Door 15: Shooting Star

The dungeons had always been uncomfortably cold. This late in the year, they were freezing.

Merlin was huddled on a pile of straw in the corner of his cell, right underneath the barred window in the ceiling. He had used his magic to warm up the straw, but his breath was still leaving him in faint puffs of white, rising up towards the faint moonlight.

It had gone night again – the sixth night since he had been dragged down here and into the cell. He was lucky they had put him in this one, he supposed, where he could track the time. The way they had chained him to the wall made it near impossible to move, but when he angled his head just right, he could make out a thin slice of the sky through the window.

It was a clear night. The handful of stars he could see were twinkling brightly. Merlin had always thought there was something magical about them: mysterious lights, drawing patterns in the sky and guiding the way.

It was Arthur who had taught him the importance of the North star, how to use it to navigate if he ever got lost. I'll expect you to find your way home on your own from now on, he had said at the end, and promptly ridden off on his own, to see if the lesson had borne fruit.

The memory made Merlin smile, though it slipped off his face just a moment later when he remembered Camelot might no longer be that: home.

A sorcerer, he knew, had no place here. Arthur was a better king than Uther in many ways, but he had never trusted magic, even if he had made peace with the druids, and even if he chose banishment over the pyre whenever he could.

Merlin wasn't afraid Arthur would execute him. He had been angry at the revelation, but not angry enough to harm Merlin. He wouldn't kill a man for saving his life, either, even if it had been done with magic.

Leaving Camelot, however, was unimaginable. Merlin had built a life here, assisting Gaius and serving Arthur, of course. Protecting him, too, at all cost.

Merlin supposed there were ways he might accomplish that from afar – a magical disguise, a scrying glass, a protective amulet – but the thought that he would no longer be by Arthur's side every day made his heart ache.

If only he would come down here to talk! He had hardly listened to Merlin's apologies, certainly not to any of the explanations tumbling from his lips, before setting the guards on him, his face gone horribly, terribly blank.

Arthur hadn't visited, either.

Nor had Gwen, or Gaius, or Gwaine, which meant that Arthur must not only have forbidden it, but ensured absolute obedience, too. The only face Merlin had seen down here was that of the guard on duty, who released him from his chains twice a day so he could eat and use the bucket in the other corner.

Sighing, Merlin craned his neck again, trying to catch another glimpse of the sky. He should sleep, he knew, to keep up the rhythm. Sitting around a dungeon cell with your arms chained to the wall was surprisingly exhausting, too, though perhaps that was also due to the warming spell.

But he did not sleep. Instead, he kept his neck at an angle, watching the stars, fretting and wondering.

When it happened, he almost missed it: a bright light, soaring across the sky.

A shooting star.

What were the odds of it flying past tonight, and right across the only patch of sky Merlin was able to look at? A miracle. A good omen, too, perhaps.

Closing his eyes, Merlin made a wish. Let him forgive me, he thought. Let him not hate me forever. Please.

He must have dozed off after his wish, for when he blinked awake again, the moon had travelled across the sky, a thin sliver of it showing through the window.

It took Merlin a moment to understand what had woken him and he jumped, chains clanking, when he spotted the figure standing at the bars.

"Arthur," he breathed, when he recognised him.

Arthur moved, stepping out of the shadows and into the patch of light provided by the torch on the wall. His face was almost as blank as it had been when he had sent Merlin down here, but he was shifting in that particular way Merlin knew to mean he was agitated.

"Sire," he amended, dipping his head.

Arthur stared at him through the bars. He didn't reply.

"Have you come here just to look at me, then?" Merlin spoke up at last. He had, after all, never been very good at shutting up, especially around Arthur. "I didn't know I made for such an interesting sight."

Arthur's mask slipped, a frown sneaking across his brow. But still, he remained silent.

Frustrated, Merlin rattled with his chains. "The evil sorcerer in the cell," he said, drawing out the syllables long and low, as if telling a ghost story. "Camelot's latest attraction."

Arthur's frown turned into a scowl. "You dare to joke about that?" he snapped.

Merlin stilled against the wall. "Nothing much left to do but to laugh," he replied. "Or cry, though you never much liked it when I do."

"Were they even real tears?" Arthur sneered.

Merlin bristled. "Why, because a sorcerer cannot feel sorrow?"

"Because you're a liar and manipulator," Arthur spat.

That shut Merlin up quite effectively. He went slack in the chains, his eyes dropping to his lap, a bright ache filling his chest now, strong enough that it made it difficult to breathe.

That was right. That was what Arthur thought of him now, wasn't it? He was a liar, nothing more.

Was he so wrong, though? Merlin was a liar, though he felt regret for only some of those lies. Too many of them had been necessary, to protect himself, or others.

"You admit it, then," Arthur spoke into the ensuing silence, his voice echoing from the dungeon walls. "You lied."

Merlin sucked in a shuddering breath, pushing past the jagged pain in his lungs. "Yes," he said, looking up. "I lied."

Arthur's face twisted into something ugly at that, something that made Merlin want to curl up on the straw and disappear.

But Arthur was King now, had been for some months, and so he knew to smooth his expression quickly, until he was staring blankly again.

Merlin wanted to beg forgiveness, then. Would have gotten on his knees for it, if the chains had let him; a supplicant before his King, though he knew Arthur had never liked it when people prostrated themselves before him, be they lords, knights or the lowliest of peasants.

Merlin would have liked to scream at him, too; let out all that he had pent up over the years, all the fear and frustration, until Arthur understood, truly understood, what Merlin had done for him and Camelot. What he had sacrificed, how he had bled and suffered and grieved, all for a golden future promised to him years ago, in a cave not far from these cells.

But in the end, all Merlin said was, "It's the middle of the night. Why come here now? I thought there'd be a trial."

Arthur let out an indecipherable huff. "You want a trial?"

"I want to talk."

Arthur gestured at him with a faint sneer. "Then talk."

Merlin offered him a strained smile. "I can talk," he replied, the words strangely bitter on his tongue. "But will you listen?"

At that, Arthur looked away, his eyes straying upwards and towards the window. He had fallen silent again. A silence that stretched and stretched, thick as molasses.

"That's what I thought," Merlin said at last and let his head fall back against the stone.

Up above, the stars were still shining brightly, though it seemed dawn was not too far off now, endless black turning dark blue.

"I couldn't sleep."

Startling, Merlin looked at the bars again, his heart jumping up his throat. Arthur was still staring at the window, his arms crossed now.

"Oh?" was all he managed to reply.

"Guinevere has moved out of our chambers. Says she cannot look at me anymore. Won't speak to me, either, unless it's absolutely necessary."

Something bright and warm fluttered in Merlin's chest, something he did not yet dare to name.

"Nobody's speaking to me, really," Arthur went on. "Some are afraid, I suppose, not that I blame them. I haven't exactly been a calm, reasonable ruler in the past days. Gwaine tried to run me through with a training sword, which was hardly surprising. I don't think I've ever seen Gaius this angry, though. I fear he might be about to poison my wine."

"Better stick to well water, then," Merlin said, finding his voice again, though it came out hoarse.

At last, Arthur's gaze returned to him. His eyes roamed over Merlin for a moment, his face softer now, if not exactly kind. "You could have poisoned my wine many times, of course," he said. "I'm not angry enough not to realise that. Should you have wished me or my kingdom harm, you had every opportunity. I don't doubt—" He paused, long enough to make Merlin fidget. "I don't doubt your loyalty."

Merlin's heart leaped at that admission. "There is nothing I wouldn't do for you," he said, like a vow, a pledge.

"Yes," said Arthur. "I know."

"Everything I ever did was for you," Merlin added, leaning forward now, as far as the chains would let him. "And I know I made mistakes. They haunt me, every hour of the day, believe me. But I do not regret serving you from the shadows. It was necessary. It was what had to be done, to protect you, and the realm. And I would do it again, because it was all that could be done, and because it was worth it, too. You are worth it, Arthur." He lowered his head. "My lord."

When he looked up again, Arthur's eyes had strayed to the window once more. He looked strangely regal in the light of the torch, his face turned contemplative. The King of Camelot, weighing his decision before casting judgement.

Merlin fell quiet.

He had said all that needed to be said, the trial shorter than he had imagined. There was nothing to be done now but wait for his sentence, his heart thumping in his chest, loud as drums.

"Yule," Arthur said at last, a little out of the blue. "It's the feast tomorrow."

Merlin blinked. "I'm sure George will do a perfect job serving you," he replied, his heart still beating much too fast.

Arthur rolled his eyes. "Don't remind me," he muttered. At last, his gaze settled on Merlin again. "Yule," he said, "is about forgiveness – as Guinevere has deemed fit to remind me several times this week."

"I thought she wasn't talking to you," Merlin replied, though it was becoming difficult to speak again. Forgiveness, Arthur had said.

Arthur's lips twitched into a hint of a smile. "Just enough to try and set my head straight. She can be so fierce. I tend to forget sometimes how strong she really is."

"She was born to be queen," Merlin told him, with conviction. "Just as I was born to be your servant."

"What a terrifying thought," Arthur replied, raising a sardonic eyebrow. "You've always been a horrible servant."

Merlin choked out a laugh.

"But a loyal friend," Arthur added more solemnly.

Abruptly, Merlin cut himself off, the laugh threatening to turn into a sob. Not for the first time in the past week, he wished he could raise his wrists all the way to his face, to rub at his eyes. They were stinging something awful.

"Forgiveness," Arthur said again. "I've decided to practise it. Not only because it's Yule, but because I know you deserve it, no matter how angry I am still. And I hope…" He trailed off.

Merlin looked up at him, the bars turned blurry. "Yes, sire?" he croaked.

"I hope," Arthur said, reaching for his keys, "that you can forgive me, too."