Stay, part 3
The darkness was very deep, and velvet soft. It beckoned, and Merlin had to resist, because… because… Promised Arthur he wouldn't leave.
Slow, everything seemed slow – time, and the rhythmic constriction-and-release of his heart. The sluggish movement of his body turned inside out, poisoned. Tainted. He couldn't move, but the sensation of movement wouldn't stop. His whole being was seeking something that didn't exist.
An impossible swoop, down and to his right. A vicious spin, straight down – reversed almost immediately to stretch his spine and split his intestines and – then a twist. His upper half one way and his legs the other and –
Emrys, someone said.
Oh, for the love of… Camelot. Not this. Not now.
"Emrys."
The voice provided a point of reference. A focus that was part of him, but outside of him, at once. The name that represented more than just friendship, or service, or protection. It was duty, and destiny – and he couldn't not answer.
"What?" he mumbled.
"Emrys. Do you know where you are?"
That was easy. In the darkness.
"Hell."
For another moment, he thought he was going to be left alone again. No such luck…
"And why are you in hell, Emrys?"
"I failed," he said. A bit annoyed that someone was interrupting sheer unchanging unending agony to bother him with the obvious.
"In what way?"
The only way that mattered. "Arthur. Hates magic. My fault."
"Why is it your fault?" A very different voice, and one that started the spinning again, and he moaned.
"I killed his… father."
For a moment, blessed horrible silent solitary darkness again.
Then the first voice again, oddly swift as if it didn't address him, initially. "No, don't! Just wait – one – moment… Emrys. You hated Uther so much, you finally saw the chance you'd been waiting for? And took it, and killed him?"
Merlin dragged his eyelids up. Glimpsed a partially-obscured bald pate, a pair of glittering eyes. Sideways to him, which turned his stomach uncomfortably.
"No," he whispered. "No, I couldn't. I wouldn't. Not Arthur's father… you don't understand."
"Then what?"
If I tell you, will you leave me alone to keep dying in peace?
He said, "Tried to heal him. Tried. No good at healing, usually, but – thought it was working… til it didn't. Oh, Arthur was…" He couldn't find the word for what he wanted. What was furious and heartbroken, together? " 'N I failed, and he hates magic…"
"If you could escape this hell by telling your king your secret, confessing your actions and motivations, would you do it? Emrys?"
He blinked, and wanted to spiral back into darkness. His eyes ached to focus, and couldn't, the way the world was looping and retreating, coiling up and springing away. "No."
The face seemed to come nearer to his own. "Whyever not?"
"He's not ready. 'M not… ready. We're not…"
"What if I told you…" The face withdrew, but the whisper intensified insidiously, crawling around the inside of Merlin's skull, dulling his ears. "You're not alone in this hell. Your king is here also, and several of the knights. Your friends, I believe."
Merlin tried his best to pull himself together, but… no part of his body responded. And there was no magic. There was only one thing to do.
"If I confess," he said thickly, trying to see the other speaker – the bars of hell were wide and red, the spaces between orange-light, hot and blurry and everything was moving. "You will let him go? Arthur?"
"Yes."
He tried to swallow, but it hurt and he almost choked before his throat peeled open again. "And the knights? Them as well?"
"I swear upon my love for Albion, and magic itself. Roll to your back if you can – your king is just there."
Everything was moving, and he couldn't. It took an eternity and all his strength to turn his head away from the hard ground beneath his cheek and for a moment reality was tall shadows, a forest of legs and faces like distant stars.
Then, there was Arthur, torchlight making a halo-glow in his golden hair. Merlin recognized him, but couldn't determine his expression in the untrustworthiness of his own eyes.
"Arthur," he said. Desperately. "Arthur – you hear me?"
"I do."
His ears were filling with water or rushing air again – he couldn't hear the tone, the all-important tone. Or maybe that was inconsequential after all.
"I have magic," he gasp-whispered. "I'm a sorcerer. All my life… I use it for you. You needed me and I saved you again and again, and you saved me too… Forgive me please forgive me…"
His stomach was clenching and his throat was closing again and this time he'd be turned inside out. He swallowed and held his breath and arched against the terrifying, agonizing sensation, because he had to know if they walked free, he had to see Arthur escape this hell. He had to keep one promise before he died…
…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..
The moment seemed frozen in time and eternity, to Leon. Hearing the suspicion confirmed still didn't make it seem real.
Why didn't we see.
We saw plenty – invincible creatures, murderous magic-users, curses and undead warriors – why didn't we see him?
Because he was behind us. Behind our lines. Not screaming toward us in attack – but hidden to remain part of our defense. This skinny, clumsy – loyal, clever – servant.
Writhing in the dirt in pain and humiliation, begging for forgiveness while we stand around and –
"You are welcome to leave him in my care. Be assured he will live and recover fully." Before Leon – or anyone else, he thought - had time to absorb the words, Alator moved, leveling his staff like a knight with a lance in the lists.
Leon had a single second for every nerve to seize, every muscle to tense, and a bar of blue-yellow light sprang out of the twisted-thick head of the staff. The other three ducked away, raising an arm to protect their faces – and two of the timbers in that corner exploded. Outward, lucky them. And Gwaine was moving before Leon dropped his own arm, through the gap and drawing his sword as he went.
"Drop the staff," he demanded of the sorcerer, "drop it, or I run you through."
Alator dropped it, unperturbed. As Leon began turning back to Arthur – what are your orders, sire – Percival moved into the cell-space vacated by Gwaine. Kneeling at Merlin's side as the younger man clung to the ground and blinked wildly – languidly, uncomprehendingly – up at them.
"Percival," Arthur said.
And Leon couldn't tell whether it was a don't-do-that warning, or the beginning of an order cut off because it was already being obeyed.
Percival didn't immediately respond, reaching one big hand behind Merlin's neck, lifting his upper body gentle as a mother before scooping his other arm under both of Merlin's – who whimpered, and failed to hold his own head upright. Percival paused to look up at Arthur.
"He belongs with us. You know it, sire, you felt it when we were going to the Isle and he was touched by the dorocha. We all missed him. He belongs with us."
Maybe even, they couldn't lose him like they'd lost Lancelot. Whose absence Percival probably had felt the most.
He was big enough that when he gathered Merlin's legs together at the knee, it was not unlike a parent lifting a slumbering child to carry to bed. The muscles of Percival's arms bulged, and Merlin dangled like he had that morning in the ruins, almost four months ago, semi-conscious. When he should have been dead – and magically wasn't – and went to the Isle with them after all. Fully restored. But the look on Arthur's face wasn't surprised relief, as it had been when Lancelot returned with his servant, apparently none the worse for wear.
It was more like his expression two weeks ago, when Agravaine had returned with a scrap of the servant's distinctive clothing, claiming it for proof that the young man was dead…
"Yes," Arthur said finally, looking in Percival's face, rather than at Merlin unconscious in his arms. He drew himself up almost imperceptibly, looking at both Leon and Elyan also. "Yes, he stays with us."
Arthur moved for the gap at the opposite end of the cell; Leon nodded for Percival to follow, and Elyan shifted as if anticipating helping the biggest knight maneuver his burden to freedom. Gwaine had Alator's staff in his off hand, and silently prodded the bald sorcerer toward Arthur, and the tunnel which presumably led out of the mine-caves. Leon paused to scoop up Merlin's discarded jacket and kerchief.
"A word of warning, Highness," the sorcerer said, seemingly unperturbed at the reversal of their positions. "He's going to get worse before he gets better."
Arthur twisted to look at Merlin, but his expression didn't change. "Show us the way out, if you please."
Gwaine's sword unacknowledged at his back, Alator made another little bow, before reclaiming both torches. And as they started up the tunnel, Leon wondered if Arthur's offer for banishment if Alator restored Merlin, still held. And what the offer might be for Merlin himself.
…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..
Emrys. Can you hear me?
They were passing beyond the iron web of the mines, back up to fresh air and starlight and magic; even without his staff, Alator could feel it once again.
Behind him, low and almost lost in the shuffle and tramp of the others, the young sorcerer moaned. Alator increased his pace, hoping to get clear of the cave system before it got really bad, for Emrys' sake. He wasn't yet to the point of acknowledging Alator's wordless query.
"How well do you know Lord Agravaine?" the king said in a conversational tone. Beside him where the tunnel admitted for two abreast, dropping back when it narrowed.
"Not at all," Alator returned, intuiting the reason for the question. "I could not guess at his motivation for betrayal, I regret to say. And if you cannot, then you will never know."
"Why is that?"
Another moan, and a hissed breath indrawn between clenched teeth; Arthur Pendragon turned absently as he walked as if to check the suffering sorcerer.
"The reason I was delayed returning to you," Alator told him. "Agravaine informed Morgana of your presence here, and we caught her coming to claim her prize. You – Emrys – both. It took considerable time and energy in persuading her, it was not worth her while…" Morgana was not very controlled, and the old warrior in Alator, though not as strong - nor as ruthless, oddly enough - had finally succeeded in effecting her retreat, without irreparable damage to himself. "When I was able to return, I discovered that Agravaine had come back here also – sent by Morgana, or on his own initiative. Lireht… lost his life in preventing Agravaine from finding you helpless."
"Helpless," the dark-haired knight behind Alator snorted, shoving the tip of his blade a little harder into Alator's ribs. "Hardly."
"Lireht," the king said. "Your – bodyguard?"
"My friend," Alator corrected softly, with a pang of loss and anticipation of loneliness. "Taken by a knife in the back. But he managed to take his killer with him." To hell or to Avalon, only the gods knew, and their decision would be well-weighed and entirely just.
"Wait – who do you mean, his killer?" The king stopped, ten paces short of outside air, the slate-hard vale of Kemeray and velvet-blue night.
"Agravaine," Alator said. "He is dead as well, at Lireht's hand. It should not bring you any sorrow or surprise that a traitor's treachery brought its own recompense."
The king's head and shoulders bowed in some emotion Alator couldn't read; he put out his hand to steady himself on the rock wall of the tunnel. In the silence, the scuffle of the biggest knight carrying the youngest and lightest of the group was more pronounced – and the groan was unmistakable.
"Hells… Arthur, he's –"
"Look out, I'm not going to be able to hold him-"
Alator was shoved to the side of the tunnel as all but one of the knights passed him in a rush, carrying the young king with them, out to the open night air – and Emrys was no longer limp and insensible, but beginning to flail.
"Here, set him here –"
"Watch his head, it's rocky –"
Alator lifted the torch to increase the reach of its light, but studied Arthur Pendragon, one arm tied to his chest like it had been injured, the other hand gripping his belt as if missing his sword. It was with their horses, and Alator would return the weapon with the mounts later, but for one second he watched the prophesied king watch the hope of magic kick and thrash on the ground. In a moment, Alator knew, there would be screams.
"What did you do to him?" the dark-haired knight growled in frustration, shoving Alator forward again with his fist clenched around the hilt of his sword.
"I left him too long in that place," Alator said regretfully.
"Well, do something for him now!"
The king heard his knight's exclamation, the others as well, by the way they looked up. Three knelt around the young sorcerer, gently holding him in place against his inclination to batter himself involuntarily against the rocky ground.
A low, guttural moan. "Oh, please just… kill me. Please can't you just… make it stop. Kill me… end this…"
Regret made Alator cringe, and he recognized a similar reaction passing over Arthur Pendragon's face.
"Can you do anything for him?" the king asked in a low voice.
And that was what Alator wanted to see. Concern – not for a sorcerer or prisoner, but for a friend. Emotion such as Uther was rumored to lack entirely. He said, "I can attempt to lessen his perception of the pain."
"Do it, then." The king stepped back to allow him space.
Alator handed the torch to the already-burdened dark-haired knight, who growled in dissatisfaction. He knelt and braced himself to enter Emrys' mind as he'd entered Gaius' – this time for healing, rather than torture.
…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..
Leon wished there was firewood to gather. Details of camp to arrange, for it was too dark to think of a journey back to Camelot – if Merlin could even manage such a thing. Sleep was impossible, and waiting unbearable.
He was glad – and aware of the irony – for Alator's presence. A couple of truly hair-raising screams had ripped a cruel and jagged freedom from Merlin's corded throat – his head tipped back and fingers clawing unseeing at those around him, heels gouging the dirt. Since Alator had begun his mumbling, however, Merlin had seemed to relax. They'd gotten him to swallow some water, and keep it down.
Gwaine was with them, now. Elyan held Merlin's head and Percival crouched a few watchful paces away.
And Leon had finally persuaded Arthur to sit, on a low rock a short distance from the others. He wasn't sure whether he'll be all right was a proper comfort or not, but silent support was what Leon did best. If Arthur wanted to talk, he'd –
"Alator told me, Agravaine is dead," the king said in a low voice. Eyes riveted to the sufferer and his attendants – two knights and a sorcerer. Another sorcerer.
"I am very sorry, sire," Leon said, "for your loss."
"So I don't suppose it matters, anymore," Arthur went on, as if he hadn't heard the condolences, "whether he was the traitor, or not. Gaius wasn't…"
Except for knowingly harboring a sorcerer. Who'd evidently defended Arthur and Camelot on numerous occasions.
"And I am meant to believe," the king said conversationally, turning his head to meet Leon's eyes, "that if Merlin had obeyed the law, I would have died a long time ago."
"I would have said as much," Leon answered, careful but honest, "before we knew of his magic."
Arthur grunted. "I can't stop thinking, Leon… Hells, I wish I could stop thinking."
Leon murmured agreement. It was a lot to take in; they'd known Merlin for years, after all. They thought they'd known Merlin – but not all.
"Am I supposed to repeal the ban as a thank-you?" the king said abruptly, leaning on his good elbow on his knee. "To avoid arresting and trying someone who… I don't think deserves it, really – but that's favoritism, not justice, and I can't… Am I supposed to banish him, too? Or just… forgive him?"
His tone on that word forgive made Leon think, Arthur wasn't sure he could. Especially with Merlin's involvement in Uther's death still unclear – I killed had carried as much agony and truth as tried to heal him. Agravaine would have pushed for Merlin's execution, Leon had no doubt – in spite of this new information that Arthur's uncle had allied with a lady with magic. Lord Agravaine was like Uther that way; he'd never liked Merlin or approved of Arthur's confidence in him. He couldn't see past cheeky-servant, to the worth of what Merlin provided for the king in addition to his physical service.
"Then don't do it for him," Leon suggested. "Officially, I mean. Do as Alator said, that you were willing to do – meet with Emrys and hear him out. And if changing the law is the right thing to do, then…"
"Consequences be damned," Arthur mused. And after a moment, "But how can I meet with Emrys, when he's Merlin? How can I look at my manservant and see magic?"
"He's still the same person," Leon said softly. The same boy who'd risked insulting the heir to the throne, pointing out faults that should be corrected in a leader of men. Who'd been irreverent and defiant – and cheerful at times when all other hope had slipped away.
"That's what I mean." Arthur gave him a twisted-wry grin, and Leon nodded.
Arthur taking Merlin seriously about his expertise in anything. Merlin poking fun at a king he loved – who now had a responsibility before the law to see him dead. Awkward at best, and for how long? It was going to be difficult for both of them to find new footing for their relationship, if it was to last.
Leon hoped it did. Whether Arthur acknowledged it or not – whether Arthur knew it or not – he needed Merlin. Maybe they all did.
Their attention was drawn back to the little group when Alator pushed to his feet, and turned to face them. Leon took Arthur's elbow to aid him in rising, and as the bald sorcerer approached, Elyan and Gwaine occupied themselves raising Merlin's head and shoulders with a smooth pillow-size rock padded by his jacket.
"How is he?" Arthur asked the sorcerer, who looked exhausted, himself.
"Recovered. But his physical energy is depleted, and young men can be emotional… I've spoken to him," Alator said, giving a nod to the figure on the ground. "Emrys was less inclined to forgive me your broken collarbone than his own ordeal, but we've come to an understanding."
"And what is that?" Arthur challenged him.
"He has my undying loyalty. He knows he can call upon me for anything, and I will give my life in seeing it performed."
Leon's eyebrows lifted of their own accord. An astonishing oath, given so quickly under such circumstances – and the underlying honor, in both offer and acceptance. It occurred to him, though, that he could easily hear Merlin say the same words of Arthur.
Not when it came to mundane chores, but the moments when it really mattered – imminent danger, doubted destiny…
"Your sword is with your horses, concealed a hundred paces northeast of here," the older man continued. "As is the body of Lord Agravaine. I estimate that Morgana will return to full strength within a week's time. Gaius should need a couple of days, since his age is somewhat against him in recovering strength and vitality."
Another thing. Gaius was very old – and Leon was sure he wasn't the only one who'd assumed the black-haired boy on the ground would be the physician's successor.
"And Merlin?" the king said.
"I rather think he will be stronger than before, come morning," Alator said. "Much depends on you, Your Highness."
"On me?" Arthur said, but Leon suspected he knew Alator's meaning.
"He was ready to keep suffering the effects of the iron mine, rather than say the words that might turn you against him, and make him your enemy," Alator said. "Perhaps that is just what you consider him, and you care nothing for dashing his hopes and dreams to pieces. But the next step in your shared destiny is up to you to take, Arthur Pendragon."
"And what am I to do with you?" the king said to the older man directly. "Banishment, effective immediately?"
"I would like to bring Lireht back to our people for funeral rites, and I am willing to bring Emrys on our journey out of Camelot as well. If he stays, I will not return unless you call for me, or he does."
Arthur's jaw clenched as he stared toward Merlin, half-hidden behind Gwaine seated on the ground. Leon wondered if he dared repeat Percival's words in the cell…
He belongs with us.
…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….
Magic flooded Merlin's being, and it was excruciating.
A brilliant light that blinded and burned his eyes, a fire that shot through his veins like lightning, taking sharp and abrupt corners where there should have been smooth turns. It was not unlike the pins-and-needles sensation of returning blood-flow and feeling to a limb gone numb with sitting or lying too long in the wrong position.
It was ridiculous – he felt like laughing – it hurt. He wanted it to keep going – he wanted it to end.
After a time, and a whisper of someone else's calming magic – the intensity diminished, making way for other sensory input. He lay on the ground; it was hard and rocky but not unbearable in his weariness. It was dark, night, cool. They were free; he heard his friends' voices and the tones reassured him there was no imminent threat. He might be hungry quite soon.
And he'd told Arthur he had magic.
Merlin's eyes flew open at the memory and realization and his body tried to inhale a panicked gasp – but he was too tired for more than a swifter-than-normal filling of his lungs.
Gwaine leaned over him, exhaustion showing in dark eyes and half-energy smile. "You're back with us," he said. "How do you feel?"
"I don't know," Merlin said unsteadily. "Like I've been attacked by an army of hedgehogs?"
The grin brightened several degrees. "Don't you ever change, Merlin. Not for any man. Not even for –"
"Gwaine." That was Arthur, standing near his feet; when Gwaine turned Merlin could see him.
Merlin's body tried to sit up straight, but his chest and abdominal muscles protested emphatically. Dimly and disgustedly he remembered repeated vomiting, and he couldn't make it, thudding back onto the rock behind him.
Arthur's expression was lost in the gaunt shadows thrown across his face by the uncertain torchlight, the gleam of his hair dimmed by sweat and dust, Merlin's belt still holding his arm motionless against the pain of a cracked collarbone. Tone deliberately even, not quite command, not quite request as he spoke to the knight nearest Merlin. "Give us a minute."
Gwaine looked at the king for a moment, before slapping his hands on his knees and pushing to his feet. He told Merlin, "I won't be far."
"Go with Percival and Alator to get the horses," Arthur told Gwaine. "The sorcerer doesn't wish to linger here; he'll be on his way tonight with his friend. And I want to leave for Camelot at first light." His eyes flickered to Merlin for the briefest of moments. "Or as soon as we can."
Merlin's breathing quickened involuntarily.
"Leon can go," Gwaine said. Almost a suggestion, not quite defiance. "Or Elyan?"
Arthur held Gwaine's gaze a moment. Then nodded – acquiescence to Gwaine's request, command to someone behind Merlin's field of vision.
Gwaine smiled down on Merlin. "Then, I won't be far."
Merlin rubbed his head on the rock behind him, nodding; he was suddenly too dry-mouthed to attempt speech. He watched Arthur watch the knights leave, and wondered what Alator had said to the king – who was letting the older sorcerer go! – and then Arthur's attention was back on him.
He blurted, "Does your shoulder hurt much? If they bring the horses, I've some willow bark in my saddlebags that can help with –"
One last spasm. A flash of bright pain re-aligning his spine and all his joints exploded from fingers and toes and hair and left him gasping weakly, filled to the brim of whatever immaterial reservoir held his magic inside of him.
Someone's hand on the front of his shoulder, holding him steady against an instinctual curling down to the ground. He gripped the muscled forearm and blinked to see Arthur kneeling beside him, worry like he'd rarely seen for him darkening his king's eyes, and he couldn't fathom why.
"That's so – incomprehensible," Arthur said. He didn't remove his hand. "That being without magic would do… that, to you."
"Sorry?" Merlin tried. "I do feel a little better, out here."
"You have," Arthur said slowly, "a lot to answer for. And that's only the things that have occurred to me just now, looking back and knowing your… your magic."
He nodded again, fast and desperate, because honestly, he'd passed beyond hoping to keep Arthur's regard after this moment and this revelation, after the events of Uther's death. "I swear to you, nothing but truth, even if it hurts, even if you don't like it. Let me prove myself to you, let me –"
"Stay?" Arthur suggested, with a twist of a mocking smile. "I'm surprised you still want to."
"Camelot is my home," Merlin said wonderingly. "You are my king."
You are my king.
Arthur scanned his eyes – for what, he wasn't quite sure – and Merlin let him. Then the king relaxed back in his sitting posture. "Adjustments will have to be made, but… the knights seem to think you belong with us."
Merlin almost choked, trying to hold his sob of overwhelming relief inside his chest. He rather wished they hadn't done this, while he felt so sick and weak that emotion spilled out of him involuntarily, but. "Change is good. If it's done for the right reasons." Staying was even better.
"Try and rest," Arthur told him, giving a little squeeze-shake before removing his hand. Merlin's shoulder stayed warm all the way to his heart. "The new day will be here before you know it."
A/N: Made use of a concept that is common to the genre, if not this series specifically – the idea that iron blocks or disrupts the supernatural. And a concept that lives in fanfiction – the idea that Merlin without magic, suffers physically. Neither of which I normally hold… but for the sake of this fic, I've used. Hope you've enjoyed!