Chapter Fourteen
Merlin, as far as Arthur can tell, doesn't tell Gaius but he does get the worst of his wounds treated by him. Whether he explains it away with a few words about the battle with Mordred or perhaps Morgana or an outright lie or only silence, Arthur doesn't ask. All that matters is that Merlin is finally getting help.
Every night though, Merlin lets the illusion fall and Arthur tends to the rest of them. It is both heartbreaking and strangely cathartic for him.
Perhaps it is a comfort for them both.
He trusts Merlin but he still has trouble wrapping his mind around how nobody asks anything. Not about Morgana and what she had done and her death; not about Merlin and the wounds they could see; not about Mordred's death. Nothing. They accept the explanation Arthur gives them, "Morgana," without curiosity.
"Mordred was working with Morgana," he told them and that at least got reactions—anger and betrayal and disappointment and—and still, no questions. No one asks what he knew, what he said, what he did, how he died.
It bothers Arthur more than he wants to admit. He wants them to be happy, he wants them to feel safe, he wants them to be okay. But he doesn't want to lie to them, to deny them the truth, to give them a reason to mistrust him.
He doesn't want them to feel guilty. But he can't bring himself to tell them.
In the end he leaves it up to them; if they ever look at him and ask, he will give them the truth, he will trust them with everything and face the consequences of guilt—theirs and his own. Until then, he will let them live in what peace they can find.
Peace isn't easy to find.
He catches odd looks and worried frowns and confused mutterings from his people, but nobody ever asks.
Gwen spends a whole evening staring at the scar on his hand—it runs all the way through to the other side, a jagged reminder of what had happened. She'll reach out to almost touch him but always, always she will pull back. Arthur is tense, trying to order the words in the right way when she inevitably asks about it and he's scared but of what, he's not sure; perhaps the truth after all this time.
She doesn't ask but she doesn't stop staring at it, her eyes trace it again and again and he wonders if she remembers the way the knife had so easily cut through his bones and muscle and skin; wonders if she can recall the sickening thud of the knife finding the table; wonders if his surprised cry of pain echoes in her ears.
He wonders if she can remember it as clearly as he remembers shedding Merlin's blood.
He doesn't know how to help her, how to tame the questions she can't face, how to absolve her of the guilt she can't possibly understand. But he cannot just leave her like this, always almost remembering, always uncertain, always scared for no discernible reason, always guilty.
"Guinevere," he whispers and even after all this time there is still something about her name, about being able to say her name that touches him in a way he can never describe. The way her name brings him strength and reminds him of all the good that this world has within it and brings him hope. The way he can never just say her name like it isn't one of the most important possessions he's been gifted with, the way he can't hide how much he loves her, and how very much he needs her in just one word.
She looks up at him, her hair falling into her face now that she's let it down for the night, her eyes dark. He's seen a lot in his life, travelled through many different lands, and dined with royalty but he has never seen anything or anyone as beautiful as she is.
"Guinevere," he says again, and he hopes he never gets tired of those syllables falling from his lips into the waiting silence. Gently he takes his hand, the one that she can't stop staring at, and brushes it across her face.
She leans into his touch, relaxes into his hand regardless of the scar that will forever mark his skin, and enfolds herself into him. It's enough.
Gwaine won't touch him with his right hand.
It takes Arthur a while to notice but when he does it's there in every action. Gwaine pretty much avoids touching him at all but when he has too, it's never with the hand that had pounded into Arthur's chest, that had broken his bones, that had stolen all of Arthur's breath away, that had almost delivered the killing blow.
He laughs and jokes and acts like the rogue he pretends to be, but Arthur can see the seriousness in his eyes, can hear the false note in his voice, can hear the catch in his laugh.
As soon as he realizes Arthur goes to him after training but as always, the right words fail to come to him. So instead, he just laughs and tells the knight good job and then he grabs his right hand and shakes it firmly and with determination. And he hopes that Gwaine understands what he's saying; that Arthur has forgiven him and that he holds no grudge against him, hopes he knows that Arthur doesn't fear him.
Percival catches Arthur before he can fall but releases his arm as if burned. It takes Arthur a week before he can work in a 'casual' hug and it takes Percival a long moment before he relaxes tense muscles to return it.
Leon won't look him in the eye until Arthur draws him aside several times and asks for advice and eventually his First Knight finally relaxes in his presence and finally looks at him. The lords, Gaius, the servants, every one of them has an issue and Arthur doesn't know what to do to make it better but he does all he can and hopes that it will be enough to stave off their nightmares.
Arthur doesn't have the words to heal them, but he has always let actions stand as his voice and he loves them all enough to do whatever they need of him.
"What are we doing?" Merlin asks, familiar curiosity coating his voice even as he follows diligently by Arthur's side.
Arthur doesn't answer; he's breathing too fast and not deep enough, but he can't help himself. He is scared, so, so scared of what he is about to do but he knows it's time.
It's time to let go.
It's dark and the moon is only half-full but the torches in their hands light up enough for them to see. It doesn't take long to reach the clearing; it's just a regular clearing to most people, probably even for Merlin but for Arthur it's far more than that.
It's the clearing where his father first told him he was proud of him, the clearing where he once sparred with Morgana, the clearing where he let himself kiss Guinevere. It's the place that represents times in Arthur's life where he was happy and loved and with the people he loves.
It signifies hope and life to Arthur and for that reason, he has brought Merlin here.
He drops the wood he had collected as they traveled, and his servant does the same though with far more noise.
"Merlin, will you start a fire?" he asks and his voice sounds hoarse to his own ears.
"Uh, sure," Merlin answers, watching him carefully. He doesn't ask any more questions though and Arthur is grateful because he doesn't yet know the words he wants to say—he needs to say. Merlin gathers the wood and pulls out a flint—
"Not that way," Arthur interrupts and the words surprise even him, but they feel right. Merlin frowns up at him and opens his mouth but Arthur surprises them both by asking, "Merlin, will you use your magic?"
It's the first time he's spoken the word aloud without stumbling over it, without even pausing in shock and confusion in his own mind.
Merlin looks at him for a moment then he grins and replies, "Yes, Sire." And his eyes are gold and flames leap up into the night, but they are contained within the fire pit and Arthur feels no fear when he looks at them.
"They have to be hot," he says and for the first time he sees the flaw in his plan, but then he looks at Merlin, the gold just now fading from his eyes and he knows all he has to do is ask.
"Well, fire tends to be pretty hot without any help from me, you know?" Merlin jokes and Arthur can't help but crack a smile.
"Hot enough to melt metal?"
"Melt metal? What exactly are you planning on doing, Arthur?" Merlin yelps incredulously.
Arthur's mouth is dry, and his breath comes in short gasps and his hand is trembling as he reaches inside his pack and draws out the dagger.
The dagger that ended his sister's life.
The dagger that tortured Merlin and almost took him from Arthur.
His hand burns where he touches it, but he doesn't let it go.
"Arthur," Merlin breathes, standing up abruptly, the smile dropping from his face to be replaced with confusion, "why?"
Arthur looks at the weapon in his hands with pure hatred; at the blade that had inflicted so much damage, at the gleaming metal that had brought so much pain, at the dagger that represented everything Arthur could have lost.
It's not the dagger that's at fault but Arthur will never be able to look at it and see anything but Merlin's blood running down the blade, never be able to hold it in his hands and not feel it slicing through his friend's life, never be able to remember it as anything other than the weapon that had drawn out Merlin's cries of pain.
It's not Arthur that's at fault. It had been his hands that had wielded the weapon and he will never be able to undo that, never be able to erase these memories away, never be able to fully wash himself of the blood. It had been his hands, but it hadn't been his mind, hadn't been his thoughts, hadn't been his actions; it hadn't been Arthur.
It's not the dagger's fault.
And it's not Arthur's fault.
And if he wants to bring peace to himself and to his kingdom, he needs to let it go. This all-consuming guilt that keeps him awake at night, this terror that haunts his every step, this dagger that only reminds him of pain and betrayal.
"It's time to let it all go," he answers.
"But your father gave it to you," Merlin argues but he looks uncertain, "You...you love that dagger."
"I did," Arthur nods in agreement, "but not anymore."
"Arthur—"
"I need to do this, Merlin," and that effectively quiets his servant. "And I need...I want you to be here with me."
Because he needs Merlin to see Arthur destroying the very weapon that had hurt him. He needs Merlin to know he's safe with Arthur—and Arthur knows, he really does, that Merlin doesn't need this, doesn't look at Arthur in fear even with the dagger in his hands, but Arthur still needs to do this where Merlin can see.
Maybe it didn't make sense but then again very few things made sense when it came to Arthur and Merlin.
"Will you stay with me, Merlin?" And these aren't the words he meant to say, aren't the words that he's been rehearsing in his mind, but they are the words that, perhaps, matter the most.
"Of course, I'll stay," Merlin replies without hesitation but that doesn't lessen the sincerity written in every line of his body, "I'll always stay, Arthur."
And Arthur was wrong because these words are the ones that matter the most, the promise that he needs to hear, the vow he needs to believe. And he does.
Merlin doesn't say anything else, but he stands next to Arthur as he throws the dagger into the fire and his eyes burn as bright as the flames as it destroys the weapon Arthur fears the most.
They stand side by side as the dagger melts into nothing but painful memories of a time that will, eventually, fade into the past.