To Kill the King (part 2)
He sat in the darkest, smelliest, warmest corner of the tavern, boots pulled up on the seat of his chair, threadbare cloak pulled around him for the extra warmth. It wasn't even winter yet, not really, even if there had been snow in the air in the afternoon, but since his neck was bare – the better to hide, so exposed – he always felt cold.
Dipping his fingers into the swill in his cup that evidently sold as ale in this border town, he traced two symbols on the top of the table that barred and sheltered him from the rest of the noisy, smelly room.
One for peace. He couldn't remember, if there was a brawl and things got out of hand, whether it would be Mercia's soldiers or Gawant's coming to break things up, but he didn't want either. Even without the distinctive kerchief around his throat, he didn't want to draw notice – and so, the second rune to pass casual attention right over him without stopping.
His fingers were cold, and chapped, and thin. He rubbed the symbols till they dried, then dipped into the mug again. He probably should drink it, no matter the poor quality. That and the long-gone stale bread-crust were all the supper he was going to get. Probably the only breakfast tomorrow, too.
"Camelot…"
He heard, out of all the conversation. And then…
"King Arthur. Nay, you've got it all wrong. The king didna massacre the lot of sorcerers, he pardoned them. Magic is free in Camelot –"
"Magic is free in Camelot," the farmer's bearded companion scoffed, as they headed for the tavern-keeper's serving-counter. "It's a rumor, and you're the one that's got it all wrong. It's a trap, I tell ye, and good thing too, for those folk who hide their damn magic and pretend to be law-abidin' citizens…"
He pulled his hand back from the cup, yanking the hood of his cloak tighter over the uncut hair at the back of his neck, drawing the material up to his ears to muffle the words.
Rumors, always rumors. The law was changed – no, it was a ploy because the new king had started a new purge. There were sorcerers in Camelot's court – oh, yes, because they'd infiltrated to make war on everyone else, now.
He tried not to let the uncertainty bother him. The rest would be resolved in time, as long as there weren't rumors of King Arthur's death… and there wouldn't be, as long as he kept well away.
It had been harder than he'd thought. He couldn't settle to one occupation in one place, for fear of being somehow discovered – for his magic, for his identity, by friends or by strangers. Better to keep moving and remain always and everywhere overlooked, but. It was hard to earn or scrounge a living, that way, and it never stopped him thinking.
Sometimes he wondered if they all missed him as badly as he missed them. A hole bored through heart and soul, dripping memories constantly and maybe time would heal it, but it hadn't yet. No one to talk to or laugh with or rely on. Sometimes he hoped that they'd forgotten him – Gwen and Arthur had each other, the knights as a group of friends and comrades, and Gaius needed a new assistant anyway – and were happy.
Every day he woke and trudged through a gray ache of mistrustful strangers and unfamiliar towns. Lost in the mountains, scoured from the moors, drowned in the dripping valleys. Every night was a grim triumph, that Arthur had lived one more day, in Camelot, enjoying everything that he'd left behind and couldn't ever have again.
Which was good. Another sacrifice he was willing to make for his king and his kingdom. Mordred as Emrys would tell Arthur about magic, and Arthur would eventually accept and proclaim freedom for the oppressed. And as long as he remained exile, the king could take hurt or fall ill – but he wouldn't die.
Unless somehow he caused Arthur's death by his absence.
The thought caused nightmares worse than the vision given him by the Vatis. It wouldn't be on a battlefield strewn with dead and skewered with abandoned blades, soaked with blood and drawing carrion crows… but now he didn't know, when and where.
The door opened on a gust of cold wind, bleak darkness losing another cloaked figure to the firelight of the tavern. No one else took much notice; he watched the figure press backward on the door to latch it, and pause to catch breath or look for acquaintances in the crowd. Then the man pushed upright and strode for the counter where the tavern-keeper served up drinks and dinner.
Five steps. Only five, and the hood still up and the draggled cloak-edge obscuring all but the bootheels.
But his mouth was dry, fearing recognition. Longing for recognition so badly he was seeing impossible friends. He ducked his head to smear tear-tracks on his sleeves before the salt water could wash the grime from the rest of his face.
And looked back up, right into Gwaine's self-satisfied smirk.
Hood down, cloak flung back from one shoulder to reveal the roughest of traveling clothes rather than bright mail and blood-and-gold livery. He leaned forward to set the cup in his hand down on the table, stripped off his gloves to toss next to it, and swung around a vacant chair to straddle.
"You look like hell," Gwaine said cheerfully.
Astonishment hadn't yet cleared. He didn't know whether to grouch sourly to be left alone, or weep like a grateful child that he wasn't.
"Congratulations," his friend continued, reclaiming the cup and tipping it to him in salutation. He drank deeply and sighed in appreciation and relaxation. "I thought for sure we'd have caught up with you after one month, and it's been five. Have you been using magic to cover your tracks?"
His heart double-bumped wildly at the word, as it always did, and his mouth was too dry to speak. What was known, what was meant – should he lie, should he admit –
"Yeah, we all know. Mordred said you told him he could tell." One of the tavern-keeper's daughters brought a steaming plate of potatoes and some kind of gravy-smothered meat; Gwaine received it with a smile of thanks and promptly – surprisingly – ignored her to turn his attention right back to Merlin. "Was that accurate?"
The permission to tell, or the magic? Merlin shifted slightly forward, though he kept his knees up.
"All?" he said hoarsely.
"Well, not all," Gwaine amended his exaggeration, picking up fork and knife; Merlin was salivating involuntarily at the smell. "Gwen knows, and a handful of our knights."
"And?" Merlin whispered. Expectant, terrified.
"Well…" Gwaine chewed and swallowed, twiddling his fork between his fingers. "Percival's seen legal magic used in other kingdoms before, so've I. Mordred, obviously. Gwen cried, and Leon stomped around angrily for a day or so. Or was it that Leon cried and Gwen stomped around?..."
A chuckle bubbled painfully up through his throat, and brought tears to his eyes again. Gwaine ignored him rubbing them away.
"Elyan just waited to see what Arthur and Gwen were going to decide…"
"Arthur." Merlin dropped his feet to the floor – the hole that had worn through his sole would not be visible to Gwaine, then – and leaned forward so far his hand landed on Gwaine's wrist. "How is he?"
Gwaine looked at him a moment, then shoved the plate between them, folding his fork into Merlin's fingers and stabbing a boiled potato with the knife.
"Gwen finally found a manservant he'd tolerate – and he needed one." Gwaine put the potato in his mouth and pointed the knife at Merlin briefly. "Eat while I'm talking. Mordred's been run ragged, and Geoffrey's bald now except for his eyebrows, pulling his hair out because Arthur was relentless on the topic of magic. He wanted to read everything before he made any changes."
Merlin couldn't help a dry little snicker at the thought of the court recorder bald – and couldn't quite deny the pang of bittersweet regret. "But he did? Change the laws, lift the bans?"
"At long last. Eat, dammit, I know you want to, it's written all over the bones of your face."
Smiling was a pleasurable ache. And then he found that chewing wasn't a necessity with overdone potatoes, and he swallowed as quickly as he could fork the mealy bits into his mouth.
"The proclamation's gone out to all his allies, and if I had to guess, that's all gone more smoothly than expected, too." Gwaine sawed hunks off the slab of meat, and shoved two-thirds of it emphatically to Merlin's side of the plate. "But you and I know how it is – ruling is never easy."
"But he's happy?" Merlin said around the first tough, chewy piece of… mutton? "And Gwen? And Gaius?"
"I don't think… any of them really realized how much you did for them, til they didn't have you." Gwaine crammed a piece of the meat in his mouth and shook his hair back, studying Merlin as he chewed. "Gaius is on his third trial-apprentice. None of them are you. You should come back."
He almost choked, and swallowed hard. "Gwaine, I can't…"
"Yes, you can. You really can. You're not existentially illegal anymore. Gaius wants you back. Gwen wants to cry on your neck and Arthur wants to yell a lot and then cry on your neck, and Mordred might stop looking like a ghost with too much work to do, if he wasn't the only magic-user in the citadel."
Sometimes Merlin felt guilty about that, what he'd done – what they'd done – without giving the former druid the full explanation of why. But if Mordred knew, he'd surely prefer being Emrys, to being Arthur's Bane, even with the unknown threat of Morgana's murderous hatred looming over all of them.
"And the rest of Camelot can go hang, if they don't like the fact that you've had magic and hid it, all those years," Gwaine finished. "And me? I can see you dying to ask, and you're just too polite. As far as I'm concerned, you're still the first and best friend I've ever had."
He couldn't bear the earnest moisture in the rough knight's eyes, and ducked his head, retreating from the folk left on the edge of the plate. "You don't understand," he whispered.
"Damn right I don't. So enlighten me."
"Once in the woods, you ran across an old sorcerer, one you thought had killed Uther, and you tried to arrest him. And I told you, if Arthur saw me, he would be in grave danger."
Gwaine sat back in his chair also. "Are you… saying that was you? What did you -"
"I cannot come back to Camelot, ever." Merlin pressed all of his pain and regret and loneliness into a hard edge, and turned it on his friend. "Gwaine, please believe me this time when I tell you, if you don't leave me alone, there is every chance that I will kill the king. If I don't keep my distance, and plenty of it, he'll die. Somehow. Sooner or later."
"How can you possibly know something like that?" Gwaine said, exasperated. "You put up with the man for almost ten years, and he's gotten much better, everyone says so –"
"I do know it," Merlin hissed, clenching his fist and thumping it on the table, and it all hurt. "Look, if it was up to me…" For a moment he couldn't breathe, thinking of home, and all it meant. Who it meant. "But it isn't, not anymore. I can't. I won't."
Gwaine grimaced, but lifted his hands in surrender. "Well. I did think I had the best chance of convincing you, though Gaius said it wouldn't happen, and we should leave you alone."
The food sat sullen as a stone in his belly. "I –" he whispered. "I'm a danger to Arthur. You can't ask me to…"
"A danger to Arthur, but not to me?" Gwaine clarified with a singly-raised brow and a grin. "What if I –"
"No, you've got to stay with Arthur, and protect him," Merlin said immediately. "You're a knight, you swore an oath."
"And if we stop following you and trying to persuade you, then you could settle somewhere and try to be happy? I could drop by now and again, at least?"
The suggestion was new and tantalizing, and made Merlin think. He could still… he could still see Gwaine, maybe Gaius sometimes, or Gwen, or… If the knights could help keep him and Arthur apart, maybe –
"Are you staying here tonight?" Merlin asked, suddenly a bit desperate to prolong this unexpected gift of company. "The two beds in my room are taken, but there's still floor-space for half-rate."
"No, I've got to… do things. See a man about a horse." Gwaine glanced behind him toward the door.
Merlin wondered at the cause of his hesitation, because there were stables here, after all. As poor quality as the tavern, but adequate, he thought. "There is another tavern in town, it's nicer – costs more…"
"Those proclamations, you see, I'm on my way to… and I want to make another couple of hours before I stop for the night." Gwaine grinned disarmingly. "It was just my good luck to stop here to eat, and find you. You're staying, though? Maybe when I come back through, we could have more time…"
"Yeah." Merlin touched the fork with his forefinger, not meeting his friend's eyes.
"All right. You take care, now." Gwaine reached to gently squeeze his forearm through his sleeve, then looked down at his grip. "And feed yourself, for the love of Camelot. And wash at least once a week."
Merlin huffed. Both of those things cost more than he had, readily, since living off the land wasn't really feasible anymore, this close to winter. And magic held little meaning, little appeal for him, these days, as if he didn't deserve its benefit, if he wasn't using it for his king.
"I'll see you soon, all right?" Gwaine rose, picking up his gloves.
Merlin ducked his head in a nod. As soon as the knight turned to make his way to the door, he snatched up the plate, scraping up the last of the gravy with his fingers and licking them. And set the plate down again in time to meet Gwaine's smile and wave as he opened the door to leave.
As soon as the door was latched behind him, Merlin left his chair in the darkest, smelliest corner, skirted the raucous company, and took the stairs two at a time. The room where he paid a pittance – too much – to sleep on the floor sheltered from the weather, was the second on the right. Empty, as the two men paying for the use of the beds were still downstairs, but a candle had been left burning on the wash-table.
Merlin fell to his knees to begin rolling up the patched blanket that was his, positioned to claim the space, retrieving the worn supply bag that doubled as his pillow.
Something about Gwaine's story didn't ring wholly true. This border town was on no one's way to anyone who might expect a messenger from Camelot. We should leave you alone – and then he did, after a quarter-hour's conversation. To travel another couple of hours in the cold and dark, rather than having a second mug and a roof over his head with Merlin.
No. He didn't know what Gwaine had in mind, but he wasn't going to wait to find out.
Floorboards unforgiving under his knees, he leaned on the roll of his blanket, small and hard, and closed his eyes to breathe deeply through his nose. It was a blessing to know even that much, about his friends, his mentor, and his king. It wasn't near enough, but it would have to be. He wanted more of Gwaine's company – but he had to be wary of indulging his loneliness because he had to guard Arthur from himself, and this was the only way he could be sure of that.
Where to now? Maybe he should hunt Morgana more purposefully instead of just blocking her at Camelot's borders with magic like he'd been doing, unless the uniting-in-evil part of Mordred's prophecy was Merlin's now, too - but then…
The air stirred and the candle fluttered as the door opened. Merlin, embarrassed to be caught so by one of the strangers, shifted to turn his back and busied himself with tying his blanket to his pack. Behind him, the door clicked shut and of course the stranger was watching him and –
"Merlin."
Not quite a question. Not quite an exclamation. A confusion of emotion quivered through the one husky word, his name.
For a single second Merlin's body froze, hunched over his meager possessions, fingers curved like claws. Then he spun so fast he lost his balance – and tried to scramble away, before running his shoulder and the back of his head into one leg of the wash-table. The candle clattered and rocked, sending shadow and light lilting over the motionless king.
Arthur leaned back against the inside of the closed door. Dressed as Gwaine was, in nondescript clothes, brown and cream and cloak, except that he wore his sword-belt. And gripped the hilt of the weapon at his hip with his left hand, thumb up toward the pommel. For reassurance, Merlin knew – that told him more than the carefully-blank expression, the set jaw.
"You shouldn't be here," Merlin said, his heart pounding. This was ten times worse than watching Arthur and Mordred spar on the training field. Any moment – any moment he could…
Causing a death accidentally was still causing a death.
"Neither should you," Arthur returned. "What – Merlin, what are you doing? Gwaine said you looked like –"
"I told Gaius," Merlin said, trying to be calm and hold very, very still, "I told Mordred, I told Gwaine - I can't be near you. It's not safe. Please – please leave. Leave me alone. For always."
Arthur didn't leave. He only breathed, and watched Merlin. "Magic, all this time."
"Yes." Merlin lifted his chin.
"Your devotion to destiny is commendable," Arthur said, letting a bit of sarcasm creep into his voice. "It's too bad you didn't stay to see magic returned to Camelot."
Each word tore a stripe in Merlin's heart. All he'd ever wanted and bled and cried and waited and lost for, right there in one sentence from his king's lips.
"Mordred did a good job, then," Merlin said, dry-mouthed. "He told you. About his magic."
"It wasn't because of Mordred that this happened," Arthur said.
"No, I know," Merlin hurried to amend. "I know it's because of you. Because of who you are and who you're meant to be. I always knew you could do this, have the courage to recognize right from wrong, and fight prejudice just like all those creatures that attacked us."
"Who I am," Arthur repeated, setting his jaw in preparation to say something that didn't come naturally to his expression, "has a lot to do with you, Merlin. It wasn't Mordred who gave me courage and hope when I needed it, all those years, questioned my decisions and opinions when I needed it. It was you."
The king took a deep breath; Merlin couldn't breathe at all.
"I still need that from you. I still want that from you. Camelot is not the same without… your clumsiness and disrespect and… optimism. My reign – I can believe in myself, that it is possible to do what I want and what I dream, with you there telling me it's possible and believing it, too." Pushing away from the door, Arthur took two steps toward Merlin, hand outstretched.
Merlin cursed himself for listening, for allowing the temptation. Abandoning his pack and blanket, he shouldered past the wash-table and backed to the wall, pulling himself to his feet with his elbow on the window-sill.
"No, stay back!" he insisted. "Arthur, you know I believe in you and I always will, but I can't come back, I can't. You've got your destiny, and you've got Mordred, and it's better if I stay away."
"Because you gave your destiny to Mordred," Arthur said, as if he were trying to understand. "Because you didn't think you could accomplish it anymore, but Merlin – you have. You've done it. We've done it. Mordred can be Emrys, that's fine. I don't care about Emrys, I care about you. You can come back, even without a destiny."
Merlin shook his head, eyes blurring with tears. He didn't want to tell this part, didn't want to have to say it aloud.
"You wondered, didn't you, why I told you not to agree to what the Disir asked of you, to welcome magic and regain Mordred's life. Did you ever wonder why Mordred was still alive even though you turned down the offer?"
Arthur straightened, cocking his head a bit, contemplatively. "I just thought –"
"When I gave my destiny to Mordred," Merlin went on, heedless of the king's answer and thoughts. "I took his on me. Because I realized, in trying to protect you, I betrayed myself and my kin, and you. What I said was wrong, because I was trying not to save his life – and that wasn't the first time. Mordred's life was your punishment for rejecting magic that day."
"What – do you mean?" Arthur said unsteadily.
"I was told, if he lived then I couldn't protect you."
"But you did," Arthur started to say.
Merlin wasn't finished. "I was told his destiny was to bring about your doom. That he would unite in evil with Morgana–"
"But he didn't," Arthur pointed out.
"I was told, if I had the chance to kill him, then I must not fail." Merlin thought briefly, if Arthur demanded to know who, then he'd tell him. And then maybe Arthur would leave him forever, to hear he'd both freed the great dragon, and let him escape.
"That's horrible," Arthur told him, with a look of distaste.
"It is! And what was worse, I couldn't ever finish it. I couldn't ever… kill him, even for something he would one day do. Even for you."
"I'm glad," Arthur declared. "Because if you were the sort of person who could kill a child or a friend because of their potential to do evil, you would not be the man who's been beside me all these years, provoking me into being a better person and king. You couldn't have taught me anything about fairness and justice."
Merlin sagged against the window. Maybe that failure wasn't such a failure after all, then.
"I couldn't…" He swallowed, trying to moisten throat and mouth for further speech. "Couldn't come between you and Mordred all day and all night. Every day and every night. Couldn't watch him and watch you and prevent him someday killing you." He shook his head. "I tried. I couldn't. But I can watch myself, all day and all night, every day and every night. And keep the man who's going to kill you someday, as far away as I can for as long as possible."
Arthur breathed, clenching and unclenching his fist at the hilt of his sword. "So you now believe it's your destiny to kill me. And because you don't want that so much, you'll starve and run and hide and beg. For the rest of your life."
"For the rest of your life," Merlin said in a low voice.
"I asked Gaius, what if I didn't want my destiny. Would I be forced into it, even if I thought it was wrong. He said…" Arthur paused and took a deliberate step forward. "You always have a choice."
"Don't, Arthur, please," Merlin said desperately. "Stay away from me." He glanced away, out the window, gauging distance and obstacle to the ground and his escape, and Arthur took another step.
"Merlin, you don't have to –"
All ye gods above, it was going to happen right here and now. Arthur's death, somehow, because Merlin had been weak and stupid again.
"Stay back!" he screamed, raising his hand to push.
Arthur flew backward, slamming into the wall beside the door. Merlin's magic trapped him there; it didn't want to, fighting against his control and he squeezed and forced it as he sobbed and wrenched the window open. Swinging one leg over the sill, he bent under the raised pane. If he could just hold Arthur in place, he could get away, and then -
"Mer…lin!"
Arthur's boots were two inches above the floor, even when he didn't kick out. His hands grasped and scrabbled at his neck – and above that, his face was reddening. Eyes wide, mouth open to gasp for air – that wasn't coming.
Merlin's magic was killing Arthur. He was killing Arthur, trying to keep him away so he wouldn't kill him.
"No!" With a strangled shout, Merlin snatched the magic back, away.
Arthur landed with a jarring thud and slid down the wall, gulping painfully for air. Merlin dashed across the floor to him, landing on his knees and trying to clear his friend's throat of any impediment to breath – cloak-string, shirt-ties. And there was never any fear in Arthur's blue eyes as he gasped for breath, never any blame. Merlin couldn't bear it.
"I'm sorry! I'm sorry!" He snatched his hands back and curled over them, resting his forehead on Arthur's chest, trying to inhale through his panic, himself.
And, wonder of wonders, felt Arthur's fingers slide into the hair grown long on the back of his neck.
"Don't – don't. All these years, you've made the choices," Arthur rasped, dragged in another lungful of air. "I am king, Merlin. It's my right and responsibility. And I choose to have you with me, no matter what your destiny is, now. I trust you. I know you'll do your best to keep me safe. And whatever happens, someday, I'll have you with me that day, too."
"Arthur…" Merlin tried to resist, tried to be strong and hold to his resolve, to absent and separate himself. But see where that had led him – after only a handful of months, he'd threatened and almost ended his king's life. Tears flowed, though he kept his gasps for breath silent, and Arthur didn't push him away.
What wouldn't he give to be able to relinquish the very thing Arthur claimed – the responsibility of decision. Could he do it? Could he relent and allow Arthur what the king wanted – what he also wanted, so badly?
As he struggled with himself, fighting selfishness – or was it selfish to deny Arthur the choice? – he felt his king's heartbeat under his forehead. Steady and strong, calming and continuing.
Continuing… It was a luxury to feel that, and it didn't stop.
And it didn't stop.
Merlin woke sprawled in the corner by the door, two blankets over him and one of the bed-pillows under his head. He lifted himself onto one elbow on the hard floorboards and blinked at the dawn peeking in at the window.
Gwaine was facedown on the further bed, head pillowed on his arms and bootless feet at the head, covered by a pair of cloaks. Briefly Merlin wondered exactly how the knight had discovered him in this tavern, in this town, and supposed he'd hear the story later, whether he wanted to or not.
In the closer bed, Arthur. Awake and propped up against the wall, watching Merlin. Alive after all night in the same room, and in the light of a new day, Merlin couldn't find the panic that his friend's death was imminent by reason of proximity to him. Arthur gave him a self-satisfied half-smile, as if he knew what Merlin was thinking, and that he'd won.
"Morning," he said, with a familiar and well-beloved sardonic note in his voice. "Time to rise and shine."
…..*….. …..*….. …*… …*….. …..*…..
The court physician of Camelot sat hunched over his desk, searching the last page of the last tome in the last hour of the day, by the light of the last candle.
Nothing, and nothing.
He wasn't sure why he still thought he might find something like a solution, when his fully-capable apprentice had already combed the lore thoroughly.
Something in his chest clenched round his heart – a familiar and steadily-worsening pain – and he gulped for air that felt useless as his heart thudded like a fist on a door. Death asking for entry; his soul begging for freedom.
It wasn't his time yet, though. He'd made vows to his king, and he would see them through. Damn destiny.
Lifting his reading glass into place to help old age's failing eyesight, he prepared to scour the runic sentences one more time.
A moment later the old wooden door swung precipitously open, framing the court sorcerer in darkness – black hair and black tunic and jacket, embroidered in silver thread with the Pendragon emblem. One look at his face told the physician everything he needed to know.
"The king?" he said.
The sorcerer nodded gravely. "The sleeping spells aren't working anymore, nor double the dose of the tonic you made for the pain this afternoon."
The physician rose, making gestures for the other to quiet his tone. "You'll wake my apprentice."
"Too late," a younger voice sounded, preceding the clatter of ungainly limbs down the three stairs from the apprentice's back bedroom. He yawned and stretched simultaneously, blinking serious in a moment. "Is it the king?"
"It is," the sorcerer answered, but the young apprentice didn't so much as pause for breath.
"What about the prince?"
"Retired to his chamber for the night, hours ago," the sorcerer said.
"He's said his goodbyes along with goodnight for the last week," the physician reassured his apprentice. "Let him sleep. He'll need it, come morning."
"And me, I think," the apprentice said. "I'll go to him. He shouldn't be alone, even if he is sleeping." Careless of the fact that he only wore sleeping trousers and a thin shirt unlaced at the throat, socks without boots on his feet, the young man slipped past the sorcerer in the doorway and disappeared.
Something about his words and his devotion made the physician smile, and blink away tears – and catch the edge of the desk breathlessly.
The court sorcerer noticed. "You, too?" he said with sorrowful disappointment. "You've got to hang on awhile longer, for the prince's sake." Prince regent for the last few years – and king on the morrow, it might be.
"You said the same thing," the physician told him, "after the queen's funeral last year. You and the king both made me swear." He crossed to the little wall-cabinet locked with magic, that contained the most dangerous or unstable of his materials and mixtures.
"Well it worked, didn't it. And it's still true."
The physician selected the lone bottle from the top shelf, opaque black with a cloth-wrapped glass stopper, and a handwritten label depicting a skinless skull for those who couldn't read. To ease the agony and hasten the inevitable passage of the dying.
"The prince has you," he returned. Hesitating, before gripping the bottle with an air of surrender, he tucked it into a pocket in the robe he wore over his shirt and trousers.
"He likes you better," the sorcerer countered, leaning into the room to retrieve the physician's walking staff from its place by the door.
The physician accepted it, and closed the door of his chamber behind him. Drew in a deep breath in the darkness of the tower stair, then conjured a flame to light their way, and a smile. "Everybody likes me better."
The sorcerer grunted wryly. "Except my wife."
"Kara doesn't like anybody but you," the physician responded. "And the children."
"All the children," the sorcerer drawled, sarcastically fond.
But then the physician needed all his breath for walking – as quickly as he was able – and the sorcerer's hand at his elbow, twice on the stairs. He hadn't quite caught all of it to his service, when the sorcerer nodded to the king's guard, and let the two of them into the dim royal bedchamber.
The plump gray-haired woman seated at the king's bedside leaned back from wiping his face with a cool damp cloth, and rose, wordlessly passing them to allow for privacy. And if she didn't smile at the physician, at least her look was sympathetic.
"Thank you, Kara," the physician heard his friend the sorcerer say.
He made his way forward and lowered himself to the vacated chair. Hand pressed to his chest to calm the pain before the king noticed him and opened his blue eyes.
"Merlin…"
The court physician leaned onto the bed, finding his king's weak, wrinkled hand. "I'm here, Arthur. Is the pain very bad? Mordred told me that the spells and potions weren't working, but I've been through the books and I don't know what else to try, though we could –"
"Shut up, Merlin," the king whispered, a smile on thin gray lips – and he opened his eyes to look up at his friend. "It's not bad. Steady, and increasing – and no, this time nothing can be done. I don't want you to try anything else. I want… I want it to stop."
The court physician let his head drop. It had only been a few months, since they'd collectively noticed the king's headaches were increasing in frequency and duration. And then the blurred vision. And then the sporadic loss of memory and limb function.
"You brought it, didn't you?" the king added. "What we talked about?"
"I did." The physician took a deep breath. "Arthur, I didn't think it would be like this, when Mordred and I… when we did what we did, all those years ago. I wish I didn't have to –"
"I was thinking about that, too." The king blithely interrupted his friend; it was a long habit between the two. "About when we were young, and you ran away from Camelot –"
"I didn't run away," the physician objected.
"And I had to hunt you down and drag you back," the king continued, evidently enjoying the recollection. "Do you remember? How long ago was that, forty-two or forty-three years, now?"
"I remember," the physician said softly.
"Do you remember how absolutely paranoid you were for – months, I'm sure it was."
"I remember you all teased me relentlessly." The physician found it easy to smile. Slow passage of time had eased and calmed that particular fear, but hadn't erased it entirely. Though only he knew that – and now it seemed, his traded destiny had waited long enough for fulfillment. It seemed that Arthur – and Gaius, too, he remembered – had been right about choices affecting destiny.
"Those were good times," the king said, indulging his half-smile as his gaze wandered over the pattern of his bed-canopy.
The physician smiled too; of course Arthur would think that, about his personal torment. Though bringing it out in the light of day and laughing about it with their friends, probably had been of genuine use.
"Those were good times," he echoed.
"Over though now, for both of us," the king added, squeezing the hand that held his.
"That is the way of things. Time, and the world, and destiny." The physician's smile faltered as a spasm of pain wracked his king's form; he held tight and after a moment it passed, leaving the old warrior bone-pale and glistening with perspiration.
"I'm ready," the king gasped. "Aren't you, Merlin? Aren't you ready, too? We're the last. Everyone else gone – save Mordred."
The physician nodded. But Mordred was Emrys; if it ever was his time, it would be long years hence. And he couldn't think of a more even-handed guardian of magic and destiny and legend.
"Stay awhile, though… for my son? Stay for him… You and I know –" The king's body seized again, and this time he couldn't remain silent, groaning helplessly in a way that twisted his friend's heart.
A tear slipped down the physician's face as he fumbled one-handed for the black bottle in his inner pocket.
"We know… we know, how hard it is. To lose a father. To gain such responsibility. Don't we."
"We do, Arthur," the physician murmured. "We know."
He wasn't quite strong enough to lift the king's head, but the contents of the bottle were known, expected and welcome. The king turned sideways on the pillow, pursing his lips to catch every drop, and swallowing with anticipated relief.
"It's very dark in here," the king murmured, relaxing back. "I can't see… where I'm supposed to… Merlin, can you make a light? Can you show me – one more time?"
It was a good thing the brilliant sphere of illumined magic required no words to form, anymore; the court physician was no longer capable of them. Magic reflected in the blue of the king's eyes, lighting his expression of ever-childlike wonder.
"Ah!" he sighed.
And he was gone, breath and life.
The light dimmed as the court physician laid his head on the pillow next to his king, and let his few deep tears soak the once-golden hair.
In the morning, the prince wept. The kingdom wept. The court physician smiled a beautiful smile, and consoled his new sovereign, encouraging and reassuring. The strength behind the young king, as the golden crown rested on tight black curls, was not the strength of the physician's body, but of a strong and luminous spirit.
They mourned for a full week, then they commemorated King Arthur's reign. The prince regent mourned – then allowed the celebration of his coronation, bravely resolved to honor the memory of his father, a truly great king.
The court physician excused himself early from the week-end feast, and made his way to his empty chamber alone. He breathed deeply of the familiar herbal tang, and left one candle burning for his apprentice, who still sometimes kept the irregular hours of the young. His heart gave a great pang as he stretched old bones out on his own bed, and he panted for a moment, closing his eyes to relax toward sleep.
We're ready, aren't we, he said to himself. I thought I was ready to lose you, Arthur, I thought I'd made peace with the inevitability – and we did have a long, full, wondrous life, didn't we? But now we're the last… I'm the last…
He fell into a deep, heavy, dreamless sleep.
.
.
.
And woke to a golden morning and a familiar sarcastic voice. "Get up, Merlin! Are you going to laze in bed for eternity?"
He opened his eyes and saw Arthur, dressed in crimson and wearing a familiar half-smile, haloed by the rising sun at the window behind him.
"Come on, we have things to do!" his king added, with an impatient gesture, and he grinned.
Because two sides of a coin can't be separated, even by death. Especially when destiny is chosen.