Epilogue: Ten Months Later
The ruined castle of the ancient kings made quite a cozy home. Remote enough they didn't have to worry about notice being taken, rumors starting – yet not too far from Camelot.
The main room had an enormous hearth – and clear chimney, which was more important – a great round table, and several sturdy chairs. Through the winter they'd slept in pallets on the floor by the fire, but now that the weather was warming, Gwaine was talking about bed-frames and mattresses.
Though, Merlin privately thought, if Gwaine had his way, they'd go into business for themselves - setting in a store of wine and ale and hiring several pretty, willing maids and the whole place would be more like a tavern than an outlaws' hide-away.
He had discovered a stairway that led to a series of smaller rooms adjacent to the main chamber, a level up. The steps were partially crumbled, but Percival – who had some training in stone-masonry – claimed it was secure. There was talk of fitting the upper chambers for private bedrooms, but no one was really keen on the cleaning, so it hadn't been done.
Except for this one. Which wasn't really a bed-chamber, as it had no bed, but it was where Merlin kept his things. He glanced up from the book open on his lap, his chair tipped on its back two legs in the corner – where a great crack in the stone wall opened the room to the main chamber below, another feature Merlin preferred.
A dozen or so books, a three-legged table supporting a collection of chipped crockery. Twine strung on the wall where he could pin drying herbs. A home, even if temporary. How temporary, they didn't really discuss.
Everyone seemed content, surprisingly enough. Lancelot and Gwaine got along, after a fashion – Gwaine teased and Lancelot endured, and it worked, though they probably wouldn't have stayed comrades long if it had been just the two of them. Percival helped – he was quiet and serious most of the time, but with a streak of rare humor to answer Gwaine back. He was also the only one – aside from Elyan and Gwen, but their regular work kept them busy – able to come and go freely. Just over five months, it had been, since the two had joined Merlin and Gwaine. And it definitely helped, especially through the winter, to be able to barter for their supplies openly, or purchase them outright.
Merlin glanced through the crack in the wall, down to the hearth area, where the other three were already asleep, long vertical blanket-wrapped lumps. He found he was wakeful, tonight. Gwillam of Cambria was keeping him company, the dusty pages crumbling at the edges, flaking over his trousers; the old healer had definitely gone a bit crazy at the end, but the reading made for good diversion.
It was Arthur's birthday.
Merlin didn't think the others knew – it wouldn't mean anything to them, anyway. But it made him feel both melancholy and alert – another year spent successfully keeping his prince alive. An amazing, heart-wrenching year.
This night would be a festival, in the citadel. Feasting and merry-making, noisy and lively and Merlin hoped Orryn was up to the challenge. Because this night meant something to Arthur more than just celebration – and something even darker, to the king his father. The three years he'd been the prince's manservant, both Pendragons had gotten drunk as lords before the night was half over.
Merlin rather wished he was there. To half-carry his chosen master out of the roar of the hall to the quiet of his bedchamber. To be the only pair of ears to hear whatever came out of Arthur's mouth that night, all inhibition gone. Whether he sobbed or ranted or seethed, or spoke truly from the bottom of his soul.
And Merlin would listen – which was all Arthur really needed, at times like those – get him cleaned up and changed and into bed to sleep it off and the next day would be both better and worse. Worse, for the way Arthur felt physically after unusual over-indulgence and his back-tracking emotionally, which resulted in a bit more abuse for Merlin than normal. But better, simply because it wasn't the anniversary of his mother's death any longer, and Merlin knew the vulnerability of his prince, that made the cuffing and insulting that day, almost reasonable.
The door at the far end of the chamber scraped open - startling him so he almost tore the page between his fingers – rough and sudden, and waking the three in their bedrolls in the main chamber. Merlin let his chair tip back to the floor, leaning forward so he could see the moment their unexpected guest came into –
"Where is he?"
The prince. In a midnight-blue cloak over his birthday-feast finery. Pale and stern, Merlin could see from above, as Arthur strode into the chamber. Merlin's heart jumped into his throat, and he let the book fall, leaping for the chamber door and the stair.
"Where is he?" the prince repeated. "Merlin!"
"Arthur, I'm here, what is it?" he said, skidding around the archway at the bottom of the stair. "Is it Gaius? Is it Gwen?"
Arthur met him, shaking his head even as he grasped Merlin's upper arms – his instinctive reaching for support frightened Merlin still further, even as he was reassured on the question of the two he still loved inside Camelot.
"It's my father," Arthur rasped. His eyes were dark, almost desperate.
"What happened?" Gwaine demanded; he and Lancelot approached from the side. Percival headed the other direction, out the door where Arthur had come in.
"Will you come?" Arthur said to Merlin.
A deceptively simple question, and Merlin understood in an instant what his prince was asking.
An emergency beyond Gaius' abilities. Requiring magic, then, to be used on the king who'd banned it on pain of death – and had done his best to visit that penalty on Merlin. The same sentence that hung over Gwaine's head and Lancelot's, should they be captured.
It wasn't simply, please heal my father.
But, are you willing. To risk, to give, to have things remain so undeservedly hard and dangerous. Not for Uther Pendragon or even the good of the kingdom.
But for Arthur. Who after all loved his father. For Arthur, who otherwise would be orphaned – his parents taken on the same day a quarter-century apart. And his prince knew that, too. Knew he was asking, not commanding.
"Percival's getting one of our horses saddled," Merlin told him.
Because the big man, quiet but keenly perceptive, already knew what Arthur hadn't quite dared hope. Of course Merlin would go with Arthur, try anything his prince asked of him. Consequences be damned.
Arthur's grip tightened, and he gave Merlin a little shake to emphasize his words. "Thank you."
Merlin smiled on the inside, because there it was. Uther and his law didn't matter, living like outlaws in a drafty ruin didn't matter. He was where he belonged, where his prince needed him.
Arthur knew and appreciated. And that was enough.
…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..
Arthur resisted the temptation to spur his mount to a faster gait, knowing how foolhardy that was, riding through the forest at midnight. The sound of Merlin's horse behind him helped him control his calm.
Hold on, Father, we're coming.
The irony was as sour as the aftertaste of the feast-wine in his mouth - bringing Merlin back to Camelot to save the life of the man who'd condemned him to death. Arthur shook his head to clear it.
"What happened?" Merlin's voice said, closer than he expected, and he flinched – feeling his friend's steadying hand for a moment at his elbow. "Arthur?"
"We had a feast tonight." He couldn't see more of Merlin than a faint outline in the darkness, an occasional flash of moonlight through branches and budding leaves overhead, but the younger man hummed as though Arthur's statement carried no surprise for him.
An incongruous wave of warmth swept through him at the thought that Merlin had remembered it was his birthday, even though he had no duties or responsibilities connected with the day anymore. It made him feel just a bit lighter.
"My father hired a troop of entertainers," Arthur continued, trying to hold on to that warm feeling as another ripple of nausea and dizziness lapped through him. "One knife-thrower attempted assassination." And it occurred to him, he'd have to have the rest of them – already detained – interrogated sometime, their route back-tracked to find out where they'd been, and who might have bribed them to the more nefarious purpose of murder.
Merlin's breath hissed sharply between his teeth, and Arthur felt his hand again, as if he might have missed – and Arthur might have neglected to mention – a wound of his own.
"No – I'm fine," Arthur told him. "It was a trick – a tainted apple." He clenched his teeth and his right fist atop his thigh at the thought that the gleeman had succeeded in that part of their plan so easily, challenging his courage to stand the target for his knives. "He came to my room after the feast. I had dismissed Orryn, he was trying to…"
Arthur swallowed hard. That memory was quite close to another – the blurred sense of reality, the helpless instinct to cooperate, the clumsy way the fuzzy-haired servant handled him and his clothing. He hated that feeling… and once again, someone he was close to was hurt, because he wasn't aware enough to help.
"And then," Merlin said quietly.
"My father came also," Arthur said. "We'd had a disagreement earlier…" Uther wanted to raise that levy, and Arthur opposed the decision. It seemed almost trivial, now. Agonizingly mundane.
In the past nine or ten months, they had been exploring a more mature relationship. Tentatively and not always nicely – Arthur tried to limit his argument with his father's policy and decision to a private venue, and Uther tried to respect his heir's difference of opinion in public.
"I don't even know what he was going to say," Arthur realized. I'm sorry I was wrong or you are wrong and you will submit.
The first jolt of energy at finding a stranger approaching with a bared blade in such restricted chambers had died so suddenly, leaving Arthur slouched on the floor, hardly able to keep the hilt of his sword in his hand. He'd seen his father fight before, and not too terribly long ago, but it was close quarters and the assassin determined. Even knocked down, with the king standing over him with the sword, he'd managed to produce a knife…
"In any case, my father took the knife intended for me, in the chest," Arthur concluded slowly. "Gaius said the blade might have touched his heart." And my father is dying. "He can't do anything, but maybe magic…"
"All right." So casually spoken, Arthur wasn't sure the sorcerer truly understood the situation.
"Merlin, I can't promise – anything. If this works and he wakes and we tell him –" Arthur caught his breath as they emerged from the dark cover of the woods to the moonlight on the citadel.
"Maybe it's better if you didn't," Merlin suggested. "At least that it wasn't me, specifically? But. Arthur, I can't… promise anything, either. Except my best."
Arthur nodded, his throat too tight for words; when his father was healed, then they'd deal with his acceptance of how. As they entered the lower town to ride through the streets, deserted now a few hours past midnight, he caught the movement of Merlin lifting the hood of his cloak over his head to conceal his face when they reached their destination.
A druid healer, was the story he and Gaius had agreed on. But the minimal night-guard did not question the prince on his hooded companion; one glance at his face was enough for them to pass silently. Not that many even knew, yet, that the king had been wounded; and concerns about the heir's whereabouts would only be directed to Uther. Though in the morning…
It was eerily familiar, traveling the halls and stairs with Merlin at his side. And yet so surreal at the same time, to do so at night, with the younger man silent and hidden, and Arthur's father…
He burst into the king's bedchamber without knocking, startling both Gaius and Guinevere, on either side of the large bed, into straightening. She tried to stuff a wad of bloodied bandage behind her back, a look of consternation on her face. A pang of sick heartache shot through him at the sight, but he forgot her entirely a moment later as Gaius hurried to intercept him.
"Gaius?" he managed, before his throat closed off.
Something about the physician's demeanor – betraying more concern for Arthur than for Uther, that wasn't right – something about the raised eyebrow, the sternly checked emotion, the deepened lines of stress and exhaustion, told him.
Even before he looked past Gaius to his father's body, covered with the sheet up to his chin. His face framed by the pillow, serene and white, hair brushed back… told him.
He halted, for one earth-shattering moment, and his whole world changed.
Dimly he heard Gaius. Too much bleeding. Couldn't stop the bleeding. So, so sorry, sire.
Too late.
One step closer, two. To see his father's face more clearly. To hear the last words he'd said, lying there in Arthur's arms – too weak to lift him. Too dazed and horrified to lift his voice sufficiently for the guards… who after all were dead in the corridor by the assassin's hand.
It's my time.
No, you can't die.
I know you will make me proud, as you always have. You will be a great king.
He spoke aloud, "I'm not ready."
No one said, You have been ready for some time, Arthur.
Distantly he was aware of Guinevere approaching him, hands now empty, taking him in her arms. He felt her shudder with quiet weeping, and understood that it was for the sake of her love for him.
But in an odd way, it felt like someone else.
Standing there. Someone else, lying in the bed. Because no one was lying in the bed; his father was commanding, authoritative, the weight of his presence palpable, undeniable.
Gone. Not here. Somewhere… else.
Arthur realized that Gaius no longer stood in front of him. Guinevere had released him and retreated past the edge of his vision. His feet moved, carrying him to the chair at the bedside, and then no further.
He breathed, and time passed, and the candles flickered. But nothing changed.
His father was gone. He was an orphan; that thought didn't frighten him as it had as a child.
He was free, but as a boat cast adrift.
And at the same time, locked finally into the responsibility of a kingdom. If he made a mistake, there would no one to give him that look of disappointment. Also, no one to say with authority, I'll take care of this.
The room was still. The night was black. He was alone.
"There were things I should have said – I wanted to say – and never did. I wanted to be like you. I wanted to make you proud. And then – I was glad I wasn't like you, and I wanted to force you to recognize that. I wanted your respect. And then… I wish we could have been friends, Father. I wish…" So many things.
An echo of last words – Know this, Arthur, I've always loved you.
Arthur leaned his elbows on his knees, clasped his hands, leaned his forehead on his fingers. Closed his eyes to make his world smaller than the room. So small, so manageable. But, not so easy to deny entrance to reality.
He wanted to scream, or run away, or throw up. Anything to rid him of the painful lump that swelled and smoldered in his chest, scalded his throat. But it wouldn't change anything. This pain could only be endured, until it consented to recede.
So he endured.
Details occurred to him, things that would need to be done. Dismissed to someone else can see to that.
Are you with Mother now? Are you happy? Are you telling her everything she missed?
Have you finally, all the gods send it so, found peace?
Perhaps if Morgana was in the same place, they might find reconciliation. And somehow, the rest of those left behind, would have to do the same.
Some time later, realization grew that his back and legs and neck ached – but his face rested on something soft. He blinked his eyes open – they burned and watered in reaction – and his muscles drew him upright in the chair, sore and stiff. He looked at the small pillow near the edge of the bed that now carried the dent of his head and wondered where it had come from.
Someone was opening the curtain behind him. Someone opened the shutter on the window also – deliberately slowly, so the stark contrast of candlelight and darkness faded gradually to a softer glow of dawn.
Arthur looked as his father's face on the pillow and the events of the previous night – the hilarity of the party, the horror of the attack – seemed remote.
He heard the door, and someone said, "Thank you, Orryn. No, I'll take it from here." A voice that drew his head to turn, though he didn't focus, exactly.
Someone approached the other side of the bed, took gentle hold of the sheet, and pulled it respectfully to cover the king's face. Someone who was missing the last joint of the smallest finger of their left hand. He tried to think about that, but his head felt stuffed with wool.
"Come, Arthur." Someone touched him, a caring touch, urged him up from the chair.
He obeyed; the bed was empty anyway, he had no father. He noticed that his dark blue cloak remained draped over the chair as he stepped away, but he didn't remember unfastening or removing it.
The figure he followed was cloaked, the hood up, but the hand on his elbow felt familiar, and he followed. The corridors were quiet but for their footfalls, the light diffused and dim, but he recognized the door to his chamber and relief cooled the glowing coal in his chest. Inside, the hand left his elbow and he stopped walking, waiting for some other purpose to occur to him.
Soon all decisions would be his; he wanted to delay that for just a little while longer.
Then someone's fingers loosened the ties of his shirt – he dropped his chin to watch; that last left one still shortened. Someone's hands slid the garment up – he raised his arms obediently – and over his head, with a comfortable and familiar expertise. Someone took sponge and cloth and washed him – keeping his trousers dry, no easy task – and he felt refreshed.
Arthur took a deep breath, and then another, and somehow the new air entering his body cleared his mind and made him feel able to face his duty.
He turned his head to watch Merlin deposit cloth and sponge on the tray with the pitcher and basin; there was a second tray containing food, at the other end of the table. The younger man met his eyes as he turned back, positioning a clean shirt for Arthur to put on, and Arthur frowned at the pale shade of skin, the dark brown bruise-like circles under Merlin's blue eyes.
"Have you been here all night?" Stupid question; did he think Merlin had ridden back to the ruins for a few hours of sleep, before sneaking back into the citadel? Arthur gripped the bottom hem of the clean shirt, one of deep blue that was his most comfortable, pulling it over his head, pushing his arms into the sleeves, before Merlin answered.
"I didn't want you to feel that you were alone."
Arthur remembered that Merlin's mother had told him, his young friend had found his own father for only a few days before that man's death. He resolved that was going to be a story he asked for. Soon; when they both felt ready to deal with that. He reached out to put his hand on Merlin's shoulder. "You're a loyal friend, Merlin. Thank you."
It occurred to him, then, that Merlin had spent years preparing him for the day… and for the day he'd rule the kingdom. He wanted to express his gratitude, he wanted to share the time and the feeling of companionship.
"You hungry?" he said, gesturing to the tray of food before moving toward his chair.
"Starving," Merlin admitted, trailing him more hesitantly. But instead of sitting in the chair Arthur shifted crooked in invitation, the younger man gave him a beautiful smile, if a bit weary. And turned to gather up the cloak he'd laid aside to act as Arthur's servant.
"Where are you going?" Arthur said, genuinely confused.
"I'm an outlaw, remember?" Merlin said. "As much as I'd like to stay… I can't. It's going to be interesting getting out of here without being recognized, though."
"No," Arthur said. "No, you're not. Not anymore."
The burden of kingship that felt heavy on his neck and shoulders like a cart-horse's collar lifted, just slightly, at the realization that he could now offer his friend, his freedom. And Gwaine, and Lancelot, eventually. It occurred to him that he didn't feel alone, and didn't have to maybe ever again.
"Stay," he added. "This is where you belong."
Merlin's face lit up with a sudden and fierce joy that made his eyes glisten, briefly reflecting the fire of sunrise from the window. "In Camelot," he said, almost a question. "At your side."
"Of course," Arthur said. "Come and eat with me. It's a new day; we need to be ready for it."
Merlin's grin was brilliant, and he used the phrase with a sincerity that both shattered and reinforced Arthur's spirit. "Yes, my lord."
A/N: Okay, readers, that's a wrap! The end of the story! Thank you all so much for reading/reviewing! No sequel, it would just be, Arthur bringing magic back and giving Merlin a permanent position at court – and romance and adventure for everyone… Yay golden age!
Although. I have been asked, and I've hinted I might, add chapters to fill in the episodes between "Castle of Fyrien", and this one "The Wicked Day". I don't believe it would be the same sort of in-depth re-writing I did for my "Towers" series in "The More Things Change". But I need to know if enough people are interested to glance literarily at how those eps would fit into this story, to make that writing worthwhile… I'm leaving on a week's vacation Friday morning, so I wouldn't post any of that material until my return anyway, but – let me know?
Also, some dialogue from ep.4.3 "The Wicked Day".