had. Merlin laid back, his eyes closing of their own accord as he felt Lancelot's fingers comb through his knotted raven hair. When Lancelot made to retreat, Merlin opened his eyes and grasped the other man's wrist, eyes widening as he felt the coarse fabric of a sliver of Merlin's neckerchief wound around it.
Lancelot allowed for Merlin to run his fingers over it before he slowly retreated and helped put Merlin's hand under the sheet. The knight undid the fasten of his warm, fur-lined red cloak and lowered it over Merlin, wrapping it over the wayward youth.
Merlin thought of reminding the knight of his own green cloak that was still fastened over his shoulders, but the words turned gummy in his mouth. He swallowed instead and his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth as he contemplated the blue fabric, "I'm sorry as well, old friend, for the grief I've caused you." Merlin whispered, his voice was nearly silent, and he wondered if it were loud enough for Lancelot to hear him and comprehend that there were words coming out of his mouth rather than just sounds.
The knight kneeled at his bedside, "You're home now, that is all that matters."
Following his impromptu nap—Merlin had slept more peacefully than he had in years—he had woken when it was late afternoon, the last of the sun's rays creating a square of lighter wood on the floor in front of his window. He had awoken warm, tangled in Lancelot's cloak and his own and he had felt some of the tension from waking in an area that he momentarily didn't recognize seep from his form and into the cot mattress. At his nightstand, there was a wooden cup of water as well as a scribbled not on a piece of parchment.
With some level of exasperation at himself, Merlin slowly detangled himself from the cloaks so that he would not fall off and land in a heap on the floor. It would be a clumsy way of waking and one that Merlin had done plenty of times in the same room, but he had no need for sprinting through his morning routine—he had nowhere he had to be quite yet as the only ones in the citadel aware of his presence were Gaius and Lancelot, and potentially Galahad, though Merlin remained unsure of that.
He wiped at his forehead and made a face at the sweat matting his hair to his forehead. Merlin unwound the clasp of his cloak and stood to head to the wardrobe, where his satchel had been placed in the open doors as he had slept. Surprisingly, he wasn't incredibly bothered by someone entering the room as he rested, mainly because he knew it had been either Lancelot or Gaius who had figured that Merlin might want the chance to change his clothes. Merlin stripped off his trousers and changed into another pair quickly, before carefully peeling his tunic from his body.
The bandages around his chest were spotted with some red and Merlin frowned in consternation—it was taking longer for the wound from the dagger in his chest to heal, doubtlessly from the poisonous dark magic that his body had spent a little over a month purging. The violence of that action had made it difficult for the skin to remain stitched together and Merlin had found himself following into a pattern of consistently redoing the stitches.
He supposed that he would have been better off if the wound had happened at a different time in the year—since there were very little herbs that grew in winter and Merlin had run out of the potions he needed to treat the wound within a week. Merlin slowly unwound the bandages, revealing the stitches that were holding in the wound and he tossed the bandages. As he assessed the wound, he knew that he might need to retrieve some salve from downstairs to keep the wound from becoming infected.
Merlin chewed at his lower lip, hesitant to walk downstairs in case he might spot Gaius. When he left Camelot, he was no stranger to scars, but his scars had increased drastically over the years—and he had more wounds that had healed haltingly and not as good as they should have than wounds that had healed the other way. It worsened his mood enough to know that there was no method he could use to hide the scar disfiguring his face—and he was infinitely thankful that the two could still manage to look at him and not show any sign of disgust.
He sighed, knowing that the treatment of his injury overrode any desire to keep as many scars to himself as possible. Merlin plucked up his green cloak from the edge of the bed and wrapped it loosely around himself—feeling as childlike as ever. He peeked around the door and heaved a relieved breath when he noted that the chambers were empty. It must have been later than his initial estimate, and Gaius must have chosen to take his dinner with the king. Merlin kept one eye on the door as his hands gave a perusal of the shelves.
Gaius had not changed his organization system over the years and Merlin was relieved to locate the foul-smelling salve that he needed. He held the container in one hand and took a seat on the stairs to apply it on his skin. It stung slightly as it touched his wound, but he gritted his teeth to restrain any sound that might escape. The sting was just the salve chasing away any infection that had already been given room to wrap itself around the wound.
A few minutes passed as Merlin quickly and methodically applied the salve before he twisted the lid back on and placed it back where he found it. He grabbed a roll of fresh bandages and then climbed up the stairs and dressed quickly, tightening the strings on the clasp, and lifting the hood over his head. The chambers hadn't changed in the few moments he spent upstairs, and Merlin chewed on his lower lip as he thought of where he should go. He supposed that he should probably find his footing in the citadel—though he could figure that Gaius would not be so quick to allow him to return to work.
The man doubtlessly knew that Merlin could still be deemed in the recovery phase, though he had no idea what sort of wound Merlin hid underneath his garments. Merlin slowly opened the door, wincing at the ensuing loud creak and slipped out.
He still felt apprehensive about being inside the citadel when he had been banished and that banishment had not been revoked to his knowledge. Though, neither Gaius nor Lancelot touched that topic quite yet, it hovered uncertainly in the air around them. Merlin swallowed, padding silently down the stairs in the boots he had unthinkingly tugged on with a pair of fresh socks that he had left behind—though, he supposed the freshness depended on what one considered fresh.
Merlin hadn't thought to stuff socks in his satchel when he had been silently crying as he packed his things—and even if he had, many of his things had been lost when Morgana had sent her mercenaries after him. His imprisonment echoed inside his mind, the walls surrounding him flickering with walls forged of a darker stone and caked with blood splatters and the griminess of dust. Merlin forcibly shoved those thoughts aside and inhaled deeply before peering closely at the guards patrolling the corridors.
They seemed to be caught in some sort of game or competition or the other that made it easy for Merlin to slip past their notice. He figured that he might visit the market—see whether the people truly welcomed magic or if it were still segregated from the others.
Opening the door leading outside, he felt a bit more of the tension drain from his face as he relished in the outside air. Merlin had found a preference for being outside in favor of inside—the world felt more freeing without the cloying walls and ceilings and doors and windows. He skimmed the faces that dotted the courtyard and was momentarily surprised to see Princess Elena taking a stroll of the grounds with a small entourage of servants.
The lady walked with a certain poise, but there was still a charming clumsiness to her movements that hinted at the same girl in the golden dress who had tripped in front of the then-king-and-prince and face-planted. Merlin briefly entertained the thought of checking in on her, seeing if he truly had been successfully at removing the sidhe from her body, but he rethought it. He didn't know how much other kingdoms would remember of him and though he had been around the princess, he had not held many conversations with her.
Merlin followed her with his gaze, unable to keep a slightly strangled noise from escaping his throat when he spotted a few of the knights pause to speak with her. Gwaine. Elyan. Percival. His heart panged with the longing to speak with them, to run to them—but his mind still remembered when they had turned their backs on him with confliction in their eyes. The confliction didn't amount to much, as it was still the bitter sting of rejection that doused any trace of hope.
He still missed them. He missed Gwaine's bawdy limericks and Elyan's tendency to prank others and Percival's ability to sit with him and teach him roman. Merlin had, in turn, taught the gentle giant, Latin.
Merlin dug his fingernails into his palms until they pierced the skin and blood pooled at the surface of his skin to restrain himself from approaching them. Though, he could see the blue fabric that was wrapped around their wrists—the tangible proof that Gaius had been truthful when he told Merlin that they had split his neckerchief into strips they could wear in honor of him. A part of his mind argued that they wore it in honor of the person they remembered, and not the scarred man who had returned to Camelot.
"You're here." A voice whispered, amazement in Galahad's tone. Merlin angled his head to look towards the knight who approached him in two quick strides. Galahad grasped his shoulders and peered at him. "Merlin?" Galahad confirmed with some level of desperation in his eyes.
So, Merlin supposed that the knight hadn't guessed that Merlin would return. "Hello Galahad." Merlin greeted in a voice that was thick with disuse. He cleared his throat, coughing slightly into his fist.
The knight smiled; expression relieved. "I had almost thought that it was a hallucination but you—you're really alive?" Galahad's gaze was assessing him, almost as though he were reaffirming that Merlin stood in front of him and not just someone who greatly resembled him. Merlin could feel the hint of a smile settling on his lips as he pushed his hood back slightly to confirm his identity before re-covering his face. He didn't want to chance being recognized by the stray passerby before he was ready to declare his presence.
A part of his mind was still so afraid—so terrified, feared that he was setting himself up for rejection. That the only end to the path he was on was riddled with despair and rejection and disgust in who Merlin had had to become to survive. "I am." Merlin nodded his head slightly, before his eyes darted to the party he had been just observing. They seemed to be caught in their own bubble and he was so far outside of their acceptance that it was nearly laughable. It made him long for the days around the fire.
Even if he had been cloaking a part of himself from them, he had faced more acceptance—more welcome—than ever before. They had turned Camelot into his home before they turned it into a home that no longer desired his presence. "You should go to them." Galahad informed him, gesturing towards the group. "Tell them that you're still alive." The knight's lips were pursed.
Merlin considered it before he shook his head, his eyes infinitely sad and something large and heavy settling in his chest. "I can't." He rubbed at his wrist, where the cloth rested on theirs. "I can't destroy the image they have preserved of me." Merlin thought himself too damaged, too filled with scars and pain for them to be able to reconcile him with their past memories of him.
"You honestly believe they would turn you away." Galahad shook his head disbelievingly. "They still wear your neckerchief around their wrists. They still have a day spent to mourning you. They still visit your head-stone." The knight's voice tapered off and her bit his lip.
His throat dried, they had a grave for him? They had dug him a shallow grave? "It'll be different to see me." Merlin confided in Galahad quietly. "What if they still resent me for the—the magic?" His voice dropped to a whisper at the word.
Galahad eyed him with some level of sadness and dawning comprehension. "It would be rather hypocritical of them to think that your magic is evil whereas other magic isn't." The knight placed a hand on Merlin's cloak-covered shoulder and squeezed to offer whatever semblance of comfort he could. Merlin thought of countering that he had so much blood on his hands to go with the additional scars, that he had been forced to become a monster to survive Morgana's frequent attempts to capture him.
Merlin pressed his fingers against his scars, allowing them to ground him. "Arthur—the king banished me the last time we spoke. I thought he hated me. I saw his hatred so clear and poignant that it's hard to—to dare to hope that he may have forgiven me." He thought of his distant dream of perhaps one day being able to serve as Arthur's equal, at his side, in the position of Court Magician.
"I suppose that you have hoped for things before, and it has failed you. You fear that it may do so once more." Galahad had fathomed why Merlin could not think of a way to approach the knights. The knight seemed to trail off in thought, "Perhaps you should see the Queen." Galahad suggested and Merlin tilted his head in thought. Gwen, he could still remember the tears in her eyes as she watched him leave. Her hatred had not been so in-Merlin's-face, but Merlin had drawn his own assumptions from her silence.
Though, she had known him perhaps the second-longest of those in Camelot. She had been his first friend, the woman who had taught him the pieces of armor and dressing the prince in his chainmail and knight garb. She had taught him much of how to survive in Camelot and introduced him to her friends. She had welcomed him with open arms—she might be perhaps one of the only ones that hadn't known of his magic who Merlin thought might be willing to do so once more.
The idea held some merit, Merlin could admit that to himself—though he had no idea where she might be at this time of day. And, what if she called the guards before he could speak to her? What if she refused to be in his presence when she saw just how damaged he was? "She could ease your fears, Merlin. She has always been a honest character." Galahad added, his eyes kind and Merlin exhaled shakily.
He could hear his heart beating inside his chest as he slightly nodded his head. "Do—Do you know where she might be?" Merlin queried. He then rethought seeing her today—or tonight, as the sun was giving a last performance of red, pinks, oranges, yellows, and purples before disappearing underneath the horizon. "Or, it's possible that it is too late." He could feel the familiar urge to ramble in his nervousness and bit his tongue to stop any more words from escaping his mouth.
"She is taking an after-dinner stroll of the Queen's gardens." Galahad informed him. "She does so every evening while Arthur holds one last meeting with a few of his more trusted advisors and goes through some paperwork." The knight elaborated.
Merlin thought about where that might be—he knew there were separate gardens, but he didn't figure that he had ever been allowed access to the Queen's side. Arthur and Gwen had been married a short time when he had been banished and Uther had banned anyone from ever entering or administering care to the gardens—unable to bear the thought of doing so without his wife. "Can you show me the entrance?" Merlin requested.
Galahad nodded, slinging an arm over Merlin's shoulder. "Follow me, old friend." He inclined his head respectfully towards a few of the knights before steering Merlin towards the east wing. Merlin spared one last glance to the smiling countenances of those he still cared for so much but was too afraid to be faced with their disgust when they realized he had changed and not for the better. Down the path they walked, the air was much quieter, and wreaths were festively placed on the trees, connecting the branches.
In this, the snow looked beautiful and pure, and Merlin's eyes traced the winter flowers that were in bloom, petals curling outwards and some centers filled with gold pollen. Galahad steered them to the right and where green bushes had been trimmed back to reveal a stone gate that was pushed open. The knight paused there and gestured for Merlin to go forward, and the youth turned to murmur his gratitude for the knight giving him some level of privacy, though the man didn't go far.
Gently, Merlin rested a hand on the cold gate and momentarily wished that he had some gloves to protect him from the evening frostbite before he straightened and entered the gardens. There were many pathways that stretched out from the entrance—most lined with high and low winter flowers that glowed without any sunlight. Merlin couldn't keep his surprise off of his face—the Queen's Garden had magic-made flowers.
Perhaps, that had been why they had been forbidden from entering. Flowers that Uther could never rid himself of for his queen had loved them made of the magic he loathed and blamed.
Merlin kneeled to touch one of the buds and couldn't keep his lips from curling upwards as the blossom unfurled in his hands—a pale-blue light pulsing inside of it. He stood, wiping his hands on his trousers before looking for Gwen. He could see the spots where the snow was pushed down where her footsteps veered to the right and he followed them—feeling strange and worrying at his lower lip. He couldn't keep himself from wondering if this was truly a good idea-if Gwen might turn him away.
He exhaled sharply when he spotted her seated on a bench. She was twirling the stem of a flower in her fingers and her eyes were closed as she enjoyed its scent. Gwen was dressed in a pale purple cloak with white fur lining the inside and as she twirled the flower Merlin caught sight of blue fabric wrapped around her small wrist—this one folded over multiple times and formed a sword of pattern in the knot at the front, the knot almost appearing like a stone in a simple bracelet.
Slowly, Merlin lowered himself to one knee and bowed his head. "Your majesty." He spoke, wincing as she jumped slightly and flattened a hand to her chest. She looked at him in puzzlement, her warm brown eyes considering him. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to startle you. I just—um—I don't know what to say. I know that there is something I should say. But I don't know how to get to that point and—" Gods, this was starting out horribly.
The Queen chuckled slightly. "It's alright, good sir. You're a Druid, correct?"
Merlin swallowed roughly. "No, I'm not." He didn't look up from the snow-blanketed floor, he could feel the snow then seeping into his trousers as he kneeled. "I'm a warlock." He added after a few heartbeats that dragged on for a long while. "I've come to you, your majesty, to—to apologize." Merlin's voice cracked on the word.
She scooted to the edge of the bench and placed her hands on his shoulders. "I don't believe that there is anything you need to apologize for, sir. Especially, not to me." Gwen informed him in a soft voice and Merlin couldn't keep the tears in check. She was still the same, kind Gwen that he remembered—the woman who would hold a stranger's hand through their grief and who would never turn anyone away. He didn't know how he could have thought that she might not extend that kindness and care to him.
It wasn't in her nature to. "I've lied. I've told so many lies, my queen. Too many to count." Merlin confessed. "Even now, I come to you dishonestly when I've caused you so much pain and so much sorrow." He lifted shaking fingers to the edges of his hood before lowering it. Merlin inhaled deeply before chancing a glance up from the snow and he saw her.
Gwen looked frozen—her eyes wide. "Merlin?" She gripped his shoulders tighter before a glowing smile nearly cracked her face in half and she laughed—a sound that was half-joy and half-sorrow. "Merlin!" She launched herself into his arms and Merlin reflexively wrapped his around her and tried to keep himself from toppling over. "You're alive. Gods, you're alive. You're here." Gwen was crying, her entire body shaking in Merlin's arms as she breathed those words over and over into his chest.
Merlin could feel his heart cracking open—light seeping in to replace the tendrils of darkness. "Gwen. Oh, gods, Gwen." Merlin inhaled the scent of her, his eyes closing as he held his best friend in his arms. He glanced down and spoke on a half-sob, "You're ruining the state of your dress, my lady."
Gwen squeezed tightly. "I don't care." She answered petulantly. "I just got my best friend dress. Fancy dress and cloak be damned." Gwen pulled back to wipe at her eyes and then she wiped at his. Her fingers stalled and tripped over the scar on Merlin's face. "You have not been the source of my sorrow and pain, Merlin. I don't want you to ever think that. Rather, you have brought me so much joy and happiness right now that I'm afraid I'll pinch myself and wake up." She spoke with absolute conviction in her voice.
"I'm afraid of the same, Gwen." Merlin answered, pressing his forehead against her shoulder. "It doesn't feel real. You—You know about my magic and you're not shoving me away." He whispered.
Gwen pressed a kiss to his forehead. "I should have fought harder to keep Arthur from banishing you." She confessed quietly. Merlin squeezed her tighter, wondering what would have been different then, but knowing that they couldn't rewind the clock. "Can we just pretend that there are no conversations to be had?" Gwen requested quietly. "I know there are. You have your stories and I have mine. But, can we just sit here for a moment?" She continued.
Merlin nodded. "I was about to ask the same of you." He relaxed in her embrace, though a part of him thought to move them to the bench and he kept his arms around Gwen as he adjusted them. His side twinged slightly at the movement, and he rested his cheek atop her head as she buried her face in his side.
"Ok, just one comment and then we'll go back to sitting here." Gwen piped up, "Have you been eating? You're far skinnier than you used to be." She frowned in consternation and Merlin felt his lips quirk into a smile at the familiar commentary. She had always been concerned about whether he was eating properly, taking on the role of big sister. Merlin snorted a laugh, and she slapped his chest lightly, he flinched and press a hand to his chest, reminded that his chest was still tender.
Merlin sighed, "I'm alright, Gwen. You have no need to worry." He offered reassuringly.
Gwen thinned her lips, not looking impressed by his answer. "Funnily enough that's the point where I start to worry more." She murmured. Merlin smiled softly but said nothing as he rested his cheek once more on her head.
Being around Gwen had given him the courage to approach the small hall's doors toward the meeting rooms. Gaius had told him that they were hosting open interviews for the position of Court Magician once a week while they strived to find someone who could be the face of the lifting of the magic ban. Someone who could exemplify the good that magic could bring—Merlin knew that Gaius was only giving him these tidbits of information because the man knew Merlin's former dream of having the position. He didn't know if he could do it, his body was shaking fit enough to fly apart as she approached the grandiose doors.
His fingers toyed with the simple band that Gwen had given him, and he could feel the familiar weight of the neckerchief she had fastened around his neck before the meeting. She had been slightly upset that she was not the first to know that Merlin was still alive, but she had rolled with the news as it came. Somehow—Merlin suspected Lancelot, but the knight chose to remain silent with an amused smile—Gwen had gotten ahold of the neckerchief Merlin never removed from his satchel and she had repaired it with some new thread.
She had also added a strand of her own hair to it, like his mother had done with her own when Merlin started wearing neckerchiefs. He didn't know how she had remembered that small detail—but he treasured the fact that she did. Merlin had dressed himself in a blue tunic and the red neckerchief and even wore a new, brown overcoat that Galahad had given him. It was very reminiscent of how he had used to dress—though he had added a green cloak to the ensemble and raised the hood over his head to hide his features.
Merlin paused outside the door, the two guards on either side of it were watching him as well—their expressions curious before one slipped inside to alert the king and his private council that a new candidate had showed. Merlin wasn't sure if he liked the dishonesty angle of his entrance—but he wanted the chance to get through the doors and there was still a small voice inside his head that whispered that this might end the same as it had ended the last time he had been in front of the king's council.
Granted, now it was the king's private council which consisted of the Roundtable Brotherhood—Gwaine, Galahad, Lancelot, Elyan, Percival, and Leon, as well as a few others that had been added over the years. Lancelot had updated him that Bedivere had been absorbed into the group. There was one other that had been added—a newer knight that was still in his trial one by the name of Tristan.
A part of him still worried as he waited for the guard to retake his position and either allow Merlin entrée or if he would attempt to postpone. Merlin worried at his lower lip, anxiety curling deep in his stomach, and he absently pressed his fingers against his wrist to measure out how heartbeat. The raised skin under his familiar was as grounding as ever and it worked to unwound the knot of tension residing deep in his gut.
"Nervous?" The other guard queried, one eyebrow arching.
Merlin had to cover his surprise at the fact that the guard broke the pervading silence—he didn't know whether the guards were still unanimously of the negative opinion on sorcerers and his presence here might be undesired for that reason alone. Swallowing thickly, he mulled over what he should say. "Something like that." Merlin answered, voice nearly inaudible.
The man quieted; expression thoughtful as he considered Merlin sharply. "You shouldn't be, sir." He offered kindly. "The king would not be so cruel as to turn you away if you are here in good will." The man finished, his admiration for his sovereign in his voice. Merlin felt slightly calmed by that—knowing that Arthur still held the admiration of his people warmed him, reminded him of his reasons for believing in Arthur like he once had.
"Thank you." Merlin nodded, bowing his head in gratitude. The guard returned and gestured for Merlin to step forward as he opened the doors. The group was seated around the large round table that Arthur had commissioned following his crowning. Merlin observed those seated—surprised to see that Elena had also been welcomed into the fold, seated calmly across from Gwen. The spot at Arthur's right was still empty as his left was occupied by his queen and Merlin wondered what that meant.
He wondered if it meant that Arthur could not bear for anyone to take the spot Merlin had occupied out of grief or if it was because Arthur needed the reminder of his failed trust. Merlin took a few steps closer and dropped to one knee—kneeling before Arthur's private council. He could hear his heart pounding in his ears and wondered if those seated could hear it. His eyes remained on Arthur—though he noted that Gaius covered his mouth with his hand to hide the growing smile and Lancelot and Galahad traded looks.
Gwen was the only one who had no visible response to his presence, her spine straight and expression poised. There was a dash of more warmth in her brown eyes that hinted that she knew it was Merlin underneath the cloak and not some other druid. "My lord." Merlin murmured. "Thank you for agreeing to see me." He lowered his eyes subserviently to the floor, eyes tracing the patterns in the marble floor.
"Of course." Arthur inclined his head, one hand toying carefully with the blue fabric around his wrist. He didn't seem conscious of the movement and Merlin felt even more calmed by it—knowing that perhaps he would be well-received. "What is your name, good sir?" He questioned.
Merlin counted to ten inside his head. He didn't know whether Arthur had been told his other name—though Gaius had said that he could not bear to say Merlin's other name, other druids may have had no qualms about bringing him up before the Once and Future King. "I am called, Emrys, my lord." A sour taste formed in his mouth as he wondered whether he was approaching this from the right perspective. It wasn't an untruth; he had been called Emrys by the druids countless times in his life.
Arthur hummed thoughtfully, showing no recognition for the name. "And how many years have you studied magic?" He queried.
"I am a warlock, my lord." Merlin informed him. "I was born with magic—though I have only studied it as much I could without discovery for nearly nine years." He stumbled slightly through his words, frowning in consternation at himself. He wanted to appear put-together and his rambling showed his inexperience. He knew what they were looking for—someone who could be the face of magic as Gaius had said—and he wanted to be that, but he was terrified that when he lowered the mask, it would be something unreachable.
What if Arthur had not forgiven him for his lies? What if Arthur had decided that he could never trust Merlin, again? What if Arthur thought that Merlin did not hold the best interests of Camelot close to heart? "Then, I suppose I should apologize for the fear you've had to live in." Arthur spoke with some level of consideration. "With my family's transgressions against your kind, I can't imagine why you might want to serve me." He continued with some level of prodding.
Merlin spoke without thinking. "I cannot fault you for what you have been taught your entire life to believe. I can only hope that there might be peace between us rather than furthering the cycle of blood." He answered.
"And you would find comfort living in a citadel that is half-afraid of you? You would want to turn Camelot into your home?" Arthur rested his chin on a fisted hand. The other members of the table remained silent as they watched the back-and-forth though Merlin detected the boredom on Gwaine's face.
He swallowed. "Camelot was once my home." He confessed quietly. "I have lived much of my life trying to prove to people that I am more than just the magic in my veins. That my power will only ever be used for the good of the people I care for." Merlin spoke honestly, speaking from his heart. He didn't know if he was giving too much away—if Arthur might be racking his brain for the list of names of those he had banished.
Arthur was silent for a few moments, "And, can you—?"
Gwaine cut him off, "I believe that is enough." He declared loudly. He glanced towards Merlin and folded his arms across his chest. "We don't need to continue on with this." The knight continued in the same tone of voice, his declaration echoing through the hall.
Leon closed his eyes and massaged his forehead. "Gwaine." He opened his eyes to cast his gaze skyward as though he were praying.
Arthur glanced towards the knight and Merlin caught the amusement paired with exasperation in his gaze. "Gwaine—we do have to continue—I apologize, Emrys." The king turned back towards Merlin with an incline of his head to indicate his apology.
The irreverent knight rolled his eyes. "Not really. I have heard you ask the same questions over and over and none of them will ever be a fit for Court Magician." Gwaine added. Merlin observed Elena reaching out to rest a calming hand on his arm and he turned his hand to interlace their fingers. "I'm sorry, mate. But, there is no one who can ever take the place of Court Magician—no one alive, anyways." The knight murmured the last part nearly inaudibly, his fingers stroking the blue fabric around his own wrist.
Merlin swallowed. "I understand." He did not move from his kneeling position. "I want you to know that—that—" He swallowed once more, tongue sticking to the roof of his mouth. "—I'd be happy to serve you, in whatever way you may need, until the day I die." Merlin told him, his heart thudding in his chest at the words.
Arthur's expression froze, his hands resting on the armrests of his throne-like chair and squeezing. "Lower your hood." He whispered. A few of the others furrowed their eyebrows at the sudden shift in the king's demeanor. "Lower your hood." Arthur demanded in a louder tone.
Merlin smiled softly, raising both hands to the frayed edges of the hood and grasping them. He lowered his hood and then bowed his head, unable to meet Arthur's eyes. There was a strangled shout from the table, Merlin's name escaping Gwaine's lips in a sound that rung with so many emotions. He counted to ten inside his head, before biting his lip as he raised his gaze to meet Arthur's eyes. "I—I hope that you will still consider—and I'm sorry for the half-truth. The Druids do call me Emrys. I just—I wasn't sure if this—if this would be—" Merlin half-rambled, feeling less and less sure the longer the silence stretched like a yawning chasm between them.
"Merlin." Arthur spoke, just his name. Merlin clamped his mouth shut and pursed his lips. He could see Arthur's eyes—crystal and blue and bright—as the man observed him. He could see the moment Arthur recognized the grotesque scar that Warren had carved, the tightening of the king's jaw. "I thought you were dead." He continued, speaking in the same tone, his hand unconsciously toying with his wrist.
Merlin eyed him, guilt stirring inside of him. "I fear I may as well have been." He whispered, the quiet confession loud in the stillness of the room. "I thought you hated me." Merlin broke away from Arthur's gaze to glimpse the rest of the table. He could see the other knights—Lancelot and Galahad paired together to restrain Gwaine, though the knight looked alive with emotion. "I thought you all had hated me." His fingers trembled and he unconsciously raised a hand to his face—to the raised lines that met his fingers.
The king was shaking, his expression shifting through so many emotions. Arthur stood then, striding around the table, and standing in front of Merlin—who remained kneeling to his sovereign. "I could never hate you, Merlin." Arthur put a hand hesitantly on Merlin's shoulder and Merlin saw the tears shinning in the man's eyes. "Even at my most infuriated at you—I could never, and I will never be capable of hating you." The king continued, sounding entirely perturbed by the concept of it.
"Thank you." Merlin whispered, head lowering. Arthur crouched in front of him, one hand cupping Merlin's chin. His thumbs traced the scar and his eyes darkened, a frown on his face as he felt the evidence of Merlin's suffering underneath the pads of his fingers.
Arthur exhaled, "Why are you kneeling to me, old friend?" The king queried with a hint of a smile on his lips. "We are equals; I never want for you to kneel to me." Arthur stood then; arm outstretched towards Merlin. Merlin stared at the offered hand for a moment before he reached up, gripping Arthur's forearm. The king grasped Merlin's forearm and pulled him to his feet. Merlin offered a wisp of a smile as they stood in the knight's form for a few more moments before Arthur tugged Merlin forward and into a hug.
Merlin remembered suddenly the day when Arthur had spoke never of hugging him, and he could feel his smile widening as he closed his eyes and returned the embrace. "I missed you, brother." Merlin confessed quietly.
The king chuckled. "And, I you." Arthur returned the sentiment quietly. His grip tightened when Merlin moved to pull away—he knew that he would have to greet the other knights in the next few moments, and he looked forward to it. "I beg your forgiveness, old friend. I failed to protect you." Arthur swallowed then, pulling back and Merlin saw his attention focus on the scars, his fingers following his eyes.
Merlin caught the king's fingers. "You have my forgiveness, sire." Merlin replied, making sure to have the old drawl on the title that was purposefully obstinate. "I do wish to be your Court Magician if you will have me." Merlin thought of bowing his head, but he refrained from lowering his face to the floor.
Arthur laughed. "Do you even have to ask? The position has always been yours." His eyes softened as he caught Merlin by the back of the neck and bowed their heads together. "You have given so much for my kingdom, old friend that I could never think to deny you the rightful title that you have unofficially held all these years." Arthur spoke only for them to hear, and Merlin could not keep his relief from showing on his face.
"Alright, princess, that's enough—it's my turn to hug Merlin." Gwaine declared and they stepped back. Lancelot and Galahad released Gwaine after receiving a nod from Arthur and Merlin found himself being tackled to the ground. "I cannot believe you are standing in front of me, Merls." Gwaine spoke quietly, voice filled with raw emotion. He wrapped his arms around Merlin and squeezed tightly, "And I will personally hunt the man who did this to you to the ends of the Earth and back." Gwaine continued.
Merlin smiled softly. "I know you would." He spoke simply, "But there is no need to. He has been dead for a long time, and you will find no peace hunting his payer." Merlin continued, glancing towards Elena. The princess smiled widely and ran over to hug him as well. Merlin chuckled slightly, though he did have to wince at the pressure against his chest.
Gaius frowned, "Careful, Elena." He stood to move around the table, brows furrowed. "You have not been careful, my boy." Gaius continued as Elena pulled away, grasping Gwaine's hand.
"I have been as careful as can be." Merlin retorted. He placed a hand on Gaius's shoulder. "I'm alright. It's nothing that I can't handle." He informed Gaius in a soft, measured voice. Gaius's eyes were sad as he briefly touched Merlin's cheek, before he backed away to leave room for Leon, Elyan, and Percival to greet Merlin. Elyan ruffled his hair playfully, though there was anger in his gaze when he saw the scars up-close and how close they veered to Merlin's eye.
Leon clasped his arm tightly, "We have missed you, Merlin." The curly-haired knight smiled. "I am glad that we wrong." Leon continued.
Merlin chuckled, "I suppose that that might be the first time a knight has been pleased to be wrong." He retorted and watched the amusement dance across the man's features. He was aware of Arthur slinging an arm over his shoulders—the last Merlin had remembered; the king had never been a comfortingly tactile person. Arthur was tactile in the manner that he would resort to slaps upside the head and punches to the arm, but never one for hugging.
Percival ruffled his hair as Elyan had done. "I suppose I will get that hug, later." Percival mused; eyes amused as he watched Arthur. Merlin could feel the last of the tension draining from his body—his heart filled with light once more. He knew that the darkness still held a corner of his heart and Morgana remained an angry, vengeful threat on the horizon—but he had finally managed to find his way home. He was covered from head-to-toe in scars and Gaius would doubtlessly scold him for his recklessness and the others would hop on the bandwagon. There would be conflicts to face from the council as Merlin was still a peasant on top of everything.
The thoughts were nearly overwhelming in their weight, but he knew he could worry about the small things later. The time would come to deal with all of those things—to deal with the fact that Merlin was scarred and had been hurt for so long. To deal with whatever else the world may say about whether Merlin was deserving of a status as the Court Magician. To deal with Merlin's darkness—his curse of immortality and how many times he had contested it and tried to fight it.
"We'll face it together." Arthur whispered, perhaps not knowing what thoughts ran through Merlin's mind, but knowing that they were not all positive. "Whatever happens—we'll face it as we should always, together." The king continued with absolute confidence and faith in his voice.
Merlin relaxed slightly. "I know we will." He spoke, trying to match Arthur's conviction. "There are some things that I have to tell you." Merlin had put it off for long enough—he needed to be completely honest with Arthur.
Arthur nodded. "I know. And there are some things I have to tell you, too, old friend." The king squeezed Merlin's shoulder slightly before releasing him to reclaim his seat across from the door. Merlin hesitated minimally before striding towards the seat to the right of the king and waiting for Arthur's impatient gesture for him to take the seat. The other knights, Elena, and Gwen took their seats as well and Merlin was the last to ease himself into the chair. Arthur's expression pinched with concerned before he eased a calm mask over his face.
Merlin placed his hands on the table, clasping them together. He thought of saying how dissimilar he was to the youth who had been banished in this very room over three years prior, but he refrained. "What happened, Merlin?" Elyan asked and Merlin turned to consider the knight. Elyan did not look much different than he had back then, though there was a hint of stubble on his chin.
He sighed, "Morgana—she captured me not long after I was banished." Merlin closed his eyes and lowered his head at the memory of Morgana. "Ironically enough, I escaped the day you were combing the fortress." Merlin whispered. He didn't have to be looking to see the tension that seeped into the expressions of the others. "I've spent the past two years eluding Morgana and her mercenaries. Unfortunately, a few months ago, three caught up to me at a tavern in York. But I haven't spotted anymore since." Merlin lifted his gaze from studying the table.
"You were injured, then." Gaius queried.
Merlin nodded, "Aye. Morgana enchanted one of the daggers of the leader and he slid it through my ribs." He informed his mentor with a sort of detachment to his voice. "It took a bit for me to get rid of all of the dark magic, but I will recover soon enough." Merlin finished.
Arthur growled. "I can't imagine how you survived."
Uncomfortable, Merlin shifted slightly, chewing at his lower lip. "That is what I do." Merlin answered. He thought of dodging the topic even more but knew that it would not be right to withhold his knowledge of his immortality curse. "Gaius, I'm not sure if you are quite aware of what the name Emrys means." Merlin didn't know how to approach the topic and he bit his lip as Gaius's brows furrowed.
"It is the name the Druids call you—the title of the man destined to be the greatest sorcerer to walk the Earth and the protector of the Once and Future King." Gaius's expression remained puzzled, and Merlin smiled softly at his mentor.
"That is a part of the name, yes, but the meaning of it." Merlin's voice tapered off. His tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth, and he swallowed. "The meaning of the name in their language—it's immortal." Merlin's final word was a hoarse whisper and Gaius's expression turned to comprehension.
Arthur grasped his forearm. "How do you know?" The king asked, eyes searching Merlin's as he turned to meet his king's gaze.
Merlin pursed his lips and glanced away. "It is not something they told me, exactly. But, something I've come to realize. Things that should kill me, don't. I've—I've felt my heart stop in my chest. And then I awoke the next morning, perfectly able to move when by all rights, I should not have been." He did not feel keen to elaborate on the specifics of that event as it had been by his own hand in his lower moments. He finally met Arthur's gaze, knowing that all he was not saying passed through them and he saw protectiveness tighten over Arthur's features.
"We tell no one of your immortality." Arthur insisted. "They would seek to test it or worse-yet, try to steal it for themselves." Arthur glanced around their core group, daring the others with his eyes to challenge him.
Merlin sighed and reached out to press his fingers against the fabric on Arthur's wrist. "People are gossips at heart—Arthur and I will not hide in the shadows any longer. I know the darkness of people's hearts, I am not so naïve as to think that there won't be people who seek to end my life, I have been hunted, before. I can take care of and protect myself. I'm a survivor, before I am a monster, and I will survive." Merlin spoke clearly and concisely.
Arthur closed his eyes, "You are no monster, Merlin." He whispered; a sentiment echoed by most of their group. "But, you are right—we cannot keep people from talking if they see you survive against the odds." The king continued, speaking in a louder voice.
The warlock nodded. He didn't bother to argue the point of whether or not he was a monster, because it seemed a futile fight. "Let it never be said that Merlin attempts to make things easy for us." Leon murmured softly.
Chuckling wryly at the knight's exasperation, Merlin tilted his head with some level of playfulness. "Where would the fun be in things being kept easy." He countered. He wanted to tell his family his gratitude for their acceptance of him, how they hadn't even blinked in disgust that he was covered in scars—the one that shone brightly on his face. Instead, he leaned back in his seat and toyed with the edges of his green cloak. "I would like to apologize to all of you—for not coming back—for the fact that you all thought I was dead. I cannot imagine the grief I've caused you." Merlin made sure to meet all of their gazes.
"I'm sorry that we stopped looking for you." Arthur spoke at his side and Merlin glanced towards him in askance. "I always knew that you might be alive—like I could tell somewhere, somehow, that you couldn't have been dead. But, so many dead-ends made me fearful that I wouldn't find you by the end. I should have searched more." The king spoke with a fierceness to his voice.
Merlin grasped the king's wrist. "You had a kingdom to run, Arthur. I would have been severely pissed off if you lost it because you focused all your efforts on me." Merlin informed the king, inserting a certain level of lightness to his tone.
Gwaine snorted. "I think it would have been worth it." He had his arms folded across his chest, detaching himself from the rest of the world. "Greatest sorcerer to walk the Earth, aye, mate?" Gwaine arched an eyebrow with a smirk.
Merlin massaged his forehead. "Why do I have a feeling that you're going to make me perform a bunch of carnival tricks?" He asked the room rhetorically. There were amused smiles on the faces of the people around him and he got the feeling that Arthur was about to make a comment befitting his status as a royal prat above all else.
"Isn't that the point of the Court Jester?"
"I could have sworn the position I applied for was Court Magician." Merlin drawled.
Arthur waved a dismissive hand, "You did. But, you can fill the position of both." The king declared pompously. Merlin rolled his eyes and smiled secretly to himself, before his eyes goldened and Arthur's ears shifted on his head, becoming donkey ears.
Gwaine burst out laughing, joined soon by Elyan and Galahad. "Merlin." Arthur sounded as though he were about the reward Merlin's impudence with the stocks. He opened his mouth to say more but all the came out was a long bray that cracked the stoic masks of Leon and Bedivere as they joined in with the chortling. Merlin kept Arthur like that for a moment longer, knowing that he might need to make a run for it if he intended to not be tackled by the king.
He couldn't resist from adding one last comment. "Isn't that one of the jobs of the Court Jester? To make the unwitting king the butt of most jokes?"
...This ended on a far lighter note than it started with. I can't believe I cranked this out in two days, like I started the idea yesterday afternoon and I just finished it this evening. I might make some more edits to the monstrosity as I'm now going to call it, but I believe that this should be the final version. My next post might be more light throughout, but I tend to have a preference for angst. I don't know why, it literally breaks my heart while I'm writing it, but I just do. Anyways, I hope you all have a great day and are safer than the Reckless Emrys AKA Merlin-the-Reckless-idiot-who-should-be-put-in-bubble-wrap-to-protect-our-cinnamon-roll-and-angel.
Honestly, I think I might get most of my ideas from the meme, "the strong protect the sweet"...