"I don't trust nobody, and nobody trusts me,
I'll be the actress starring in your bad dreams.
I don't trust nobody, and nobody trusts me,
I'll be the actress starring in your bad dreams."
- Look What You Made Me Do, Taylor Swift
"—I'm so sorry, Sire—"
Merlin had magic. Actual magic, real magic, the sort of magic where bright white crystals turned to gold at his touch, and lifted up off his open hand and hovered in the air at his command, the sort of magic where his eyes burned, and Arthur hadn't seen it, Arthur had never seen it.
"—I know this is a truly terrible shock—"
Arthur had just thought—all these years, he had just thought—he had really thought Merlin just liked being a servant, or maybe Merlin liked being his servant, because Merlin had said he liked it, hadn't he? On that night, nearly six years ago, and Arthur's head had felt hazy and thick and slow with the wine in his mouth and the pain of the poison still in his veins, but he knew he hadn't merely imagined it, he knew he hadn't dreamed it up, made it up, he knew he had heard it, he knew he had heard Merlin say I'm happy to be your servant until the day I die, and God, Arthur had actually believed him.
"—but we both saw Merlin use magic, we both saw that crystal—"
Had Merlin laughed when he left the room? Had he stepped out into the dark and quiet corridor, where no one would see him, and no one would hear him, and laughed at Arthur, so stupid and naïve, so quick to believe, so quick to eat up and swallow down every pretty little poisonous lie Merlin had ever put in his mouth, so quick to see loyalty where none had ever really existed at all?
"—neither of us want to believe it, but now—"
Arthur dropped down onto the edge of his bed, but the whole world still swirled around him in a dizzy haze, in a blur of colors and sounds and a hundred thousand things he couldn't make any sense of at all.
"—and it's not merely the discovery that he was a sorcerer, it's the lies—"
Arthur pressed his hands into his eyes, hard as he could, but it didn't do an ounce of good at all, because he could still see Merlin's face, all lit up with the glare of the sun outside and the shine of the crystal in his hand, and he could still hear Merlin's voice, shaky and scared, please listen to me, you have to know I never wanted to hurt you, but that was a lie, wasn't it, just like all the others, just like all the rest of it, just like when Merlin said I'm happy to be your servant until the day I die, just like that, just pile after pile of pretty words, all so full of sugar it could make Arthur sick just to think of it, just to play it all back again in his head. It was a lie, all of it, everything, it was all a lie, it had always been a lie, and Merlin had never meant one word of it at all.
And Arthur hadn't seen it.
Arthur had never seen it.
"I was a fool," he whispered, into the dark and the quiet behind his own hands, and he didn't know if he wanted Agravaine to hear it, he didn't know if he wanted anyone to hear it at all, but he had to say it, he had to get it out of his own head. "I was nothing but a fool. I should never have trusted him."
"We all make mistakes, Sire," Agravaine said, and patted Arthur lightly on his armored shoulder with a warm, broad hand. "But you have been given an opportunity to set it right, and surely you must see that is what matters now."
Yes. Arthur knew that. No matter how much he wanted it, no matter how much he wanted to simply sink down, to drown, in all the hurt, all the betrayal, all the years he had lost to secrets and lies and sorcery, let it wash over him, and wash him clean of all Merlin's crimes, he knew this was not the time for it. His own guilt and grief would serve no purpose here, and he raised his head to look up at his uncle and jerked his chin down in a quick half-nod.
"In accordance with the law," Arthur said, just as his father had said, a hundred thousand times before, word for word, letter for letter, "the sorcerer will face execution at dawn tomorrow, by fire." Just as his father had said, a hundred thousand times before, word for word and letter for letter, except Arthur knew his father's hands had never started to shake right in the middle, he knew his father's throat had never pulled up tight and small and painful, he knew his father's mouth had never turned dry and stale as sand, he knew his father had never wavered, never wobbled, never faltered, because his father had always known, better than he ever would, the crime of magic could not be forgiven.
"Well," Agravaine's mouth edged down in a frown, "ah, yes, Sire, naturally, I would expect nothing less, but—but I—ah—" he stopped, suddenly, and chewed lightly at his bottom lip.
Arthur sat up a little straighter on the bed. Maybe it was only a trick of the light—a real trick of the light this time—but there was a gleam in Agravaine's dark eyes he didn't think he liked. What more could his uncle have in mind for Merlin? "What else would you have me do, Lord Agravaine? I can't execute him twice." His stomach twisted up in a hard, tense knot even as the words left his mouth. He didn't know—and he had to, he knew he had to, he knew he didn't have a choice, he knew he could not turn away from the duty before him, but he just didn't know if he could execute Merlin even once. He had never had his father's strength and steel, he had never had his father's resolution and resolve, and how am I meant to look the man in the eyes while I light his pyre—?
"Sire," Agravaine hauled in a breath, "I must insist upon the employment of stronger measures with Merlin while he remains within the castle."
"Stronger measures?" Arthur held his head high as he could. This was one belief on which he would never bend. "Camelot does not condone the practice of torture, Lord Agravaine." He pushed himself off the edge of the bed, back on his feet. "And nor do I."
"Ah, forgive me, Sire," Agravaine tipped his head, "I see I have not made myself clear. I shall be straightforward with you." He lifted his chin and looked Arthur straight in the eyes now. "Merlin has already proven himself dangerous beyond belief. For many years, he fooled all within this castle, and I have no doubt he will do whatever he deems necessary to escape justice."
Oh. Arthur relaxed, but he only shook his head. "I understand your concern, Lord Agravaine, and I thank you for your caution, but the sorcerer will not talk his way out of this one. You may be sure of that." He would never believe another word to come out of Merlin's mouth, not again, not ever again. He would not make the same mistake twice
"My Lord," Agravaine's brows dipped low over his eyes in a dark scowl, and his frown twisted up in a grimace now, "you must listen to me. Your resolve is admirable, of course, but it is not nearly enough. Do you truly believe he will not attempt to attack the kingdom from within?"
Arthur raised his eyebrows. Admittedly, he knew very little about sorcery, he had really only picked up scattered bits and pieces from Gaius, but he knew enough to know magic over so great a distance would hardly stir up a ripple in a smooth lake. "To attack the kingdom from within while he's securely confined in the dungeons? That's madness, Lord Agravaine, you must know he could never—"
"He's a sorcerer!" Agravaine's lips curled back in a snarl until all of his teeth showed through. "Do you truly believe he will make no attempt to enchantthe court? To enchant us all? To enchant you?"
Arthur stopped. "No," he said, reflexively, and he shook his head, but sorcerers will do anything to save their own pathetic skin, won't they, that's what they do, that's what they always do, and maybe he's done it before, maybe he's enchanted me before, maybe all those times he got accused of sorcery, he enchanted me so I'd stand up for him, even against my father, maybe that's why I never sacked him, maybe that's why I sacked him and then took him back on again, because he made me, because he messed with my head and he made me take him back—
"There is only one solution I can see, Sire," Agravaine said, grimly. "It is unfortunate, but it is the only way to ensure Merlin does not hoodwink the whole castle all over again."
Arthur swallowed—how many times now had Merlin hoodwinked the whole castle, enchanted all of them with a single word, a single glance, a flick of his fingers and a flash of his eyes, how many times had Merlin gotten inside his head and made him do things he didn't want to do, things he didn't mean to do, and how would he know? How would he ever know, how could he ever know, if Merlin had bewitched him, beguiled him, gotten inside his head, poisoned him from the inside out? How would he know if his mind was not his own?
No. Agravaine was right, absolutely right, just as he always was. Merlin was a risk too big to take.
"What—" Arthur straightened his shoulders in a soft swish of scarlet cloak, and turned, resolutely, to look his uncle full in the face, "—what do you suggest, Lord Agravaine?"
"I understand the crystal we discovered in the sorcerer's chambers was foreign to you," Agravaine said, with a quick dip of his dark head, and he reached out a hand for the heap of relics from Merlin's chambers piled up on the table, "but I would assume," he snapped his broad fingers around the heavy iron ring and hefted it up off the polished wood, "you are more familiar with this?" He arched his dark brows at Arthur.
Arthur frowned. No, he was not familiar with it, actually, not at all, and he wondered, with a sharp jolt of the stomach, if this was yet another strange and sorcerous artifact his father had stuffed deep down in the vaults and left to fester and ferment in the dark. "I'm afraid not, Lord Agravaine," he said, at last, and darted a quick glance up at his uncle. "Would you like to enlighten me?"
"Of course, Sire," Agravaine dipped his head again, "of course, naturally. This was a great favorite of your father's—"
Right. Yes. There it was. Right there. Arthur sucked in a breath and nodded, but the same tired old questions circled 'round again in his mind—how well did I really know my father, how many secrets did he keep from me, will I ever know all the words he never said to me—?
"—in the early days of the war on magic, collars such as these commonly served to restrain sorcerers."
"Collars?" Arthur echoed, and he snapped his eyes reflexively back to the ring in his uncle's hands. He had thought, perhaps a bracelet, a very ugly and plain and heavy bracelet, to be sure, but that was supposed to go around somebody's throat—?
"Yes, collars," Agravaine said, and the edges of his mouth flicked up in a small smile. "It's very simple, Sire, you need only fasten this around the sorcerer's neck, and in a moment, he will lose every last bit of his magic, and you may rest easy this night."
"Lose his magic?" Arthur echoed. "Permanently?" For all of half a moment, a warm burst of bright hope rushed up inside him—maybe it's not too late for Merlin, maybe this is the way to save him, if he gives up his magic forever, that's it, that's all, that's the only thing he has to do, just give up his magic—
"Ah, not quite, I'm afraid, Sire," Agravaine held up a hand. "The collar must stay against the sorcerer's skin at all times, and the moment you remove it, the magic will return. This is not intended to be an eternal solution."
"Of course," Arthur said, numbly, and he nodded up at his uncle, but stupid, that was stupid, that was so stupid, it was too late for Merlin the minute he turned to magic, I can't save him, no one can save him, you can't save a sorcerer, even if I could take away the magic, I couldn't save him, I couldn't fix him, I couldn't make him right. "I understand."
"I fear the pyre is the only true cure," Agravaine went on, gravely, "for the atrocity your servant has welcomed into his mind and body."
"Of course," Arthur said, again, because of course, he knew that, of course he knew this was the only way, but he still had to push, hard, just to get the words off his tongue. "Of course, you're right."
"But," Agravaine clapped his empty hand down on Arthur's shoulder again, "this will ensure the kingdom's safety until we can administer the true cure." He pushed the collar into Arthur's open hands and lifted his dark eyes to Arthur's face. "You understand it must be done, Sire. For Camelot."
Arthur squeezed his eyes shut, and dragged in a long, ragged breath, and the sound of it trembled, a little, in the stark, heavy silence of the bedchamber, but he wrapped his fingers around the collar, and he opened his eyes back up again, and he nodded.
"Yes," he said, "of course. I understand."
For Camelot.
It's not Merlin, Arthur told himself, over and over again, a hundred thousand times on his way down to the dungeons, his fingers numb and his knuckles white around the cold metal in his hands. It's not Merlin, it's not really Merlin, it's not really Merlin at all, because the man I knew as Merlin never really existed, the man I knew as Merlin was a lie, all a lie, every last word of it, and I'm not going to listen to him this time, I'm not going to let him talk to me, I'm not going to let him talk his way out of this one, I'm just going to lock the collar 'round his throat and go, leave, get out, this is just another sorcerer, this isn't Merlin, this isn't really Merlin—
But his breath still snagged in the back of his throat to see the man in the cell.
An enormous, ugly, livid bruise glared out at Arthur from the side of Merlin's face, his pale skin purple and swollen, and a thin line of bright red blood streaked narrowly down his temple, his dark hair matted with the mud and straw scattered over the dungeon floor. But the second he saw Arthur, he pushed himself up off the ground and scrambled to his feet, his eyes wide in his thin and battered face.
"Arthur!" God, and he still smiled like Merlin, too, just like Merlin, a little bit too big and a little bit too goofy, a flash of dimples and a flash of his teeth and his eyes all crinkled up at the corners and how could he look like he had never done a thing wrong in his life at all when he had magic, how could he still look liked Merlin, sound like Merlin, move like Merlin and talk like Merlin and smile like Merlin when he—when he had—?
shook his head, stuffed the heavy metal key in the door's rusted lock, and let himself inside the cell. No, this wasn't Merlin. The man in front of him wasn't Merlin. Because Merlin had never really existed at all. Merlin was a mask. Just a mask, a thing to put on in the morning and strip off in the dark of the night, an act, a show, a part to play, and nothing else, nothing at all, just that, just a lie, right from the start and all the way to the end, andthis wasn't Merlin, then, this wasn't Merlin, because Merlin had never existed, Merlin had never really been real.
And if Arthur could only hold onto that truth, that unshakable, irrefutable certainty, it would make all of this so much easier. "Take off your scarf."
Merlin grabbed, at once, for the raggedy red cloth at his neck, his white fingers turned grimy and brown with the dirt in the filthy cell. "Wh-What?"
"Take off your scarf," Arthur snapped it out, this time, short and sharp, no room for a fight and no room to say no and no room to ask why. It was a scarf, for God's sake, that was all, he wasn't going to make the man to strip down to his underthings.
"A-Arthur—" Merlin shook his head, and stumbled back, one hand still tangled in his kerchief, "I-I don't—"
"Take off the damn scarf, Merlin!"
Merlin swallowed—and Arthur could see it, the sharp bob of his throat, under the stupid scarf, and he could see the way Merlin's hands started to shake, the way his fingers started to tremble, as he loosed the thick knot in the back, as he pulled the cloth from his skin, and he ducked his dark head down, his breath a harsh and heavy rasp in and out of his mouth.
Arthur clicked the collar open.
Merlin snapped his head up again. "What—?" His wide, terrified eyes flicked down to the collar, and he swallowed again, with another sharp bob of his bared throat. He never raised his voice over a hoarse, horrified whisper. "What is that?"
Arthur nearly shouted, nearly grabbed Merlin up by the front of his tunic and shouted at him, screamed at him, don't do that, don't you do that, don't you even try, don't try and play at innocence, you know what this is, you had it in your chambers, you had this in your chambers, you know exactly what this is, but he only dragged in a breath and raised his eyebrows. "You can drop the pretense now, sorcerer. It will serve you no longer."
"What is that?" Merlin said, again, and louder this time, far louder, and he stumbled back so quickly, he tripped over his own boots twice. "A-Arthur, I-I don't understand," he hit the wall at last, and his breath hitched sharply in the silence, "I don't—I don't know what—"
And Arthur did grab Merlin, then—he fisted his strong fingers in the thin cloth of the man's pathetic, tattered jacket, and pinned him, hard, to the cold stone, and Merlin backed down, then—he just gave up, just like that, he just gave in, he just went absolutely and utterly limp and still against the dungeon wall, and Arthur found he could finally get the collar firm around the man's bony throat, he could finally snap the little metal latch shut—
And Merlin screamed, sudden and sharp and loud, like Arthur had burned him, like Arthur had struck him with a hot iron brand, like Arthur had shoved him flat down onto a bed of blazing coals, and what's happening, what the hell is happening, what the hell is going on, why is he doing that, why is he—?
Merlin crashed to the ground, on hands and knees, and even in the low light of the dark dungeons, Arthur could see the trail of sweat where it gleamed on Merlin's pale forehead, and he could hear that awful scream, an endless echo over and over again in his ears, in his head, and it's hurting him, it's hurting him, the collar is hurting him, but Agravaine had never said—God, no, Agravaine had never said a thing about this at all, Agravaine had never said it would hurt him, Agravaine had never said it would make him scream like he had never screamed before, Agravaine had never said it would hurt him so bad, he couldn't even stand up, and if Arthur had known—if Agravaine had told him, if Agravaine had just told him—if Arthur had known it would do this, if he had known it would hurt Merlin like this—and he had to get it off, he had to take it off, he had to help, he couldn't just leave Merlin here like this, he couldn't just leave, and he already had a hand out, his fingers hardly half an inch from the collar's lock, when it hit him harder than a blow straight to the stomach, harder than a blow straight to the face.
Merlin was a sorcerer.
And sorcerers would do anything to save their own pathetic, lying skin.
Arthur dropped his hand back to his side.
"Wh-What—?" Merlin—the sorcerer—gasped out the word on a breathless whisper. "What d-did you—wh-what did you do—?"
Arthur swallowed—trick or not, he could swear Merlin's eyes had actually glazed over with the pain of it, and his insides twisted up in tight knots again—but when he started to speak, his voice sounded very steady, in his own ears. "I've ensured you will hurt no one else while you are here."
"—no—" Merlin shook his head, wildly, side to side, back and forth, "—no, you can't—you can't take—" he lifted a trembling hand, and pressed the palm flat to his chest, "—y-you can't take my—you d-don't understand—"
"I understand perfectly well," Arthur snapped—God, Merlin made everything look so real, he made it look like he actually was—like it really did hurt, like the pain was really real. "For as long as you remain alive, you are a danger to my people. I have eliminated the threat you pose."
"—no, please—" tears started to glisten in the corners of Merlin's eyes, "—p-please, Arthur, please, listen to me, I have to tell you—"
"You have had time enough now to tell me your lies, sorcerer," Arthur nearly snarled out the last word—six years now, six years he's lied to me, six years he's deceived me, six years he's betrayed me, and he still thinks he's in with a chance, he still thinks he can talk his way out of this, "and I will listen to you no longer."
"—please—" Merlin tried to push himself up—or maybe he only put on an act, put up a front, maybe he only pretended, because mere moments later, he slumped back down into the dirt and straw with a harsh and heavy breath, "—p-please, Arthur, you need to hear—"
"Two nights earlier," Arthur cut in, his voice as firm and loud and steady as he could make it, clear as a bell over Merlin's jumbled, nervous babble, because if he didn't cut in, if he just let Merlin talk, if he just let Merlin ramble, he would give in, and he would listen, and he couldn't do that, not again, not ever again, he must keep his mind clear of Merlin's lies, "a number of innocent citizens witnessed your blatant performance of magic in the Lower Town. You will tell me, immediately and without hesitation, the nature of this magic. What curse did you cast upon these people?"
"—I—" Merlin shook his head again, slower this time, "—I d-didn't—I didn't do anything, Arthur, I didn't—it w-wasn't—it wasn't a curse—"
Arthur wrapped a hand around the silver hilt of the sword at his side. "Do not attempt to lie to me, sorcerer, Sir Gwaine tells me you failed to return to Gaius' chambers the night the sorcerer was spotted. So what curse," he said, again, and harsher, this time, harder, "did you cast upon these people?"
"—b-but I didn't—" Merlin swallowed, "—I j-just—it was just—d-defensive magic, Sire, I-I put up b-barriers, a-and blocks and things, to stop—to stop—"
"Defensive magic?" Arthur barked out a short, bitter laugh—and, oh, God, Merlin really thought he'd believe that, Merlin really thought he'd just smile, and nod, and lap it up like a dog, so dumb and obedient and docile, just a stupid, stitched-up puppet on a string. "The truth, now, sorcerer, what did you do?"
"That is the truth!" Merlin leaned up off the wall a little. "I-I swear it, Sire, I swear, I would never hurt Camelot, I use it for you, only for you, it's yours—"
"Then what do you call this, Merlin?!" Arthur nearly screamed it, his throat pulled so tight he could scarcely push the words out. "What the hell do you call this?! What the hell do you call the last six years of lies and betrayal?!"
"I-I never—" a few sparkling tears cut clean tracks through the filth on Merlin's face, "—I n-never wanted to lie to you, I wanted to tell you, Arthur, I swear, I always wanted to tell you—"
"Did you?" The fury still boiled like blood in Arthur's veins, but the words didn't come out a scream this time.
Merlin only stared back with his cracked lips half-open and his glistening, bloodshot eyes wide.
"If you wanted to tell me," Arthur hissed, and so quiet, he didn't think Merlin could even hear him at all, "why did I finally find out the truth from a crystal?"
Merlin looked away.
And, God, but what else had Arthur even expected? What else had he thought would happen, what else had he thought Merlin would do? This, here, right now, this wasn't going to do any good, this wasn't going to change anything, even if he shouted and screamed until his throat bled, because Merlin had magic, and everything he had done with Arthur—everything he had done for Arthur—everything he had said to Arthur—all the smiles, all the secrets, all the laughs and drinks and jokes and early mornings and late nights, a hundred thousand times he had looked at Merlin, and he had thought this is the only man in this world I can truly trust—
But none of it had ever really been real.
None of it had ever really been real at all.
Arthur shook his head—this wasn't going to do any good, this wasn't going to change anything, and he had wasted enough time down here already, and it was all he could do now to burn Merlin, it was the last thing he could give to Merlin, fire, a way to purify his blackened and magic-tarnished soul in the flames, a small, slim chance of divine salvation, a hope that he might move on into the next world.
"A-Arthur, wait, I-I have to—I have to tell you—"
Arthur squeezed his eyes shut and sucked in a long breath. "You cannot talk your way out of justice, sorcerer. Don't be so foolish as to try."
"—no, please, that's not—" the straw rustled loudly in the silence, like Merlin had tried to stand back up again—like had put on an act, put up a front, pretended, only Arthur didn't see it, this time, "—it's—it's Morgana—she's—"
"Morgana?" Arthur snapped his eyes open—and he knew he shouldn't listen, he knew it was a lie, he knew it wasn't true, he knew he should walk away now, he knew he should get out, sorcerers will say anything, do anything, to save their own pathetic, lying skin, but he whirled back around to look at Merlin anyway, and so quickly, the dungeon's walls blurred around him in a dizzy mess of wood and stone.
"—sh-she plans to attack," Merlin stammered, and too fast, far too fast, and a little bit wild, too, like he knew he had only a moment to get it all out, like he knew he didn't have long before Arthur left, "she plans to march on Camelot, I-I don't know when, but she has something to help her, some kind of magic—um, thing, I think, I don't know what it is, I didn't see it, I couldn't—a-and I think she has an army, too, Arthur, I think she has an army, a proper one, this time, I mean, and I think she's going to—"
Arthur's head had already started to spin with all the words, all the new and terrible routes and roads he had to take—how will we treat our wounded without Gaius and how will we hold the citadel against her, against her magic, we didn't do it last time, we couldn't do it last time and how will we make it with so few men and how many march with her, how many can she claim as her own and are there more sorcerers this time to back her, to stand with her and can we really stand against so much magic—?
Oh. Arthur jerked his head up to look at Merlin again—God, he didn't want to believe it, he never wanted to believe it, and he didn't want to ask, he didn't want to know, he never, ever wanted to know, if he could just take all the words, all the questions, and swallow it all down inside him, if he had to take it all and choke on it, he would, by God, he would, because it would be better than—better than—
"Merlin," he said, and sharply—he could hear it, in his own ears, like a knife, like a sword, "how do you know this?"
Merlin wrinkled his dark brow and, for half a moment, he looked almost like Merlin again, the Merlin he had been only this morning, the Merlin who tripped over his own boots and said all the wrong things at all the wrong moments and didn't have an ounce of magic inside him at all. "I—I don't—" he shook his head, "—I found her, in the forest, in the Darkling Woods, and I—"
"Joined her?"
"What?" Merlin's mouth actually dropped open by the barest inch—God, he was actually good at this, wasn't he, really good at this, so much better than Arthur had expected. "N-No! Arthur, I-I would never—not ever—it's yours, I'm yours—"
"How long have you plotted alongside her?" Arthur broke in, his voice high and tight in his ears with the pain of it. This was it, wasn't it? This was it, this was always it, Merlin and Morgana, together, and Arthur was always too stupid, too blind, to open up his eyes and see it. "Against me?"
"Never," Merlin insisted, but his hands had started to shake again, and the tears in the corners of his eyes trickled out, down his face. "Never, Arthur, I swear it, I would never do anything to hurt you, it was all for you, everything was all for you, everything, always, for you—"
"Well," Arthur snatched up his sword again, but this time, he jerked the blade from the sheath, "I'll make sure to tell Morgana how her little spy tried to stab her in the back right up until the end." He grabbed, blindly, for the door at his back, and wrapped his fingers around the handle.
"No!" Merlin didn't scream, not the way he had at the touch of the cold collar on his skin but, somehow, this sounded so much worse. "No, Arthur, please, I would never betray you, I would never hurt you, I never wanted to lie to you, I never meant to lie, I did everything for you, it was all for you, it was you, it wasalways, always you—!"
Arthur shoved the door open and slammed the thin, creaky wood back in its frame with a dull, heavy thud.
"Save your silver tongue for some poor fool who will actually believe you, sorcerer."
Merlin had thought he would never know a moment worse than the first time Agravaine had kissed him—the first time Agravaine had touched him, the first time Agravaine had fucked him—but to look at Arthur, and see all the hurt, all the grief, all the sorrow and misery and absolute devastation, and know, with every breath, every beat of his terrified and too-fast heart, that he had put it there, he had taken all that pain, and he had put it there, in Arthur's face, in Arthur's eyes, in Arthur's chest, he had done that to Arthur, just like Morgana had—
No, this was so much worse.
And Merlin knew he needed to get up—brush off the dirt and wipe away the tears, pick himself back up and get back to it, get back up again, he knew this wasn't the end, he knew this wasn't over, not really, not so long as Morgana was still out there, not so long as Agravaine was still in here, not so long as he still had breath in his body, not so long as he could still raise his hand, not so long as he could still stand in front of Arthur, keep Arthur safe, protect Arthur—but he just—he just couldn't, not with the bite and burn of the cold metal collar clasped so tight around his throat, a pain so sharp he could barely move, barely breathe, barely even think.
Arthur—the name echoed back at him, over and over and over again inside his dazed and exhausted mind, so slow and heavy with the agony of the collar—Arthur, I have to get up and I have to take care of Arthur, I have to keep Arthur safe, but how could he do that, how could he take care of Arthur, how could he keep Arthur safe, when he was—when he—?
Even if he did get back up again—even if he could get back up again—he would be worse than useless to Arthur, to all of his friends, without his magic, and he had tried, a hundred thousand times now, he had tried to get it back, he had plucked and pulled and ripped at the collar's latch, but he couldn't do it, he couldn't get it open, and it only burned hotter and hotter with every yank, every tug, and he couldn't do it anymore, he couldn't try anymore, it hurt too much, but he had to try, he had to get it open, he had to get the collar off, he had to get his magic back—
Oh. God. His magic.
Merlin swallowed—and Jesus fucking Christ, that hurt, too, the light bump of heavy iron against the skin of his throat, and God, his magic, he missed his magic, he had never known a day without it, he had never even known so much as a moment without it, and he could still feel it, a faint buzz in the back of his mind and under his skin and in his veins, an insect trapped in a jar, and he had to let it out, one way or another, he had to let it out, he couldn't live like this—
But I won't live like this, because I won't live very much longer at all, because Arthur is going to come down and kill me, and for half a moment, Merlin had to wonder if maybe that would be better—maybe that would be better for everyone, maybe it would be better if he just wasn't here anymore, if he just—if he just let it happen, if he just stood back and let it all happen, let this all play out, just let destiny take him where it would, let fate take over all the worry for a little while.
And it would feel so good to just not fight anymore.
It would feel so good to finally stop, to finally take a breath, and feel all the weight of all the world roll off his shoulders, to look around and know he had done his duty, he had done as destiny had demanded, it would feel so good to finally rest, and know he could rest, to know the fear that had so nearly devoured him, the fear that had so nearly eaten him alive, couldn't touch him anymore, couldn't hurt him, couldn't chase him into dreams and turn it all to nightmares, to know he could finally close his eyes and sleep, and to know, when he awakened, the world would still be standing, with or without him.
And I would see Will again, and his throat tightened, and hot tears pricked, sharp and stinging, at the backs of his eyes, and Balinor, and Freya, and Lancelot, and I could finally say it, I could finally tell them all I love them, I could finally tell them all I'm sorry, I didn't mean for this to happen, I didn't mean to fail—
"Well, I have to say, you certainly have looked better, haven't you?"
Merlin snapped his head up—and the collar burned like a bonfire on his skin, but the sharp and scorching heat of his own wild fury blazed so much brighter, so much hotter, so much higher. "What are you doing here?" He shoved himself up off the crackling, rustling straw—and if he could just stand up, if he could just get back up on his feet again, God, if he could just reach his magic—but already, his arms trembled with the effort of it, and he could feel the first thin trail of sweat trickle slowly down the side of his face.
Agravaine raised his dark eyebrows, but the corners of his lips twitched a little. "Now, Merlin, is that any way to treat a visitor? Really," he slid the key smoothly into the lock, turned it until the bolt clicked, and opened up the door, "even with your dreadful manners, I should think you would—"
"What the fuck is wrong with you?!" Merlin didn't shout it, because he couldn't shout it— not after how he had shouted when Arthur had fastened the collar around his neck, not with how hoarse and harsh and raspy his voice had gone, no, it was all he could do just to push the words out past his sore throat at all, but he couldn't stay quiet for a single second longer after—after that, and Agravaine really had the nerve to saunter down here and act like—act like—
"Why did you—why the fuck did you—?" But all the words got twisted and turned and tangled up, one after another after another, until he could hardly remember what he had wanted to say at all, and it was a stupid question anyway, wasn't it, because he knew the answer already, he knew what Agravaine would say, he knew why, and so he broke off with a sharp jerk of the head. "What was—?" He flicked a tired glance up at Agravaine's awful, triumphant face. "What was the point?"
What do you want, he wanted to ask, but he didn't, he couldn't, he wasn't so brave as all of that, what do you want now, what more do you want from me, what more can you want from me, is there even anything left for you to want, is there even anything left for you to take, I gave you everything last night, I gave you everything, all of it, I gave you everything, and what else do you want from me when I gave you everything you wanted, when I'm everything you said you wanted—?
"Well," Agravaine stepped inside and shut the door behind him—the old wood rattled loudly at his touch—before he turned back to look at Merlin, his dark brows arched again, and his broad shoulders raised in a sort of shrug, "surely you can understand, Merlin. And better than most, if truth be told. After all, a man must act in his own best interests, must he not?"
Merlin clenched his fingers up in fists around the dirty, scratchy straw under his palms—if he didn't, he knew instinct would take over, and he would throw out a hand, and he would holler a spell, and it wouldn't do any good at all. "Morgana's best interests, you mean," he snapped out, and then swallowed down a wince as the collar pulsed white-hot at his neck.
"Oh, yes," Agravaine smiled, "yes, I can see how you might come to such a conclusion. For the moment, the Lady Morgana's ambitions do align rather neatly with mine. Quite convenient, really."
"Yes, isn't it just lovely when you and the other half of your lying, traitorous murderer duo share all the same values?" Merlin spat out.
But Agravaine didn't listen to him or, at least, it didn't look like he did. "Well, I must confess, there was a bit of a—ah, dispute, shall we say, on what to do with you—"
"Do with me?" Merlin narrowed his eyes and tried to push himself up a little higher on the heap of straw. "I'm not yours, you don't get to—"
"—but," Agravaine said, loudly, and lifted his chin a little higher, "you will be pleased to hear, we have reached a conclusion desirable for all parties." He knelt down in the dirt, and trailed his fingers lightly down Merlin's cheek. "Once the Lady Morgana has taken her rightful place as queen—"
Merlin smacked at Agravaine's hand and don't touch me, he wanted to scream, don't ever fucking touch me again, it's over, you're never going to touch me again, you're never going to even look at me again, but he knew there was something more right here, right now, something more important to say, something more important to press. "Arthur is the rightful king," he said, "no matter what Morgana—"
"Darling, it is really not polite to interrupt," Agravaine clicked his tongue, and grabbed Merlin's hand up in his. Warm lips left a light, quick kiss on Merlin's white knuckles. "You know I would never turn down an opportunity to hear that lovely little voice of yours, but you really must learn to wait your turn."
"Fuck you," Merlin hissed, because he couldn't think of anything else, anything worse, he couldn't think of anything bad enough for the man in front of him, and he wrenched his hand away.
"Oh, now, don't be like that," Agravaine leaned in a little, just close enough so Merlin flinched, so Merlin edged, on blind reflex, back into the cold wooden wall behind him. "Don't you want to hear the good news, love?"
"How will I ever survive the suspense?" Merlin said, as flatly as he could with his heart in his throat and his hands shaking in the straw.
Agravaine smiled—except it wasn't a smile, not really, it was too sharp for that, too sick for that, no, it wasn't a smile at all. It was the look of a shark showing all its teeth. "Once the Lady Morgana has resumed her rule—"
Merlin scoffed—that was a very kind way to put it, far better than a spoiled little girl got her tantrum cut short, and wants to come back and try again—but he bit his tongue. And even if the kingdom did fall into Morgana's hands again, he would already be dead, gone, nothing but ashes and embers and dust, too far for her to reach, too far for her to follow.
"—you," Agravaine raised an eyebrow—oh, so he had heard Merlin's noise, then, but he didn't stop, this time, "will belong to me."
Merlin wanted to laugh—hell, he nearly did laugh, he would have laughed, if Agravaine didn't look so absolutely, utterly serious right now. "Belong to you? I hate to have to bear the bad news, really, I do, but I'm not going to be here to 'belong' to much of anybody by this time tomorrow." What does he think he's going to do, sweep my ashes up out of the courtyard and keep them in a jar? No. Never mind. Best not to give Agravaine any ideas, because Merlin really, really wouldn't put that past him.
"By this time tomorrow," Agravaine said at once, and he smiled that smile-that-wasn't-really-a-smile again, too sharp, too sick, "Camelot will have a new ruler, and Queen Morgana, I assure you, is far more lenient on magic than Uther's spawn."
Merlin's insides turned all at once to ice. "Tomorrow?" So quickly? So soon? He had thought he would have more time, he had thought he would have one more chance to talk to Arthur, to prove it to him, to open his eyes, to make him see—he hadn't thought he would need to prove it to Arthur at all, really, he had just thought Arthur would believe him, he had thought Arthur would listen to him, he had thought Arthur would know—
"Well," Agravaine laughed, actually laughed, and the sound was a knife in Merlin's stomach, the sudden twist of a too-sharp blade, "she has no need to wait any longer." His dark eyes darted down to the collar around Merlin's throat.
Merlin reached up, on reflex, to press his fingers to the hard metal—and it hurt, it burned, he could feel the blisters burst up on his skin, but he didn't care anymore, because Morgana's going to attack tomorrow, and I can't fight her, I can't do anything, I can't protect Arthur this time, he's going to die, he's going to die, and it's all my fault.
"So, that's what this was, then?" He pulled his hand away, looked down at his raw and reddened fingers, the swollen pink and white welts, and swallowed a little too hard. "This was part of your plan, too?"
"As I said," Agravaine said, his voice very hushed, "a man must act in his own best interests, must he not?"
Merlin dropped his burned, blistered hands down into his lap, but he still had it in him to lift his head, to look Agravaine in the face. "Morgana is not in your best interests. The moment she has no further need of you, she'll kill you. She's done it before, and what makes you think you'll be any different?"
Agravaine laughed again, and louder this time, fuller. "Oh, Merlin, it seems you forget to whom you speak. Do not think to pull me in with that pretty little face and sweet silver tongue."
"When she does kill you," Merlin hissed, and he leaned in, this time, so close he could feel Agravaine's slow breath on the side of his face, on the side of his neck, "I will rejoice over your bloodied corpse."
"Oh, come now, Merlin, let's not start out like this," Agravaine only frowned at him. "Remember, the moment Morgana regains the throne, you're mine. And it will go far better for you if you make your peace with it and me."
"I will never be yours," Merlin said, and the collar could never burn as bright as the fire inside him. "I promise, if such a time ever comes, I will bring this castle to the ground around you."
"And, no doubt," Agravaine reached out and grabbed him, then, grabbed his wrists, and pinned his hands, hard, to the dirty floor of the small dungeon, and Merlin's breath hooked, sharply, all the way up the back of his throat, oh, God, no, no, let me go, don't do this, don't do this, let me go, "you would look utterly beautiful all the while."
Oh. God. Agravaine was going to do it, wasn't he—oh, Jesus Christ, Agravaine was really going to do it, right here, right now, right in this dungeon, where anybody could come in, where anybody could walk past, where anybody could look in through the thin wooden slats and see it—
And they'll know, and Merlin didn't think he had it in him to cry anymore, but hot tears still pricked behind his eyes, they'll know, they'll see it and they'll know, they'll finally know how filthy and disgusting and rotten I am, they'll see it and they'll know, and don't, oh, God, please, don't, please don't let them see, please don't let them know, I'll die before I'll let anybody see this—
—and Agravaine climbed up on top of Merlin—
—fight him, I have to fight him, I have to stop him, there's nothing he can do to me anymore if I fight him, there's nothing he can do to me anymore if I throw him off, if I blast him back, if I hurl him halfway across the cell, and it took too long, it took far, far too long to remember why that wouldn't work—
—Agravaine grinded down into Merlin on the straw, fast and rough, and oh, God, his cock, already hard as stone, rubbed up Merlin's thighs, Merlin's hips, Merlin's—
—please, no, please, make it stop, God, please, just make it stop, make him go away, make him get off of me, God, please, just make it stop, just make it end, please, make him change his mind, make him go away, make him stop—
—Agravaine's hands slid up Merlin's legs to—Jesus Christ, to cup Merlin—
"—no—" Merlin gasped out, and a few of the tears trickled out, and trailed down his cheek, and he couldn't help it, and fight him, I have to fight him, but I can't, I can't fight him, I can't fight him at all—
"Has anyone ever told you," Agravaine murmured, and he pressed a kiss to the thin, wet line of tears down Merlin's face, "you're very beautiful when you cry?"
"—don't—don't t-touch me, just—just leave—just leave me alone—"
Agravaine only clicked his tongue again. "Oh, hush, now, Merlin, you know as well as I do how much you have ached for this," and he stroked and squeezed Merlin through the thin, tight cloth of his breeches, and a soft, reflexive gasp dropped from Merlin's mouth at the touch, but he didn't—no, that wasn't right, because he didn't—he didn't want—he didn't mean—
Agravaine leaned in and kissed Merlin, one last time, before he finally, oh, thank God, thank Jesus Christ in heaven, if he's really there, because Agravaine finally pulled himself back up off Merlin, back up off the straw, and he plucked a stray shred of it off his thick, velvet sleeve, and his lips curved up in that too-sharp, too-sick smile again.
"You," he whispered, with one broad hand already on the door, "are going to make an absolutely lovely concubine."
Arthur's hands didn't start to shake right in the middle this time. And his throat didn't pull up tight and small and painful this time. And his mouth didn't turn dry and stale as sand this time. And he didn't waver. And he didn't wobble. And he didn't falter. He didn't think he would ever get that last look, back over his shoulder at Merlin in the cell, out of his head—the dirty and tear-streaked and terrified face, and it was all for you, it was always, always you—but he never stopped, he never slipped up, he never let it show for a single moment upon his face as he stared out over the gathered crowd, hundreds and hundreds of miles below him, away from him, and said the words.
Just like his father had said, a hundred thousand times before, word for word, letter for letter.
The sorcerer has been found. The sorcerer shall be put to death. The danger has passed. Your safety is assured.
And he barely made it back to his bedchamber before he broke, he shattered, into thousands and thousands of pieces, there on the cold stone floor, his knees pulled tight to his chest and his head in his hands, his fingers tangled up in his hair, in all the knots and gnarls he had never combed out, and if this is what it is to be a king, if this is what it is, I don't want it, I don't want it at all—
The door crashed open.
Arthur's heart jolted in his chest and he scrambled all at once back up off the floor, back up on his feet—it didn't matter if he wanted to bear the crown upon his head or not, he was still the King of Camelot in the eyes of her people, and the King of Camelot could not sit around and snivel over a sorcerer—
"What the fuck is wrong with you?!" Gwaine stormed straight into the chamber, and his every step fell loud and heavy as thunder on the cold stone floor, and he snarled in Arthur's face, like a feral beast finally freed from its cage. "What the fuck is wrong with you?! He's your friend! He's your fucking friend, and don't ask me why, because I don't know, I really don't know! He would throw himself from the ramparts before he'd betray you!"
"He had magic, Sir Gwaine," Arthur snapped, and he almost welcomed it, this fierce, fresh burst of fury in his chest, because at least the cold and hollow hole of grief inside him didn't stretch so wide anymore. "He has betrayed me. In the worst and most cowardly way possible."
"He took a fucking hit from the Dorocha for you! He's nearly died because of you a thousand times, do you really think—?!"
"That's enough!" Arthur wouldn't hear it again, couldn't hear it again, how well Merlin had played him all these years. "You've had your say, Sir Gwaine. I'll thank you to take your leave now."
And Arthur really thought Gwaine was going to hit him then, to strike him, to slam a fist straight into his open and unprotected face—
—but, instead, Gwaine reached up and ripped the glove from his hand, and he hurled it on the floor like it was a horrible thing—like it was a spider or a snake or a slug—and he grabbed his sword from its sheath at his side with a bright, clear clang of metal.
Arthur raised his eyebrows. He knew the knight in front of him had always had a bit of a flair for the dramatic, but surely, this had to cross a line somewhere. "Sir Gwaine, really—"
"Pick up your sword," Gwaine snarled out, like a dog, like a beast, his rough face twisted up with rage, and his chest heaving, under his mail, "and fight me."
"I'm not going to fight you, Gwaine," Arthur said, but he was too tired, suddenly, to put any fire behind it at all. How had it come down to this, how had it come down to his own knight against him, his own knight's blade turned upon him?
Merlin had messed everything up. Merlin had messed it all up.
It always came right back to Merlin in the end, didn't it?
"Then I will strike you where you stand!" Gwaine bellowed, and he lurched forward, with a furious swing of his gleaming blade, and the sharp steel edge missed the skin of Arthur's cheek by mere inches.
Arthur pulled out his sword—he could not, truly, find it in himself to feel angry with Gwaine, he could not even find it in himself to blame Gwaine for this, rash and impulsive and audacious as it was, but he would not simply stand here and let his own knight rain blows down upon him—and he hefted it up to block Gwaine's next strike.
And then the whole world warped into a senseless, spinning blur of blade on blade, too loud and too fast, and Arthur knew he couldn't keep up with it, he knew he would falter or fall within moments, but he still ducked every swing and he parried every blow, blind instinct in place of his usual strength and energy, and his own breath sounded hard and heavy in his ears with the effort and exertion of it, as he weaved around the table, the chairs, the bed, the wardrobe, and thin lines of cold sweat trailed down his forehead, down the side of his face, and this is madness, he thought, the whole time, this is madness, this is absolute madness, how has everything gone so wrong so quickly, how has everything gotten so bad as all of this—?
Arthur's sword clattered to the floor.
It took half a minute to make sense of the sound, the feel of his fingers locked tight around air, around nothing, the brutal triumph and the savage pride on Gwaine's usually kind face, and the sharp tip of Gwaine's sword at his chest, and Arthur couldn't find the fear or the fury he knew he should feel, no, he was far too tired for that, he was far too empty for that, so he only waited—he would not run, he would not fight, there was no honor in that, there was no honor in cowardice, so he only waited for what he knew would come now, what he knew must come now. The glistening point of his own knight's blade would plunge into his body, would pierce him straight to the heart and he would bleed out, he knew, in mere moments, heartbeats, even—
Gwaine stepped back. He shoved his sword back in its scabbard—and with a stiff, jerky hand, like he didn't want to, like he had to, quickly, before he did plunge the glistening point of his blade in Arthur's body, before he did pierce Arthur straight to the heart, except he should do it, he really should, that was the way it went, that was the way it always went, but Arthur didn't know how to say it, how to say you have to kill me now, don't you understand, you have to kill me now, that's the way it works—
Gwaine lifted his dark, red-rimmed eyes up to Arthur's face, and he never looked away as he raised up his hand, and unclasped his cloak, and let the bright red cloth flutter down to the floor at his feet.
"Consider this my resignation."
And, without another word, Gwaine turned on his heel and strode from the room, shoulders back and dark, shaggy head held high, and his cloak in a crumpled, tangled heap on the ground behind him.
Notes: honestly why didn't i leave my last job like that? sir gwaine is absolute #goals.
So this is a bit of an early update, actually! I didn't expect to get back to this until November, at least, but inspiration really just struck out of absolutely nowhere, so I just let it carry me where it wanted to go, aaaand then it didn't fUCKING SHUT UP for the next 9k words lmao. So it's early, AND super long! is this what it feels like to accomplish something? 'tis a foreign experience for a humble little warlock such as myself.
Not sure when I'll be back - y'all know the drill, the winter holidays are the busiest time of year for me, writing typically takes a backseat until January, and also, I've got a holiday fic in mind this year! really excited about it, actually, i just hope i can get it up in time for Christmas ;A; thank you all so much for all your wonderful, positive, encouraging comments on this fic! i honestly can't believe it, i was so blown away to see the response these last few chapters received! thank you guys so, so much!