"I'm headed straight for the castle,
They've got the kingdom locked up,
And there's an old man sitting on the throne that's saying
I should probably keep my pretty mouth shut."
- Castle, Halsey
For Arthur.
Gods, but it all came down to Arthur, didn't it? It really did come down to Arthur, just Arthur, only Arthur, always Arthur—once, this thought would have brought his blood to a boil, would have seared its sharp and scorching way through him, a trail of fury and resentment and ill-usage and of course it comes down to Arthur because when does it not come down to Arthur left in its wake—but—but he saw—the shadows, Merlin saw the shadows—like great big bruises, startlingly stark under Arthur's sleepless, slightly puffy eyes—and he saw the lines, etched so deep in Arthur's pale, tired face, the exhausted slump to Arthur's shoulders, once so proud, the faded blue of Arthur's eyes, once so bright—the fractures, the fault lines, the cracks carving themselves into the skin as he staggered and struggled and crumbled under a burden far too heavy for him, too heavy for any man, to hope to bear alone—Merlin looked, and Merlin saw, and he could not have resented his king if he had tried.
He knew, then, that he was doing the right thing. He followed Arthur up the stairs and down the corridors and around the corners and into that morning's council meeting, and out into the training grounds—which seemed, somehow, quieter and emptier without Leon and Percival—and he didn't know much of anything anymore, but he knew he was doing the right thing. Arthur carried the whole of the kingdom on his shoulders, and Merlin didn't know much of anything anymore, but he knew he could not ask Arthur to carry anything more.
Merlin didn't know much of anything anymore, but he knew Arthur did not deserve to hurt anymore.
And if that meant he had to hurt—if he had to hurt for Arthur—if he had to hurt so Arthur didn't—
—well, it was for Arthur, so he'd shut his mouth and smile, and he wouldn't say a word. For Arthur. For Arthur. For Arthur.
It was for Arthur, it was for Arthur, it was all for Arthur, all of it, every last little bit of it, and Merlin could see, if he closed his eyes, shoulders thrown back, as proud and tall as they had been—he could see a face without lines and flesh without fractures and eyes that had never lost their shine, eyes that were bright and blue and alive again, and he found he could carry himself through the corridors and down to Agravaine's door.
Agravaine wasn't there.
On the other side of the room, the window was still open, thick red curtains thrown wide. The candles in their holders had not yet been lit, and the hearth held only cool embers. The desk, in the center of the room, stood with its surface nearly buried entirely under scrolls and scrolls of yellow-white parchment—reports and records and letters and maps—Merlin didn't care enough to linger on them—and the cloak—Agravaine's purple traveling cloak—was gone. He'd taken it off the—off the chair—
—the chair where Agravaine first kissed him with lips on his lips and hands on his chin and a tongue in his mouth and wine in the back of his throat even though he hadn't let a drop pass his own lips all night and fingers, so rough and fevered and hungry, sliding down and down and down and down and touching him, cupping him, stroking him, squeezing him—
—no, no, no, stop, stop, stop, don't think about it, don't think about it, don't fucking think about it—
—thick red velvet crumpling under his nails—
—stop it stop it stop it that's not going to help just stop—
—hands all over him hands inside him and please not this not this not this anything but this and this is all that I want and lips warm and slightly wet against his skin his jaw his throat his collarbones—
—stop it stop it stop it—
—tears stinging his cheeks and dripping down his chin and please I'll do anything else please please anything else and his own voice so unlike himself, higher and higher and higher as true panic set in, as Agravaine's fingers rubbed smoothly up against his—
"Just fucking stop it!" The words seemed to almost rip their way out of Merlin's mouth, to tear themselves from his tongue, to claw up his throat and out into the open air—the sound echoed in the empty chamber, unplanned and unexpected and impossibly loud, strangely magnified, it seemed, by the silence of the room—and Merlin couldn't couldn't couldn't stand it and he started to walk—he didn't know why—there was nowhere to go—but he walked, he walked, he walked away from the door and past the bed and over to the window and outside, the black sky blazed bright with a billion stars and the coldest wind he'd ever felt tore through the gap and into the room and the curtains billowed outward around him in the blasts and thick red velvet crumpling under his nails and he couldn't he couldn't he couldn't—
He turned away from the window.
The chair where Agravaine had first kissed him and the wall where he'd pinned him and the floor where he'd knelt and there wasn't a single goddamn place in this room he could let his memories touch. He walked away from the window. To the desk. He didn't know why but he snatched up the first piece of paper he saw, lying there right on top and he didn't care what it said and he couldn't read it by the dim starlight but he squinted at the words on the page anyway because there wasn't a single goddamn place in this room he could let his memories touch and if he tried, he knew he'd leave and then Agravaine—then Arthur—then—
—stop it—
The paper crinkled loudly. He looked down. His fingers had clenched up into a fist. He uncurled them, and smoothed the paper. He still couldn't read it.
A jerk of the hand, a burn behind his eyes, and a shimmering ball of blinding, blue-white light sat in his open palm. After the darkness of the room, it hurt him to look at it.
He looked back at the paper, momentarily startled to see Leon's narrow, painfully-neat writing stared back at him—what did Agravaine and Leon have to do with each other?—but a quick skim-through told him it was only the first knight's usual post-patrol report—he forgot, sometimes, that Arthur shared these reports with Agravaine—forgot, sometimes, how Arthur shared everything with Agravaine—
He felt the sphere he'd conjured lift itself slowly from his palm—it came to a stop just above his head, bobbing slowly up and down, illuminating the entire chamber with its milky glow.
Merlin flung the report away—it couldn't hold his attention. The paper fluttered for a moment, end over end, in the air before it landed, face-down, on top of the left-hand stack. There was another paper now where it had been, and he tugged it up, a little closer to the light. Lines—thousands and thousands of thin, crisscrossed, intersecting lines—a map—a map of—of—
What did Agravaine want with the maps to Camelot's siege tunnels?
Copies, Merlin answered himself, almost at once, Arthur must want copies—wait a moment, though, that didn't make sense—that was the sort of task Arthur would have turned over to Geoffrey, not Agravaine—and, anyway, gods knew he would have made Merlin go down to the vaults and get them—or at least dragged Merlin along while he went and got them. All right, then—then maybe—maybe Arthur thought they might need to use the siege tunnels soon—maybe he had some sort of—some sort of information on Morgana and had started defense preparations in case of attack—no, that can't be right, he'd have told me about that—
A streak, thin and black and almost glistening against the narrow, faded lines—ink—fresh ink—Merlin bent a bit closer to the map, smoothing it flat with the palm of his hand—the sphere he'd summoned seemed to sense what he wanted, and dropped down a few inches—light flooded the worn paper—a string of dots, stark against the white page, and a word, a word in a hand he didn't recognize, a word he couldn't read—he leaned in just a bit more—
A quiet click and a longcreak and a slight scrape and—the door, Merlin realized, too late—the door had opened—and he turned—too late—away from the desk—and then there was Agravaine Agravaine Agravaine only Agravaine, stopped short in the entryway and wrapped in his purple traveling cloak and staring staring staring at Merlin and shaking shaking Merlin was shaking and he couldn't stop—leaves, like leaves in the Darkling Woods and why was everything so loud—his own breath, sharp and shuddering, and the steady drip of water on stone, from the hem of Agravaine's cloak—and the rustle of the paper in his hands—rustle—paper—map—and Merlin's brain ground back into action and he wanted—he didn't know why, but he wanted—he wanted to toss it back onto the desk—stuff it out of sight—pretend he had not seen—pretend he had not looked—too late, too late, it was too late—and Agravaine shook off his shock and strode forward—nearer nearer nearer he was getting nearer and Merlin couldn't—he couldn't help himself—he stepped back—
"Did you—?" And Agravaine—incredibly—looked, not to the map in Merlin's trembling hands—but to the light, still floating less than a foot above their heads. "Did you do that?" He pointed to the light.
Merlin nodded. He couldn't seem to speak. He couldn't think why the light mattered so much, except—oh—of course—he waited, then, for Agravaine to say the words he knew he would—stop it—put it out—banish it—make it go away—
Agravaine laughed. He looked at the light, and he laughed—and that didn't make any sense, that didn't make any sense at all, because didn't he—didn't he want it gone—wasn't he afraid—? But in the silver-white shimmer, his face betrayed no fear—he moved, without hesitation or reluctance, around the light—he stopped only once, to swing his cloak off at the shoulder—hung it over the back of the red-velvet chair by the desk again—water still trickled, but more slowly now, from its edge—wait—wait a moment—water—but—but it wasn't raining—
"Where—?" The sound of his own voice startled him—he hadn't really meant to speak aloud. "Where have you been?"
"No matter." Agravaine waved his hand dismissively, and slowly rounded the desk. The gleam had returned to his dark eyes. "We have more important things to consider, you and I." He put a finger under Merlin's chin—he leaned ever so slightly down—his gaze never left Merlin's lips—his hungry, searching mouth opened a fraction—but—
"No—" Merlin pulled back. "No, where have you been?"
There was something almost like amusement in Agravaine's eyes when he regarded Merlin now. "I hope you were not waiting long?" He raised a brow. "I confess, I thought Arthur would keep you late as usual. I do apologize for the delay." He smiled—a small and altogether unreadable smile—and, before Merlin could protest, had swept him up in a kiss—but—but something was wrong—his hands slipped down but—he wasn't—he wasn't trying to—didn't he want to—to touch—?
The soft crinkle of creased paper sounded loud as a scream in the silence—Merlin's brain caught up with his senses, and he broke the kiss—jerked back—bumped the desk in his haste. "Does Arthur know you've got this?"
Agravaine laughed. "It was on his orders that I retrieved these maps and plotted the route, Merlin, or don't you remember? Yes, I would say he is aware I have them."
Plotted the route? On Arthur's orders? When did that—? Merlin narrowed his eyes. "I don't remember, though. Refresh my memory?"
"That might be difficult seeing as how you were not present at the time."
"Not present?" Merlin repeated, and raised his eyebrows. "That's convenient."
"It's certainly not my fault you weren't in your usual place in Arthur's hip pocket." The small half-smile, which had clung so doggedly to the corner of Agravaine's lip all this time, slipped now into an irritated frown. Interesting. "I believe he mentioned he had sent you off to—muck the stables or—well—something like that, anyway, the whereabouts of a servant were hardly my concern at the—"
Damn it. Point for Agravaine."Fine, then, so I wasn't there," Merlin conceded, and his own fury fell back a bit in the burst of vicious pleasure at the look of outrage on Agravaine's face—didn't like being interrupted, did he? "Do you want to enlighten me, then? What did Arthur want with the maps?"
"Thisis a matter solely between myself and my nephew." Agravaine stepped back a pace, and his gleaming dark eyes never left Merlin's face. "And I will thank you to leave it that way."
Merlin ignored him. "And he asked you to get them? The maps?" He frowned. This didn't add up. "Why didn't he just get them himself? Did he say anything about that?"
"The king of Camelot," Agravaine snapped, nostrils flaring, and not a shred of warmth left in his face, "has far more important matters to attend to than the retrieval of a mere map."
"I'm not sure Arthur would agree," Merlin said, and the truth of it burned, brighter than fire, inside him—no, Arthur would not agree. He would think nothing at all of fetching the map for himself, no matter what Agravaine said. He would want to do it, even. He would see it, Merlin knew, as a kind of privilege—a quiet and invisible sort of honor—to do what he could to see to the safety and the protection of the people. That was who Arthur was, and that was what Arthur did and why, then, had Agravaine felt the need to insist he be the one to retrieve them—?
Agravaine had taken the map.
But—but why—?
"Really, Merlin," Agravaine huffed, "you are being ridiculous! I do not pretend to know why Arthur neglected this to mention this to you, but rest assured—!"
No, but this didn't add up, this just did not add up—Agravaine had no need of the map—why would he need—and if, for some reason, he did, why wouldn't he have just asked Arthur—gods knew Arthur would say yes—gods knew Arthur would rip the stars from the sky with his own two hands if he thought it might please Agravaine—and Agravaine knew that, Agravaine must have known that, so why—and why would he need—? It all came back to that, really, that one unanswerable, unfathomable question—why would Agravaine need the map in the first place? Agravaine, leading such a comfortable and influential life inside the castle—
Inside the castle. Inside the castle.
The whole world had shifted so rapidly in the past ten minutes, rearranged itself in a thousand and one different, confusing ways, and Merlin didn't think he could say, with any kind of certainty at least, which way was up anymore. But—but now—inside the castle inside the castle inside the castle—the universe righted itself, and everything made sense again, the truth staring back at him in such stunning and simple clarity he could not believe he had ever failed to see it.
Yes, Agravaine, who lived inside the castle, had no need of that map, but there was somebody—somebody outside the castle, who would very much like to get in again—somebody who would want that map more than words could say—
And the final, missing piece to the strange and mysterious puzzle Merlin never meant to solve clicked all at once into place.
"Morgana." The sound of his own voice startled him. He had not meant to say it aloud.
"What?" Agravaine demanded, and his voice was like the serrated edge of Arthur's favorite hunting knife.
"You—you took—" Merlin lifted the map a little, "—you took this—" he raised his eyes to Agravaine's, cold as ice and glistening darkly in the light of his sphere, "—you took this for Morgana." The words had only just fallen from his mouth when revelation struck again. "That's—that's where you were tonight, isn't it? That's where you've been." And he knew—he knew he was right—the brief flash of fury in the depths of Agravaine's black eyes—the tightness around his thin, unsmiling mouth—
"I understand," Agravaine said, and his voice washed over Merlin like cold water on a warm spine, like ice on fevered flesh, "I understand he has allowed you quite a bit offreedom in your speech to him, so much freedom, it seems, that you have forgotten your place. I am willing, then," he added, louder now, as Merlin furiously opened his mouth, "to overlook this accusation, severe as it was, but let me assure you: I will not be so lenient in future. Do I make myself clear?"
And—rage—more powerful, more terrible, than anything Merlin had ever felt, unstoppable and uncontrollable in how quickly it swelled up inside of him, an enormous balloon endlessly spreading and stretching and expanding—and it flooded his lungs like water, and yet it seared up his throat like fire—rushing through him and pulling pulling pulling at him, ripping at him, wrenching him in every direction at once and his blood began to roar in his ears like a great and untamed beast and Agravaine, unflinching and unwavering and underhanded Agravaine and a betrayal that didn't belong to Merlin pounded inside him, in time with his heart—screams built up behind his lips—how could you how could you how could you how could you fucking do this to Arthur—
Arthur. He had to get Arthur, see Arthur, talk to Arthur, tell Arthur—tell Arthur—the jumbled and rapid and frenzied thoughts, moving so quickly he could scarcely keep track of them, scraped to a painful but immediate stop, the sharp edges snagging on the inside of a skull that felt suddenly too small to hold everything it ought—Arthur, he would have to tell Arthur, there was no other choice, no other way—and if there was, he would take it in a heartbeat but there wasn't, there wasn't—he would have to tell Arthur. To look Arthur in the eye, and tell him—tell him how the last branch on the rotting tree of his sorry, fractured family had fallen, far too fast for anyone to catch, for anyone to even see—and Arthur would need to see for himself before he'd really believe it—he'd learned long ago to take no one at their word, not even Merlin—and then he'd see, he'd see, and it would shatter him, crumble him, crush him—Merlin would try, but he knew the weight of the truth was a burden he could not carry for Arthur, as he had so many others—
Merlin shut his eyes and swallowed, and he swore he could taste ashes. He could feel Agravaine's gaze on him like a physical thing. He had to get to Arthur as quickly as possible and he had to get to Arthur as quietly as possible. He had gotten too far ahead of himself, shown his hand before he held all the cards, tried to check the king with nothing but a pawn. And he could do better than that—had done better than that, when Morgana was still at court. It was Morgana over again, and he could do better. He opened his eyes. "I—I may have been—" Quickly. Quietly. "—hasty in my—my accusations against you. I—" The last word caught in the back of his throat—he spat it from his mouth like poison, "—I'm sorry."
A flicker of relief lit up Agravaine's lined features—he believed it—good—next second, it had vanished as though it had never been, and he had drawn himself up to his full height. "You are forgiven," he said imperiously. "Now let us attend to other matters. Surely you can recall why we are here…"
A thousand times Merlin had pounded this path since he'd come to Camelot—through corridor after winding, labyrinthine corridor, once so baffling to his provincial, country-boy mind and now familiar as an old friend, from the hairline cracks in the sand-colored stone walls to the airy, wide-open ceilings a hundred leagues above his head—a thousand times he'd pounded this path, but not like this, not like this, never like this—his hands shaking and his breath coming far too fast, rough and uneven and painfully loud in his ears and the thump of his boots on the ground and the desperate, deafening batter of his heart against his ribs hammering and hammering and hammering so hard he didn't know how his body could hold onto it—
—and the door, right there, the door, in front of him, and on the other side Arthur slept, untroubled and completely at peace, and still believed the best of the man who had betrayed him, and Merlin's steps faltered—his hand, halfway to the knob, dropped slowly back to his side—if there was anything else, any other choice, any other way, any other path in the world he could walk, he would, he would walk it, he would take it, he would do it, anything, he would do anything to protect Arthur from this pain, but he couldn't he couldn't he couldn't, Arthur had to know, Arthur had to know—it had been a close call tonight, in Agravaine's chambers, too close—if he'd managed to get the map to Morgana—Merlin's resolve redoubled, and he pushed open the door.
And the sight of Arthur, sprawled on his stomach, his hair in his face and his head tilted to one side and his mouth slightly open, his thick red blankets wrapped loosely and lazily around his waist, made Merlin stop in the entryway, his fingers still clenched around the cool knob—what he wouldn't give to go back—just go back, just turn away, let Arthur sleep because gods knew he wasn't doing nearly enough of that these days—gods knew he didn't deserve the hurt Merlin would have to ask him to carry—gods knew he looked, in his sleep, too young to carry that hurt—the lines in his face, so marked in the morning light, had smoothed out to nearly nothing as he slumbered and gods knew if there was anything else, any other choice, any other way—but there wasn't, therewasn't, there wasn't, and Merlin stretched out his hand and shook Arthur's shoulder until his king, always slow to wake, stirred in his sheets, and cracked his tired blue eyes open by half a millimeter.
"'Erlin?" He lifted himself up a little, and threw a drowsy glance around the dark chamber. "What—what time is it?"
Merlin pretended he hadn't heard the question. Pretended everything inside of him wasn't twisting up so tight, he knew it would never come loose. How quickly Arthur would forget to care about things like the time. "I—I have something to tell you." His voice sounded far too steady in his own ears.
Honey-blond brows lifted by a fraction. "Can't it wait—?"
"No."
Half a second of silence and stillness and weary blue eyes, ringed by shadows and sorrow and echoes of something lighter and younger and long since faded, and then the owner of those eyes sighed, and dragged a hand down the side of his face, and he looked so old and exhausted, Merlin thought he'd sooner cut out his own tongue than tell the truth.
Arthur lifted his head, and met Merlin's eyes. "Tell me."
"The idea is preposterous!" Arthur swatted impatiently at Merlin's hands when he reached to help, but at least he'd actually pulled himself up out of the bed and set about struggling into his shirt and shoving his feet into his boots—for a moment there, he'd looked a second away from rolling over and going right back to sleep. "Why," he finally pulled his head through the correct hole in his tunic, and emerged from the mass of white cloth looking vaguely disheveled, "why would Agravaine ever betray Camelot?" He didn't seem to expect an answer or, at least, he didn't wait for one. "I refuse to believe—! It doesn't make any sense—!"
Merlin silently straightened out Arthur's wrinkled shirt—this time, Arthur didn't bother to try and stop him. When he'd finished, Arthur snatched his keys off the bedside table, turned on his heel and ripped open the door. "Send the Lord Agravaine down to the vaults," he barked at the guard standing just outside his room and, without waiting for the man's answering nod or obedient retreat, he marched out into the deserted corridors without a word, back straight and fists clenched, always half a pace ahead of Merlin.
The silence followed them the whole way down to the vaults, so heavy on them, Merlin didn't know that he'd ever speak again. The darkness grew steadily thicker around them, but only when the air turned stale and cold, did he know they had reached their destination.
Arthur stopped before the familiar, towering black cabinet, ripped the right key away from the rest, and jammed it roughly in the lock—an instant later, and the bolt had clicked—Arthur flicked the cabinet door open, and reached for the mass of papers within.
A moment of blind rummaging turned into several—Arthur's brows drew together—he ducked his head a little, to peer into the cabinet's depths for himself—and Merlin wanted to look away, he didn't want to watch as the familiar string of hurt and disbelief and anger played out across Arthur's face but nothing inside of him would listen to him anymore, and Agravaine's footsteps sounded on the stairs above them and Arthur finally stepped back and withdrew his hand from the cabinet and—and—
—and he was holding the map.
No. No. How could he have—how could he—?
Arthur unrolled the map—his gaze flicked briefly over the worn paper, but his expression didn't change, and a minute later, he'd thrust the map wordlessly into Merlin's shaking hands and even in the darkness of the vaults Merlin could see there was no trace of the fresh ink from scarcely an hour ago and he could not keep back the sound that left his lips—it wasn't possible, it just wasn't possible—
"No," he said, stupidly, because it was the only thing in the world he could think to say. "No—Arthur, it's—it's not—"
And then Agravaine was there, at Arthur's side, and his dark eyes flickered, for an instant, down to the map in Merlin's hands. The corner of his mouth curled up in something too small to be a smile and in that moment, Merlin knew he had not imagined anything that had happened this night—his own certainty burning, bright like fire, inside him gave him the strength to hold the gaze.
Agravaine looked away first, turning to Arthur. "I came as soon as I could, my Lord." He put a hand on Arthur's shoulder. "Is there a problem?" His voice was honey, too thick and too sweet—oh, yes, he played his part well, and Merlin felt even more the fool, the map still clutched in his shaking hands—he had underestimated this man in front of him.
"No, Uncle, not at all." Without a word or even a glance, Arthur snatched the map back from Merlin, and threw it back into the cabinet. He slammed the cabinet shut. "I'm sorry to have inconvenienced you." His eyes snapped to Merlin, fury written clearly in every line of his face.
A shadow of a smile ghosted briefly across Agravaine's thin lips and this time, when his black eyes darted to Merlin, he didn't waver even as he bowed himself out of the vaults.
Oh, yes, he did play his part well.
So Merlin—
Well, Merlin would just have to play his part better.
"Arthur," he tossed a glance at the stairs, to be sure Agravaine had well and truly disappeared, "I know what I saw. The map was there, in his chambers. He took it from the vaults and he intended to bring it to Morgana, I know he did. He's in league with Morgana. You have to listen to me—"
"Merlin," Arthur held up a hand for silence, "I am going to do you a favor that you quite frankly don't deserve, and pretend this never happened." He turned away from the cabinet, away from Merlin, the keys dangling from his fingers, and filling the vault with their soft jingling. "I expect you on time tomorrow, no excuses, I've a council meeting at sunrise." He started up the stairs.
It took a minute for Merlin to realize he had been dismissed—rudely, too, like some sort of housekeeper—oh, wait, that was sort of what he—never mind. He firmed his mouth, and strode after Arthur. "The map was in his chambers, I'm telling the truth! I saw it!"
"And what exactly," Arthur tossed a glance at Merlin over his shoulder, furrows appearing in his forehead, "were you doing in his chambers?"
"I—he—" The words seemed to stick in his throat—he hadn't prepared himself for a question like this—and he could feel warm and greedy lips kissing their way down his collarbones and hungry hands rubbing at his cock and his throat burned with the taste of bile at the back of it. "He—he wanted a word, i-it's not important, he's planning something with Morgana, you must listen to me—"
Arthur shoved the door open, and stepped out into the corridor. "That's enough, Merlin. I'm not arguing with you about this."
"But," Merlin followed after him, halting momentarily as the moonlight, dim as it was, stung his eyes after the all-encompassing darkness of the vaults, "but Arthur, if you would just—"
"Go to sleep, Merlin."
"—listen—"
Arthur wheeled abruptly around to face him, and his eyes were like ice. "One more word, and I swear to God, I will send you into exile." He turned around, and he kept walking. The keys jingled in his hands again.
—an enormous balloon endlessly spreading and stretching and expanding and pulling pulling pulling at him, ripping at him, wrenching him in every direction at once, unstoppable and uncontrollable—
"LISTEN TO ME!"
Stinging pain and something hot all over his hands and Arthur's eyes staring staring staring and words clawing their way out of his throat and throwing themselves off his tongue, out into the air, too fast for him to catch—
"For once in your goddamn life, fucking listen to me, Arthur Pendragon! I don't know how the stupid son of a bitch got the map back into the vaults, but I—!"
"Watch your tongue," Arthur snapped, a red tinge appearing in his cheeks. "My uncle is a good and honorable man."
Merlin laughed, so wild and bitter he couldn't believe the sound belonged to him. "Your uncle is a lying piece of filth!" The words erupted from his lips like lava from a volcano, exploding like a gas-fed flame.
"You go too far!"
"And you will not see those around you for what they really are!"
"I know him far better than you! I've known him since I was a child—"
"You've known Morgana since you were a child!"
And Arthur—like Merlin had just struck him across the face like Merlin had just driven a sword through his chest—stumbling back and his mouth opening and closing and his hands had started to shake so that jingling that awful awful awful jingling filled the whole corridor and all the anger drained from Merlin in an instant and what he wouldn't give to grab the words from the air and stuff them back in his mouth and swallow them down before they could reach Arthur's ears but it was too late, they had, they had, and why had he let himself say—how could he have even let himself think—?
"I—" Merlin stood frozen, staring into Arthur's devastated eyes. "I am so sorry—"
"Leave me." Arthur's hollow, toneless voice never rose above a whisper. Merlin would have preferred it if he had shouted. If he had struck back.
Merlin swallowed. It was so loud in the silence of the corridor. He knew Arthur could hear it. He stepped forward. "Arthur—"
"Leave me." Hushed as they were, the words carried a touch of real force behind them now, and Merlin—
—Merlin left.
Shut up and smile.
That was it, wasn't it? That was it. That was everything. That was all he'd had to do—all he'd needed to do, all he should have done, all he'd ever done, shut up and smile because it worked even when he didn't want it to, even—even when he would have given anything for anyone, anywhere, to see past his smiles and his silence to the tears burning behind his eyes and tightening up the back of his throat until he could barely swallow, and they never did, so he kept silent and he kept smiling and it worked, even when it was the last thing he felt like doing, even when he felt so empty he was sure someone had cut him open and taken everything he had inside him out—he shut up, and he smiled, because it worked and he knew that, so why the hell hadn't he done it? Just shut up and smiled, just shut the fuck up and smiled, or torn out his goddamned tongue the minute he tasted the terrible words fighting to fall from it because anything anything anything would be better than this, than the memory of Arthur's wide and wounded eyes, and looking at Merlin like a black hole had erupted into sudden and painful existence in the center of his being, swirling faster faster faster as all the light inside him got sucked in—and he had done that to him—Merlin—he had done that to Arthur—everything was supposed to be for Arthur—to save him, to serve him, protect and shelter him, to put a smile on his face, to build him back up no matter how many others tore him down, and Merlin—
I've hurt him, and the truth of it pounded inside him like a second heart. I've hurt him, and I can't take it back, and I can't fix it, and I can't make it better, and I can't—
And then Gaius' door was there, standing firmly shut in front of him, and he hadn't realized he was going there, he hadn't even realized until he was standing in front of it—and he pushed the door open, and his hands prickled and stung and he could feel broken skin tearing anew—he hadn't realized how hard he'd struck the wall, how the stones had snagged his flesh, until now, with blood trickling down his palms—he could heal it—he didn't—he let his hands bleed, and it felt better than forcing his skin back together. He slipped into the room and turned back to close the door, slamming his head as hard as he could against the cool wood as he did, until his skull hurt as much as his hands. Hell, after what he'd done, who was to say he didn't deserve a little pain?
For a minute, he remained like that, head pressed, hard as he could stand it, to the door, and his eyes screwed shut, and the pop and crackle of the fire seemed to echo throughout the empty room—
He hadn't—he hadn't lit a fire.
He opened his eyes and he lifted his head away from the door and—
—hands hands hands on him—hands around his neck, around his throat, over his mouth and he couldn't speak and he couldn't breathe and his magic roared to life inside him, like an animal, instinctive and uncontrolled, and he let it flood his veins and fill him up and build slowly in his bleeding palms, stronger and stronger and stronger, until it was all he could feel—and he spun around so quickly the whole world blurred before his eyes and the hands fell away and he could taste the incantation on his lips and he didn't stop to think, he just raised his arm and he felt the power spread up into his fingers and—and—dark hair and dark eyes and a lined face staring back at him—a hesitation that lasted a fraction of a second too long as he struggled to make sense of it and—and—pain—exploding sharply outward from the base of his skull and the bottom of his back to meet somewhere in the middle and so much so fast holy fucking hell and the world went white around him andhe couldn't even hope to stop his mouth before it screamed, taking the last of the breath the collision with the wall hadn't knocked from his lungs—little shiny stars burst into being behind his eyes like miniature suns—and a hand on his chest and a hand on his throat—a hand around his throat—again—circling and constricting and crushing—oh, gods, no, breathe, breathe, he needed to breathe, he needed to breathe and he lifted shaking hands and his—his magic—it didn't—it gave a weak sort of wobble, somewhere inside him, and then fell back into dormancy and why wasn't it working why wasn't it working it always worked for him his magic always came through for him and he clawed desperately at the arms that held him, short nails raking uselessly over thick velvet sleeves and everything was going dim and dark and fuzzy and is this what it's like to die—
Agravaine let him go.
Oh, thank gods, and then he dropped, boneless, to the floor at the foot of the wall, and breathed—dragging the air into his lungs, so fast and greedy, rough and uneven and overly-loud gasps—his throat protested every desperate gulp but he didn't care, he didn't care, because he could breathe—
"Did you think," a vicious snarl in Agravaine's voice, "did you actually think you could play me?!"
Merlin jerked his head up—he wished he hadn't, his throat throbbed with the motion—he jerked his head up just in time to see Agravaine's heavy black boot leave the floor, rear back—his head felt very full, something thick and fluffy that slowed his thoughts—the boot slammed into his stomach so hard his teeth rattled and the air in his lungs, so hard-won, left him all over again in a great, gasping whoosh and he plummeted back to the floor and grabbed for his stomach, curling up in the tiniest ball he could manage—the inside of his mouth seemed to burn, flooding suddenly with something hot and thick and strangely sour—
He shot up on his knees just as the sick tore free, spilling out from between his open lips and down down down onto the floor in an endless and scorching and yellow-white stream—every nerve in his throat screamed even as the muscles worked to bring up the last of it—shaking hands clutched at his rebelling stomach—
"There, now," Agravaine dropped into a crouch at Merlin's side, "have you learned your lesson?"
"Learned—learned my—?" The words proved sharp enough to pierce the thick and fluffy something that wouldn't let him think—the murky haze in his head lifted by the barest fraction—learned your lesson—like—like he was some sort of—of disobedient, misbehaving child—a little boy in need of discipline—Merlin raised his head and glared into those dark eyes. "Go to hell."
"I have given you a warning, and that, in itself, is enormously generous of me," Agravaine snapped, his gaze like black ice, boring into Merlin. "But do not expect me to show you the same courtesy next time you overstep."
"You can take your courtesy and fucking choke on it, you sick son of a bitch." Merlin pushed himself up on his hands, away from the puddle of sick curdling on the cold floor. "I swear to God, one day, Arthur will see you for what you really are."
"Will he?" Agravaine did not smile, but there was something in the lift of his dark brows that indicated a kind of cold pleasure all the same. He grabbed Merlin's chin, rough hands forcing up a heavy head. "And what do you think he will do when he sees you for what you really are?" He straightened easily back to his full height, and turned, slow and steady and deliberate, to look at the fire, burning bright on the other side of the room.
Merlin's stomach rolled—for a minute, he thought he was going to be sick again. He swallowed, and it seemed to stick a minute before going all the way down. "You—you're wrong." It sounded unconvincing, even to his own ears, but he had—he had to believe it. He had to believe that Arthur would spare him the shame and pain of the pyre.
"Am I?" Agravaine glanced back at him. "Perhaps you'd like a demonstration."
"No—" Merlin threw out his hand, terror scraping painfully at his insides, but his magic wouldn't listen, it wouldn't come, why wouldn't it come, it always came—no—not always, that was—that wasn't true—his head—his magic never did work well after he hit his head, did it—Agravaine snatched him by the wrist, jerked him up from the floor, and his skull pounded and his stomach throbbed and all the spells he'd ever learned chased themselves around inside his mind but it wouldn't work it wouldn't work it wouldn't work and then he was there, on his knees, on the hearthrug, surrounded by flecks of ash and cinder and Agravaine's hands on the back of his bruised and aching head—pushing him, Agravaine was pushing him, nearer and nearer and nearer and the fire was so close inches away, centimeters now, oh gods no no no he was so close no no he didn't want to burn no please don't let me burn—he twisted feverishly in Agravaine's grip—please, no, please, don't do this, not this, not fire, please—and his cheek—like somebody had pressed a stoker to the skin—burn burn he was going to burn he was going to burn and he shut his eyes but he could still feel the fire, the smoke the soot the flames melting through the soles of his boots to devour his feet, consume his legs, swallow his waist and stomach and chest no no no please please not fire please—
"Please!"
He didn't mean to say it—he didn't want to say it—he didn't want to give Agravaine the satisfaction, but his mouth—his stupid, stupid mouth—moved so fast and far ahead—please stop please stop gods please no not this please—his frantic, frenzied mind, so full of fire and fear and burning flesh, couldn't hope to keep up—gods please no stop please please—his heart threw itself against his ribs like a captive animal fighting to escape its cage but too late it was too late it couldn't get free and it was going to burn just like the rest of him and how much would it hurt and maybe maybe maybe the smoke would send him into eternal sleep before the flames could and gods he hoped so—
The hands—the hands disappeared—the hands on the back of his head disappeared the hands pushing and pushing and pushing him into the fire—gone gone the hands were gone and he jerked back as fast as he could, scrambling away from the blaze and he—he wanted to—to run—clear to the other side of the room, clear to the other side of the castle, anything anything anything to get away just get away but his limbs wouldn't listen to him and when he tried to stand up his legs wouldn't let him and he collapsed and he couldn't get away he couldn't get away he couldn't get away and shaking shaking shaking he was shaking and he couldn't—he couldn't stop—he couldn't he couldn't he couldn't feel anymore—his hands his arms his legs—none of it was real, none of it belonged to him—all he could feel was the fire's scorching tongue dancing over his skin and maybe if he tore the flesh from his bones he could finally stop stop just fucking stop—
Agravaine spoke, so softly Merlin nearly missed it over the horrible hissing of the flames in the hearth, and he had to shut his eyes and shut out the fire just to hear the words.
"That," soquiet, so steady, "is what Arthur would do if he knew who you really are."
And it wasn't true, it wasn't wasn't wasn't true Arthur wouldn't do that, Arthur was good, but the words got lost between his mind and his mouth and—and hands, reaching for him, and he flinched and prayed prayed prayed he wouldn't go back to the fire, but the hands only grasped for his chin and pulled his head up until he was staring into the gleaming black eyes that made his stomach lurch.
"And he would not," Agravaine continued quietly, yet his every word carried easily over the crackling of the flames, "he would not be so merciful as I. He would not stop when you ask."
He would, Merlin wanted to say, but he couldn't—because—
"I could make it happen, you know—it would be so easy—"
—pure evil pure evil pure evil—
"—I could tell him—I could tell them all what you are—"
—magic is pure evil and how could Merlin have ever let himself hope that anything could ever be any different—?
Agravaine's fingers tightened on Merlin's face. "Remember that, Merlin." So close now their lips nearly brushed, so close Merlin could feel hot breath on his burned cheek. "The next time you get an idea in that head of yours—" his free hand rose, fisted in Merlin's dark hair, jerked his pounding skull painfully from one side to the other—Merlin wrenched away on instinct, one hand jumping to his head—
"—remember that," Agravaine hissed, his black eyes ablaze. "If I wanted to, if I felt like it, if you cause too much trouble, if I decide I'm through with you, I can ruin you in a second."
"I—I'm not," Merlin said, and he hated how tight his heart had twisted up inside him, coils in his chest that would never come loose. "I'm not afraid of you." He wished his voice sounded stronger. He wished he could stop shaking and he clenched his hands into fists to try and still them—gods, if the druids could see their prophesized savior now, flinching in the face of a man without a drop of magic in his veins—
"Then you should be," Agravaine countered. "I can you have in a cell—I can you have on the pyre—and I can have it done in a heartbeat. So keep," his lips moved slowly, a subtle, ringing emphasis on every single word, "your pretty mouth shut." He drew back—drew away—he let go of Merlin's chin—and he—he smiled—he actually smiled at Merlin—reached out a hand—
—Merlin flinched, on instinct, and he hated it—
—and then his fingers made contact, a light, brisk pat to Merlin's still-stinging cheek—
And then Agravaine was on his feet and then he was across the room and then he was out the door and "Have a good night, Merlin," and the door fell back into its frame with a soft click.
And—
—if Arthur knew what you really are if any of them knew what you really are that's what would happen if Arthur knew what you really are if any of them knew what you really are I can ruin you in a second he would not stop he would not be so merciful as I remember that if I decide I'm through with you in a cell on the pyre in a heartbeat keep your pretty mouth shut—
—and a series of sobs, raw and wracking, ripped their way out of his throat, so horrific and loud and ugly and echoing—echoing echoing echoing off every wall—the cold stone caught the sound and threw it back to him—and he hated it—he hated it—he clamped a hand over his mouth and tried to stop to swallow it back to shut up shut up shut up why couldn't he ever just shut up why couldn't he stop crying why couldn't he stop crying why couldn't he stop shaking, fuck, it wasn't that bad it wasn't that bad it wasn't that fucking bad so why couldn't he just shut up—and the—the fire—the fire crackled and the fire hissed and the fire popped and it wouldn't stop it wouldn't stop it wouldn't ever stop—he couldn't—he couldn't—and shuddering hands clapped down over his ears tighter tighter tighter—anything to shut out the sound anything anything anything so he didn't have to—to listen to the—the fire—
And, with his hands still pressed fast against his ears, Merlin buried his face in the hearthrug and cried.
Why didn't I just shut up and smile?
Notes: OKAY SO it has been a real hot sec since my last update ((a full two months, actually, but who's counting except me, and that's only to guilt myself into writing lmao)) BUT it is also twice the length of my usual chapters. I feel like that should really count for something. Anyway, I'm really sorry to do this to you guys ((AGAIN r i p)) but I honestly don't know when I'll be updating this one again. Definitely going to shoot for one more before Christmas, but I'll be the first to admit I may have overcommitted myself a bit this holiday ((and every year before, yes, I KNOW, I do this every year)) and while I'm really super excited, I'm also going to be really super busy. But I mean, absence makes the heart grow fonder, so hopefully I'll return to this fic with a renewed passion for it? ((Not that I'm not already ridiculously passionate about it, but like. You know what I mean.))
Oh, quick note on Merlin's magic by the way: Magic seems to take a hell of a lot of focus in the show, and you've gotta be hella specific what you want that magic to do once it leaves you and, even then, some sorcerers seem to use objects or conduits ((crystals, staffs, etc.)) to help with that focus and specificity. It just makes sense to me that Merlin, whose magic is far more powerful, instinctive, and uncontrolled, than anyone else's - honestly more on par with dragons and the Sidhe and the like than fellow human sorcerers - well, it just makes sense to me that Merlin would need a lot more focus than your average mage, especially as, unlike most, he uses objects so rarely. So if anything happens to impede that focus and concentration - a blow to the prefrontal or parietal cortex, for example, the latter of which he almost certainly received when he hit the wall - his magic takes a while to recover. It's nothing permanent, and up until now, Merlin's regarded it as little more than an inconvenience.
And thank you guys, so much, for all your patience and support. I'd be nowhere without it. I'm so happy you're enjoying this story.