Who Owns Magic (pt.2)
Someone sometimes cups his head, lifting the rim of some vessel to his lips, and he drinks obediently. Water that tastes sweet and fresh and cool – or sometimes warm and thick and flavorful – occasionally a mouthful of something bitter.
Would you like to sit up, the old man says.
Someone should cut his hair, the girl says. His mother won't even… recognize him.
She cries again. Merlin thinks this must be something she does often, though she shouldn't. The old man pretends not to notice, but it bothers Merlin.
Don't cry, he tells her. It's all right.
She sighs his name – wipes a tear – tries to smile. It isn't.
Why not? It is involuntary, the first question he has spoken since he first screamed questions in the blurry nightmare of the wooden-walled cell, and he drops his eyes and goes still.
This is why not, she tells him, giving him a startling hug around the shoulders, and actually kissing his hair.
He doesn't understand. They don't get to the haircut, either, because the door opens and men come in.
Muscular, breathless men, intense and angry. They crowd around and hurl words – questions, demands – and they touch him, though not to hurt him yet. He closes his eyes and holds passively still, knowing it will all accelerate until he is on the floor bleeding and throbbing and convulsively wishing he could die and instead only losing consciousness.
The girl's voice, and the old man's – and then another. Thundering furiously, and he begins to shake and can't stop and when he opens his eyes they're blurry and his face is wet-cold and his head is pounding – only noticeable now because that particular pain has stopped for a while.
The men are standing in a line across the room, their eyes on the floor, as the golden-haired man speaks to them wrathfully. They seem contrite – they dart glances at Merlin – they all look different from each other, but familiar to him, and he knows they want him to say their names. They are from before.
Arthur. Dangerous. Failure. Hope.
He notices the girl at his side, her arms draped around his shoulders, when she speaks. Arthur, please. This isn't helping.
The golden-haired man turns – and his eyes connect with Merlin's.
His heart thumps, and he drops his eyes – then closes them as the man comes to kneel before him where he sits, unresisting. The man doesn't touch him.
Merlin. These are your friends. No one is going to hurt you. No one ever again, so help me… Merlin?
He obeys the voice's intentions, and opens his eyes again.
Do you remember them? The golden-haired man gestures, and the nearest knight moves forward. His hair is dark, long and curly, his chin and jaw unshaven, his eyes bright. Merlin doesn't risk more than a quick glance.
This is Sir Gwaine. One of your best friends.
The words, taken together, seem to have no meaning. Friends best your of one. Sir Gwaine.
Pheasants, he says, careful not to make it a question. Fire. Goblet. Pickled eggs.
Yeah, the knight says, grinning though his eyes are glistening. Yeah, Merlin. We've missed you – we're so glad you're home, now.
Now home you're glad so we're.
The knight's voice sounds choked. He swears and says Arthur's name. If I ever get my hands on the bastards who –
If you're within our borders, you bring them here for me.
The girl's arms stay around him, and the golden-haired Arthur stays crouched by his knee – he doesn't touch Merlin – and the other men approach, one by one.
Sir Percival. Big enough to break bones with his bare hands. And he wouldn't.
Sir Elyan. Small and dark and calm and quiet. Merlin looks at his hands and thinks of a forge – sparks and pounding – and closes his eyes.
Sir Leon. The last. Curly hair and control and loyalty – but he's against magic, and remembering that makes Merlin tremble again.
That's enough for now, the old man says. Percival, if you wouldn't mind doing as we discussed? The girl offers Merlin a tiny cup and he tips his head and swallows, trusting her. Arthur, you may remain also, if you choose.
Merlin's joints are melting, his vision blurring. The girl and the old man are easing him back. The old man talks about bad breaks and improper healing. Merlin looks past him to the rafters and the dust motes floating idly and the sunlight free to roam.
The big knight – Percival – moves about him, touching him, and he understands that he is being tied down.
He doesn't fight. He doesn't scream.
He does vomit over the edge of the bed – padded table – quite unexpectedly. Too much in a stomach that pinches and twists and mourns this betrayal.
My boy. The old man seizes his vision. You are safe. We are doing this to help you, please believe me. Do you understand?
Do you understand… do you understand…
He falls away into the bleak darkness of disappointment.
When he wakes, no one is touching him, though various parts of him throb dully. His throat feels tight and his eyes are woolly. He's lying propped on one side – the old man is next to him holding a burning taper of braided greenery, reciting and –
Magic flaring in his eyes.
He leans forward intently, maybe surprised to see Merlin's eyes opened, saying his name. Desperately, hopefully.
Merlin lets his eyes slide past the old man, to rest upon the open window, and the sun at the sill. After a moment the old man rises and retreats out of sight, and Merlin watches the sunlight drift until his eyes drift closed again.
Time passes vaguely. He is informed that the old man – Gaius – gives him potions to deaden the pain of multiple re-broken bones –
his hand –
Which in turn make him sleepy. But no one throws water in his face, or throws their fists. His meals are brought by the girl – he notices that she wears very fine clothing – and always more than he can manage to swallow, no matter what she tells him about regaining strength or putting on weight.
Camelot, he's told. King Arthur and Queen Guinevere, and the knights his friends. They watch him when they think he doesn't notice, and there is tension that doesn't abate.
The day he's encouraged out of bed, and helped to dress by Sir Percival – who is calmer than Sir Gwaine and less unsettling than Sir Elyan or Sir Leon – he limps to the window with his sling, and no one stops him. He limps to the door – it's not locked – and descends the stairs with careful steps.
There are windows, and light. People – and at least one following him – but no one touches him, and he keeps away from their emotions by fixing his eyes on the floor. He wanders – feels a purpose – and comes out into the palpable weight of the sun overhead.
Summer, he thinks; a disconnected thought.
Someone says his name, and he turns instead of going still. She is on him before he can react, throwing her arms around him and weeping and holding him so tightly his once-cracked ribs protest.
Mama, he says. Stating a fact.
And her eyes, he avoids.
There is a storm of emotion there, confusing and painful. He barely grasps the fact that he is changed, since. That he fails to meet expectations he doesn't understand. They want him to answer questions he can't, and tell stories he doesn't know, and get better and go back to the way things were.
And he fails and fails again. It exhausts him.
His mother – Hunith, he knows her name without prompting, but what good does that do when he doesn't even call her that – stays. She helps Gaius in their room, and cooks and cleans and touches Merlin and speaks to him. After a week or so, she calms and it is easier for Merlin – he looks at her when she isn't looking back, and he listens, trying to follow what she's saying when she talks to other people.
But there are those moments of realization. And her grief is sharp and sudden; Merlin panics and aches, closing his eyes and keeping very still.
Merlin.
He responds to Arthur. King-master-owner. Opening his eyes.
Arthur doesn't kneel before him anymore, but sits on the bench with him, at the other end of it. He sees Arthur the least of anyone – he is glad to see Arthur the most of any of them – but Arthur is the best at keeping his emotions shuttered behind his eyes, and so Arthur's is the company he enjoys most. He has the idea that Arthur expresses his disappointment in Merlin's failures elsewhere – which is probably best for both of them.
Merlin, Arthur says again. Are you happy to have your mother here? Is it helping you, at all? Or is it making it harder for you? Please tell me the truth.
He tries to answer Arthur, but. What is happiness? What is his mother supposed to help with, changing him back? Because that's not working. He doesn't even know how to try, or if it's possible.
Maybe. That's the best he can do.
Arthur leans forward, abandoning the apple he's twisting on its stem. Do you want to go home.
Merlin says, Isn't this my home?
Arthur smiles. It's quick, and gone again, just like Merlin's reaction to the sight – warm, and terrifying – but he sounds less tense when he says, Yes of course. I meant to Ealdor. With your mother. It would be quieter, there…
Ealdor sends a cold chill down Merlin's spine. And probably the people there would stare and whisper, just like the people here. Only, not with the concern he senses the most from the people he disappoints the most – it's almost worth it. And he's starting to get used to it, here. At least no one has hit him, or knocked him down.
I want to stay, he says, uncertain if it's his choice.
Arthur smiles again, and then Merlin is sure.
It isn't very long after his mother leaves, that he realizes Sir Gwaine is gone as well. He's faster and more abrupt than Sir Percival – more unpredictable, more emotional – but Merlin tries not to mind that, without really understanding why.
And it doesn't seem very long after that realization – he still limps and his hand is still bandaged, but he's begun relearning and remembering things he used to do, things he still can do, for Arthur – when Sir Gwaine comes back.
In the middle of the night, actually. Merlin shoots up in bed, gasping – and realizes there are voices, abrupt and anxious – and light illuminating the physician's chambers that he shares. He gets up – telling himself that no one will come into his room and start beating him – and checks out the door.
There are men there, carrying and supporting and pulling Sir Gwaine. Gaius is issuing orders and there is blood and Gwaine makes a sound of pain, as he is deposited onto the nearby bed that used to be Merlin's.
The other men leave, and Gaius is quick and efficient with his supplies, and Merlin dares to sidle down to Gwaine on the bed, perching on the three-legged stool where he thinks he'll be out of the old physician's way. The blood is on Gwaine's left side, though the knuckles of his right hand are bloodied, scraped clean of skin and in one place split to the bone.
Merlin winces at the sight – and then Gwaine notices him. The knight seems to forget entirely his explanation for the physician, moving his jacket and lifting his shirt to bare the wound, speaking words too fast for Merlin to want to catch them and put them in order. Then he lunges for Merlin, who freezes and allows his hand and arm to be clutched by the wounded knight.
Gwaine babbles, more upset than Merlin is. Apologizing over and over. I didn't know. I didn't know – where you were, what it was like – if I'd known… If I'd known, I could have…
It's all right, Merlin tells him, expecting him to respond the way they all did.
No it's not. Gwaine breaks down weeping over Merlin's good hand, and he can tell Gaius is irritated because his patient isn't cooperating with his care.
Merlin, hand me the –
He turns to the table where the old man is pointing, and intuition tells him, the green bottle. They used it on him, sometimes, the pain potion that made him sleepy.
Yes, Gaius says. Give him –
Merlin tips the bottle to Gwaine's lips – nods in what he hopes is a reassuring manner when the knight's wild tear-filled eyes meet his – then watches him swallow, about as much as Gaius or Gwen wanted him to have, ever.
Gwaine falls back on the pillow, starting to slur his words. Tell me he's coming back, he says – Merlin thinks he's addressing Gaius, because otherwise he doesn't know what the knight means. Tell me we haven't lost him for good.
He's there, the old man responds absently, beginning to clean the wound on the knight's side. As for future changes… I cannot guarantee.
Gwaine blinks, and tears roll out and he looks up at the rafters that are so calming – and he falls asleep still clutching Merlin's arm. Which is all right, after all.
And he sits still, watching the old man tend the wound carefully and kindly. He finds it curious, that one man could do this for another, after what he has had done to him, by other men. He likes this, to sit and watch and be a part of someone being fixed.
Here, Gaius says, handing him a larger bottle of clear liquid – and then a clean rag. He has to free himself from Gwaine's now-quiet fingers to take them, and his sleeve is blood-stained, but he begins to clean the injured hand, free of blood and grime and it is good and it settles and contents him and he notes three places he thinks the physician will have to stitch.
And he is right.
When he wakes in the morning – alone in his room – Gwaine is already gone again.
That week Gaius takes the bandages off Merlin's hand. There are scars and soreness and his fingers can't bend like those on his other hand, and two are slightly misshapen and half of one of his nails hasn't grown back – but it is much better than it was.
He moves it to demonstrate to Gaius, who says. My boy. (A dual ownership, he has come to understand; obligations to Gaius and to Arthur, different but important.) What about the magic?
What about the magic?
I haven't seen you do anything, the old man says. Of course it hasn't been necessary, and you must still use all caution because nothing has changed here in regards to the magic, but… you still can, can't you?
He's not sure how to answer. The Owner, he says haltingly. Had a rod. It… swallowed the magic. Not to use, to… return to the earth.
Is that why you didn't use magic to escape, the old man says.
Merlin feels disappointment and failure and drops his eyes, holding very still. The old man reaches to touch him, to squeeze the side of his thumb and wrist, and he allows it.
Never mind, my boy. You can't be too careful, anyway. And if it is needed – I'm sure you'll be fully capable.
Merlin isn't sure. But he doesn't know quite what to do about that. He thinks about it as he goes slowly around cleaning Arthur's quarters.
Vaguely he knows there is another servant who does much the same thing, either before or after him, making sure everything is done and nothing is forgotten. Vaguely he knows that this person is not to be there whenever he is. Confidently, he knows that even though he doesn't do a thorough job, both Arthur and Gwen want him here. And it is good for him to please them. It gives him purpose.
In the second year of the reign of King Arthur of Camelot (of Brytannea), a report signed by Sir Gwaine was logged by the duty officer. It was messily written, and remains hard to decipher – and oddly, carried no note from the king on any official action taken.
Evidently rumors had led the disguised knight to a mercenary calling himself the Owner, who had taken control of one of Cenred's furthest outposts and turned it into a place that catered to the baser nature of the types that were drawn to the anarchy of the king-less region. The sort of men who enjoyed proving themselves upon those who were weaker than they.
One wing, the report claimed, based on the eyewitness of Sir Gwaine, was dedicated to physical violence. The client could choose from among the Owner's many playthings, according to price, low or high, and express themselves in a variety of ways, inside a wooden-walled arena – there were ten of them in all. It was cheapest for a client to use his fists, and the cost increased with the use of feet, or clubs, or other weapons. Blunt, or sharp. A time limit was placed upon the activity, spectating was free, but observers were encouraged to buy food, and to place bets upon any number of outcomes.
The second wing – if the rumors were correct, and the scrawled handwriting of Sir Gwaine's report was successfully translated – was dedicated to sexual pursuits. And again, choices could be made, and acts of rising price purchased. Spectators allowed for an additional fee, according to the clients' preference.
It is noteworthy that this report precedes the record of a trial of the man whose alias was "the Owner" by six days. And that the council and stewards' scrolls show that preparations for invasion and conquest of the territory in question, began the day after.
I don't think he should go.
He realizes that the king and queen have returned to their chambers while he was absorbed in his cleaning efforts. It sounds like they're arguing. He wonders if they know he's there.
Maybe it's what he needs, to confront the person who did this to him. The one who was responsible.
And maybe it'll only hurt him more – no, you can't just ask him, how do you know he'll even comprehend what you want him to decide?
Arthur strides into the room where Merlin is standing at the desk with a duster. He says Merlin's name, and something about the tone directs Merlin to the ceremonial crown on its pillow, across the room, and the sword that sings whenever Merlin touches it. He brings both to Arthur at once.
The sword goes on first. Merlin, I'm conducting a trial today. We caught a man in Cenred's territory – he had several captives locked in an old outpost on the far border. They all showed signs of serious abuse – there were others there but they fled or were killed in fighting us. Merlin, we…
Arthur takes the crown Merlin offers because the king is done buckling and settling the sword-belt, but turns it over in his hands. Merlin sees that the knuckles of his right hand are skinned and bruised – though not as bad as Gwaine's had been.
We know he's guilty of slave-making. Kidnaping and torture. But we want to convict him of – and probably execute him for… Arthur hesitates, which is unlike him, and Merlin doesn't understand.
He says, with mild uneasiness, Cenred's territory?
Yes, that's the problem, Arthur says with relief – and then he puts the crown on. Not on Camelot's land, either when he committed his crimes or when we caught him – but that land isn't claimed by a sovereign ruler. I don't want to overstep bounds legally, if councilmen or any other monarch should protest – though why would they, the man's a parasite the world is better without…
Merlin discovers that Gwen has come up right next to him, wearing a lovely purple dress that is very easy to keep looking at. She hugs his arm and says, quiet concern filling her dark eyes, The man calls himself the Owner.
Long dark hair, brushed straight back from his face. Beard and mustache and too many teeth. The rod of stone or bone bound with the taste of copper wire…
If, Arthur says carefully. Watching him. We can charge him specifically with crimes committed upon one of our people… then his execution will be a sure thing. And he won't ever be freed to hurt anyone else, ever again.
Do you mean me.
You don't have to go, Gwen says.
They wait. Merlin's eyes are on the floor and he is holding very still because he is sure there is disappointment and failure in their eyes and he can't see that. He can't feel that. He can't…
I have to go, Arthur says finally.
But for another moment, none of them move. And then Arthur sighs – and it cuts right through Merlin's chest – and turns to leave.
Gwen remains with Merlin, but says nothing. She is watching him stand still and watch the floor.
He moves forward, slowly and reluctantly, following Arthur. And then faster, though he still limps, almost frantically trying to catch up. His sense of time isn't good – they tease him gently like this is something that has always been true, it is not something that changed about him – and he thinks he might have been standing in Arthur's room beside Gwen for hours.
His head is pounding when he reaches the right room – the doors are opened and there are no people standing near the two thrones, so he can see past them to Arthur.
On his feet. Unharmed. Merlin gulps a sigh of relief and moves forward.
And hears the Owner's voice. And sees him, long dark hair and too many white teeth. He is saying something that sounds like a protest or denial, too respectful.
He is claiming that the people Arthur and the knights found – when they stormed the abandoned outpost he claimed as his home – were a collection of petty criminals, runaways, and folks who had been set upon by bandits in the woods, that he was providing care to.
And the mercenaries and others who fought back?
Just defending my home.
And the claims made by those freed from your care? And the numerous arenas set up throughout the outpost's chambers, in many cases literally covered with blood?
The Owner shrugs, unconcerned. They were there when I claimed the place, he says. I admit it was filthy and distasteful, but there are not enough bedchambers to house everyone.
Bedchambers, Arthur says.
His voice trembles, he is so furious. His hands are fists at his sides and Merlin thinks unsteadily, this is not going well.
Like, Arthur goes on, a cot and a table and a bucket in a closet with a lock on the outside that fairly reeks of –
Arthur, someone says urgently. Gwen, who has come down with Merlin, but isn't touching him.
The king continues as if he meant to say all along, Prostitution. Forced prostitution, of both females and males.
As I say, there weren't proper accommodations. Those locks were there before we were, and were never used –
Arthur interrupts, We found the keys upon your person!
Merlin also remembers that Arthur has not been king very long. That he might have to justify himself to his council and peers for their support and the stability of relations, rather than simply commanding his will into effect as Uther did, whether it was right or wrong or proven or not. (Uther is a thought that belongs to another lifetime. And increases his headache.)
The queen says her husband's name again, too forcefully, and eyes are drawn. The people nearest her – and then they all leap to Merlin. Gwen motions and smiles – it's all right – holding out her hand.
He obeys, coming to her and feeling the people fold around behind him, just like – just like -
No, no one is hollering or placing bets or grinning with bloodlust. These are Camelot's people. Their eyes may be curious and even judgmental, but Arthur's people don't touch or hurt him.
The Owner sees him before Arthur turns, and his penetrating eyes go wide; his teeth disappear in a mouth opened with surprise.
Arthur sees Merlin, then, and his expression is such a mix of reactions that Merlin can't figure even one. Merlin moves closer – he still limps, and wonders if he will, always – so he can decipher his king's wishes.
You recognize him, Arthur says, turning back to the Owner.
No. He merely resembles someone I knew – I had a son, who was killed –
Merlin hears, from somewhere in the crowd, a murmur of sympathy, and he can't have that. He knows Arthur can't have that.
He hears his own voice say clearly, Liar.
I beg your pardon, the Owner says to Arthur. Who is this you've brought to –
This is another one of your victims, Arthur says. He twitches like he wants to touch Merlin, but doesn't. He escaped, and told us the whole story. Men who pay you to hurt innocent people for fun, and the bets placed by you and your men and your – guests. As to how long your victims stay upright or conscious. How you starve them, and then sell them again. You sell their blood and their pain, their bodies and their innocence...
I didn't escape, Merlin corrects when Arthur chokes to silence.
He wonders how Arthur knows all this. He wonders if he's told all this – it sounds so easy to say, but answers are always blocked in his throat, the wrong shape for the questions, or too tangled to be pulled out in order.
You said I was worthless, and should be left on the rubbish heap. You said don't bother killing me, if I crawled away in the woods to die, I wouldn't add my stench to your refuse.
The sounds of swords drawing, all over the room, startles Merlin and he goes still, dropping his head. He waits, and nothing happens. He dares a look, and Arthur has a satisfied look on his face, glancing at a group of well-dressed older men that are whispering together. Merlin recognizes several of the knights who've drawn their weapons; they look like, no matter what, the Owner isn't walking out of here alive.
Where did you find him? the Owner asks Arthur, as if he is furious and desperate, and is on the edge of giving up. Arthur ignores him. And why did you pick him up and bring him home? Look at him, Sire – a sneer of sarcasm on the title – even washed and dressed, he looks utterly useless.
Shut up, Arthur says. Giving Merlin an uneasy look and saying quietly, Why don't you go wait in my quarters –
Or is that why you've claimed him, the Owner says, with a particularly nasty gleam of triumph. I've never tried that myself, but the last few customers refused to pay. He was – is – absolutely broken beyond repair.
He speaks very low, so no one has heard him but Merlin and the king. Merlin feels nothing – he supposes the words are true – but red is creeping into Arthur's face, and white around his knuckles. He seems to have remembered that honor will prevent him inflicting physical punishment himself – but forgotten that he can order the guards to silence his prisoner.
If I may say so, Sire – the title is a slur –
You may not – shut your filthy mouth and keep it shut, Arthur growls. Merlin, go-
Merlin hesitates.
It is a poor, foolish king who acts like an idiot, overgrown child with a broken toy he won't throw away –
Merlin doesn't really listen. He recognizes that Arthur is deeply, seriously bothered – he realizes distantly that though the king will order the Owner's execution gladly, he will not punch him in any of his teeth.
He sees that the Owner is trying – is beginning to succeed – in doing to Arthur what has been done to Merlin. He can look at his body and see the scars and marks of various beatings – but Arthur will carry these words on his heart and mind and…
Merlin can't have that. He won't let the Owner break Arthur, too – humiliate his king, make him an object, make him believe he's only an object because it isn't true and it never can be true, for Arthur.
It occurs to Merlin that the Owner does not have his strange magic rod.
He reacts instantly, lifting his hand as his magic surges out of him – quietly imperceptible one moment, raging powerfully the next.
The Owner rises into the air, yanked up by magic and squeezed, though Merlin's claw-hand never touches him. He paces forward, ignoring the sudden rush of noise around him – now he's got the Owner in the arena with him, and there's no rod. Only Merlin's magic. The Owner's eyes bulge and he writhes, but it does no good. Merlin walks him to the end of the chamber – four, five paces – and slams him into the wall, three feet up, holding him in place.
Let's play a new game, Merlin says.
The Owner's eyes are wild. He kicks and jerks in absolute panic; he has no control and no hope. He begins to understand that he is Merlin's plaything, now; Merlin considers it fair to share every cut and bruise he suffered all at once, with a flick of his fingers.
Breath explodes from the man's body in a grotesque groan, and splotchy bruises bloom in seconds. Blood actually spurts from several places – his mouth, his nose – to splash on the floor. The Owner moans, a desperate sound.
(Elsewhere there is screaming. Merlin ignores it.)
It is only a few moments of pain, though, and Merlin does not know how long he belonged to the Owner. He considers again, and flicks his fingers to break bones. Ribs and hand, at least, he's not sure what else.
The Owner lifts his head and screams, a high thin sound that disgusts Merlin, as if it comes from a puppet or a doll.
Someone says, very close to him and very urgently, Gaius, no!
And then the old man is in front of him, catching his face in wrinkled hands, bending Merlin's head to look him in the eyes, rather than at the Owner.
My boy, Gaius says.
Merlin remembers. New master. Or old one, depending on one's definition and perspective.
Gaius' voice trembles. My boy, this isn't you. Stop now, and let him go. He will face Arthur's execution, but you – don't do this. Please.
Merlin searches his eyes, and sees a dark, distorted reflection of himself. Who am I, he says blankly. What am I.
You are the son I never had, the old man says gently.
You're our friend, the big knight – Percival – adds, from his place protecting everyone from Merlin. Or Merlin from everyone.
Our cousin, Sir Gwaine adds. His arms are outstretched as a barrier also, but he's facing Merlin. His hand is still bandaged. Our little brother.
I know why you chose this, Gaius says in a low, private voice. You chose this to stop him breaking you. To stop hurting. You're the strongest person I know, Merlin. Please.
Merlin looks back up at the Owner. He is pitiful, broken – no longer the arrogant, leering menace Merlin remembers. He releases the magic gradually, and the man slides to the floor in a moaning heap.
It makes Merlin feel ashamed, because he sees himself there. A moaning, bleeding, hopeless, friendless heap.
He's aware that the knights are holding others back, that Arthur is shouting orders to calm the other people present. Gwen steps forward and he catches her, turning to Merlin with a look on his face that makes Merlin gaze at the floor and deliberately feel nothing.
Slowly, the air quiets and the people stand in place.
Magic, Arthur says, and before Merlin can figure out how he has said it, Gaius has a good suggestion.
Merlin, kneel to your king.
He obeys, relaxing down onto his knees next to Arthur, his hands in his lap and his head bowed. This feels right, and he is content to remain resting so.
Take note, Gaius continues sharply. All of you. He is not violent, but toward the king's enemies. As the knights are. But he is also caring and obedient and utterly loyal to Arthur. No matter what.
He hears the Owner being dragged away, out of the room, behind him.
Arthur says something about the council and reconvening and dismissal, and Merlin finds the rustle of everyone leaving the room a soothing sound. One person rustles toward him, and Gwen is crouching in her purple silk to try to see his face.
Are you okay?
Above him, Arthur and Gaius are discussing – arguing – whether a person can be born with magic.
Gwen says, You've had magic a very long time, Merlin? You used it to protect Arthur, didn't you? I used to ask you to take care of him, even though you were only a manservant… Merlin, why didn't you use magic to get away from that man? To protect yourself?
It didn't work, Merlin tells her. He suspects Gaius and Arthur are listening also, standing above them, but Gaius already knows this. He had a rod. All my magic went into the rod, and did nothing else. So I couldn't…
Arthur says to Gaius, We found that rod. It's down in the vaults right now.
Merlin goes rigid. And can still see purple silk, even when his eyes are down, so he closes them. Of course Arthur is his master, and he has the right to use the rod on Merlin. Any rod. He feels sick and disappointed that his golden-haired king would, and struggles not to. No feelings, no emotions. Like the furniture.
Oh, he hears Arthur say. And Gwen and Gaius are speaking – maybe touching him – but he hears Arthur say, No, Merlin – not to use, I just meant… Maybe you'd like to know where it is.
Merlin pictures the vaults. Iron bars and stone walls and locks and keys. He'd rather the rod be there, than anywhere else, he thinks. Far enough away that it won't touch him or his magic. Safe from anyone who might try.
Arthur sits down beside him, right on the floor in his fine velvet and stiff heavy chainmail. All this time, he says. Merlin doesn't know what he means, but dares to look at him. He looks tired – but determined, when he sees Merlin watching. We'll get through this, he says. We'll get through this, too.
Gaius says, The only way out is forward, Merlin. You have to let yourself feel, to accomplish what healing is possible. It will hurt, like when we had to rebreak and reset your bones, but it'll be better in the end.
"What the hell, Gaius?"
"Do not speak to me in that tone, Your Majesty! I will not have this conversation – here, or in my chamber – if you're just going to shout and not listen."
"I just watched my skinny clumsy manservant lift a man in the air and pin him to a wall and half-kill him! With magic! And you expect me to be calm about it?"
"You were calm til just a minute ago!"
"Yes, til we got him to his room and settled down!"
"Was that for his sake, my lord – or everyone else's?"
"What… do you mean."
"I mean, did you remain calm so that Merlin wasn't upset or frightened – or because you thought he might lash out again and hurt someone else?"
"He's never hurt anyone, Gaius. Only that man, that I know of – and heaven knows the bastard deserved it."
…
"What about me, then."
"I beg your pardon, sire?"
"Don't play dumb, Gaius, you know what I mean. My father, and the way he treated magic-users. The way I did – the things I said – the way I treated Merlin, all those years. Before. What about when you had to reset his bones, and he didn't understand and he didn't even know who we were? What about all the chores and punishments? He argued, maybe, struggled a bit – but he never fought back with magic. I've never seen that before, they all fight back. They all hate us and try to hurt us, and Merlin –"
"Merlin didn't act until he saw that man was hurting you. There is your answer, Arthur. I was telling the truth when I said he was devoted to you – from very early on, I might add, and well before he was… taken."
"I don't understand. There's no reason for that. Why would he…?"
"He took it as his destiny, to protect you. Because he believed that you could change, and be a better king than your father – and free and protect his people, in turn."
"His people."
"Magic-users who don't want revenge, who don't want to act out their hate – or even feel it, anymore. Who just want peace and freedom and a chance to move forward."
"I heard you say that to him."
"Your father was hurt, and he made choices to protect himself – not by withdrawing, but by going to war on what had hurt him, right or wrong."
"He was a king. Kings declare war when they're attacked."
"That is so."
"He said magic was evil."
"And he believed it, sire. But I know for a fact that you believe your father was wrong about other things. Marriage laws. And restrictions of the Knights' Code."
"He was wrong about this." (Questioning.)
"In part. Magic ought not be ungoverned – but nor should it be prohibited on pain of death for anyone whose life a user touches."
"No, I can see that. After all, whose life here hasn't Merlin touched. Even my father's, before he died… Though we must speak of Morgana, in the future."
"That we must."
"What do I do now, Gaius? With Merlin?"
"I don't believe you need to change anything but the law you judge to be unjust, sire. Let him be free. Encourage him to be himself – accept who he is, and who he's not."
"Gaius, this… I don't know if I can do this."
"I believe in you, sire, and I'm not the only one. You are strong – and you have the strength of many who love you. Your wife, your knights… your sorcerer."
"My sorcerer. Heaven and hell, Gaius."
"It's your choice, Your Majesty."